The celebrations following Vakhtang Salia’s equalizer lasted only a few moments.
The veteran striker pointed toward the midfielder who had delivered the pass before clapping his hands loudly.
“Come on!”
“We can win this!”
The roar of the home supporters grew even louder.
The scoreboard now read:
<>Dinamo Tbilisi 1–1 Dinamo Batumi<>
With the momentum suddenly swinging toward the home side, every player sensed there was still another goal waiting in the match.
The referee checked both teams.
A sharp whistle followed.
Play resumed.
Batumi’s response was immediate.
Their equalizer had barely settled before they pushed almost every player into Dinamo’s half.
Mamuchashvili demanded the ball.
Alef Santos drifted wider to create passing angles.
The front three constantly exchanged positions, trying to drag defenders out of shape.
“They’re looking to hit back instantly,” the commentator observed.
“They don’t want Dinamo building any confidence.”
For a minute…
It looked dangerous.
Then Batumi made a rare mistake.
A simple square pass through midfield lacked pace.
Nikoloz Tsetskhladze anticipated it perfectly.
He stepped in.
Interception.
The crowd erupted.
“Counter!”
Ferdinand shouted from the technical area.
“Go!”
Dinamo exploded forward.
The transition was breathtaking.
Within seconds, blue shirts flooded into Batumi’s half.
The visitors barely had time to react.
One pass.
Then another.
A midfielder released Davit Iobashvili just outside the penalty area.
He controlled the ball cleanly.
Immediately…
Two defenders stepped in front of him.
Closing every obvious shooting lane.
To his right…
Vakhtang Salia sprinted into acres of space.
“Square it!”
someone yelled from the stands.
Even Salia lifted his arm, expecting the pass.
The defenders expected exactly the same.
They shifted toward the veteran striker.
Davit noticed.
A grin briefly crossed his face.
Instead of passing…
He shifted the ball onto his weaker left foot.
The movement surprised everyone.
Including the defenders.
His body twisted.
Left foot.
Strike.
The ball flew toward the top-left corner.
The entire stadium rose to its feet.
“It might be in!”
the commentator shouted.
Then…
Ricardo Silva launched himself through the air.
His fingertips reached the ball.
Not enough to push it away…
Enough to hold it.
Somehow.
He landed heavily with the ball trapped against his chest.
The home crowd groaned.
“What a save!”
the commentator exclaimed.
“Outstanding goalkeeping from Ricardo Silva!”
“He read it brilliantly!”
Silva climbed back to his feet and immediately turned toward his defenders.
“What are you doing?”
His voice echoed across the penalty area.
“Wake up!”
“You can’t leave that much space!”
The defenders nodded sheepishly.
They knew he’d just saved them.
The remainder of the first half settled into a tactical battle.
Dinamo enjoyed slightly more possession.
Batumi remained dangerous whenever they countered.
Neither goalkeeper was seriously troubled again.
The referee glanced toward his watch.
Three sharp whistles followed.
Halftime.
Most of the substitutes immediately jogged back onto the pitch to begin their warm-up.
Stretching.
Passing drills.
Short sprints.
Preparing in case they were needed.
This time…
Giorgi chose differently.
Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere remained positive.
Players drank water quietly.
Some removed tape from their wrists.
Others simply caught their breath.
Ferdinand Feldhofer stood before the tactical board.
He waited until everyone settled.
Then he clapped.
“Good response.”
His players looked up.
“You conceded.”
“You didn’t panic.”
“You fought back.”
He nodded approvingly.
“That’s the mentality I want.”
Then his expression hardened.
“But…”
The room became silent.
“The match isn’t over.”
He pointed toward the tactical board.
“They’re still dangerous.”
“Mamuchashvili has too much freedom.”
“We’re allowing him to dictate transitions.”
He circled another area.
“Our spacing here.”
“We can be better.”
He looked around the room.
“I don’t care who scores.
I don’t care if it’s ugly.
I want three points.”
The players answered together.
“Yes, Coach!”
Meanwhile…
Back inside the television studio…
The halftime panel eagerly broke down the opening forty-five minutes.
“The first goal,” one analyst began, “came from unnecessary panic.”
Another nodded.
“Dinamo defended the situation poorly.”
“But they responded exactly how title-chasing teams should.”
Replay footage showed Vakhtang Salia’s equalizer.
“Wonderful movement.”
“Excellent finish.”
The presenter turned toward another pundit.
“What changes would you make?”
He folded his arms thoughtfully.
“Batumi need to stop giving Salia room between the lines.”
“And Tbilisi?”
“I’d consider introducing Giorgi Loria.”
The studio smiled knowingly.
“Everyone wants to see him.”
The analyst laughed.
“Can you blame us?”
“After his debut?”
Fifteen minutes disappeared quickly.
The teams returned to the pitch.
The referee checked both captains.
The whistle sounded.
Second half.
The opening stages felt strangely familiar.
Possession.
Passing.
Patience.
Both teams probed without committing too many players forward.
One chance.
Blocked.
Another.
Intercepted.
Neither goalkeeper had much to do.
Minute after minute drifted by.
Fifty-three.
Fifty-eight.
Sixty-one.
The rhythm slowed.
The excitement faded.
Even the commentator admitted it.
“The match has become increasingly cautious.”
“It feels like both teams are waiting for the other to make the first mistake.”
Ferdinand wasn’t interested in waiting.
He glanced toward his bench.
Then at the scoreboard.
Still…
<>1–1<>
He made up his mind.
Three substitutes began warming up simultaneously.
The crowd noticed immediately.
“So changes are coming for Dinamo,” the commentator observed.
“And quite a few by the looks of it.”
The electronic board lit up.
Three numbers appeared.
Among them…
9 — Davit Iobashvili
The striker had picked up a yellow card in the fifty-fourth minute after stopping a Batumi counterattack with a tactical foul.
His evening was over.
OUT — 9 DAVIT IOBASHVILI
IN — 55 GIORGI LORIA
The stadium applauded warmly.
Not as explosively as during his debut.
But with genuine excitement.
Supporters remembered exactly what had happened the last time number fifty-five stepped onto a football pitch.
The commentator smiled.
“Here he comes.”
“The teenager again.”
“Can lightning strike twice?”
Giorgi crossed the touchline.
Vakhtang Salia jogged toward him briefly.
“I’ll run.”
“You find me.”
Giorgi nodded.
“And if you’re free…”
“You’ll find me.”
The veteran grinned.
“Okay.” Said the young striker.
Only two minutes passed.
Dinamo regained possession near the halfway line.
The ball found Giorgi.
His first touch settled it perfectly.
He didn’t dwell.
One glance forward.
He noticed Nika Ninua drifting into space.
Without hesitation…
He clipped a delicate lob over Batumi’s midfield.
The pass floated beautifully.
Ninua cushioned it with his chest.
One touch.
Then immediately rolled it toward Vakhtang Salia.
The veteran received possession with his back toward goal.
A defender pressed tightly.
It looked as though he would recycle the attack.
Many supporters expected a backward pass.
So did Batumi’s midfield.
Instead…
Salia suddenly sidestepped the nearest midfielder.
One elegant movement.
Space opened.
His next pass split the defensive line.
Perfect.
Giorgi had already begun his run.
He burst between both center-backs.
Suddenly…
Only Ricardo Silva remained.
The crowd collectively inhaled.
One-on-one.
Again.
Silva rushed forward.
Closing the angle.
Giorgi shaped his body to shoot.
The goalkeeper committed.
His weight shifted.
Defenders desperately sprinted back toward goal.
Then…
Giorgi never struck the ball.
Instead.
Without even turning his head…
He calmly rolled a no-look pass backward.
The commentator shouted instinctively.
“He didn’t shoot!”
Vakhtang Salia had followed the move perfectly.
He burst onto the loose ball.
The goalkeeper was stranded.
The goal gaped invitingly.
Salia hit it first time.
The stadium exploded before the ball had even reached the net.
Then…
A desperate Batumi defender threw himself across the goalmouth.
The ball clipped his outstretched boot.
Only slightly.
Barely enough to change its path.
But football often needed only inches.
The shot drifted just wide of the far post.
Silence.
Then a collective groan echoed around the stadium.
Hands flew onto heads.
Salia froze.
Giorgi stared at the ball rolling behind the goal.
The commentator could hardly believe it.
“That…
was brilliant football.”
“What awareness from Giorgi Loria!”
“The no-look pass completely fooled Ricardo Silva!”
“And Vakhtang Salia was certain he’d scored!”
“Only the slightest deflection…”
“…has denied Dinamo Tbilisi the lead.”
The referee pointed toward the corner flag.
Corner kick.
As players slowly made their way into the penalty area, Batumi’s defenders exchanged relieved glances.
They had survived.
By the smallest of margins.
And judging by the confidence with which number 55 had begun influencing the match…
They suspected they wouldn’t survive another warning forever.