The celebrations following Giorgi Loria’s opening goal eventually came to an end.
His teammates were still laughing about the imaginary burger celebration as they jogged back toward the halfway line.
Vakhtang Salia nudged him playfully.
“I still can’t believe you actually did it.”
Giorgi buried his face in his hands.
“I regret it already.”
“No.”
Salia laughed.
“You’ve guaranteed it’ll be replayed for years.”
The referee smiled faintly before blowing his whistle.
The match resumed.
Unlike many teams who panicked after conceding…
FC Gagra remained composed.
There was no desperate pressing.
No rushed long balls.
No wild attacks.
Instead, they calmly recycled possession across the backline.
Patient.
Disciplined.
Confident.
“They’re showing remarkable maturity,” the commentator observed.
“You wouldn’t think this was a side already destined for relegation.”
The ball moved from defender to defender before arriving in midfield.
Short passes.
Simple movement.
Waiting patiently for Dinamo to make a mistake.
Giorgi pressed from the front.
Vakhtang joined him.
The midfield squeezed higher.
Still…
Gagra refused to rush.
Every player looked comfortable on the ball.
The longer they kept possession…
The louder their supporters became.
Twenty-two minutes into the match…
That patience finally paid off.
Vano Mchedlishvili received possession between the lines before sliding a clever pass into Nodar Kavtaradze.
Immediately…
Everything accelerated.
Kavtaradze drove toward the defense.
One touch inside.
Another outside.
Aleksandre Kalandadze stepped forward.
Too late.
A quick pass found Giorgi Lomtadze.
He returned it instantly.
One-two.
Cadete was beaten.
Nikoloz Ugrekhelidze rushed across.
Lomtadze dribbled around him.
Suddenly…
Three red shirts flooded the penalty area together.
Nodar Kavtaradze.
Giorgi Lomtadze.
Beka Gabiskiria.
The movement was mesmerizing.
Every pass carried perfect weight.
Every run dragged another defender out of position.
“They’ve carved Dinamo apart!”
the commentator shouted.
Only Makatsaria remained.
The goalkeeper edged off his line.
Trying to delay.
Trying to force a mistake.
Nodar now had three choices.
Shoot.
Slip the ball toward Lomtadze.
Or square it to Beka Gabiskiria.
For a split second…
He looked toward goal.
Makatsaria prepared himself.
Then Nodar passed.
The ball rolled perfectly into Beka’s stride.
No hesitation.
Right foot.
Strike.
The shot screamed toward the top-left corner.
The away supporters froze.
It looked destined for the net.
Then…
Makatsaria exploded sideways.
His right arm stretched impossibly high.
Fingertips…
Palm…
Then a firm grip.
One-handed.
While diving.
The stadium fell silent.
“What…”
the commentator whispered.
“…a save.”
The replay appeared almost immediately.
Even slowed down…
It barely looked believable.
“He didn’t push it away…”
the co-commentator said in disbelief.
“He actually caught it.”
One television analyst watching from the studio stood up instinctively.
“That is world-class.”
“If that goes in…”
“It’s goal of the week.”
Instead…
Makatsaria had produced a save worthy of the same honor.
The match continued.
Gagra, encouraged by the move, attacked with renewed confidence.
Dinamo answered by slowing the tempo.
Holding possession.
Looking for openings.
Neither side wanted to surrender control.
Thirty-one minutes.
Thirty-two.
Thirty-three.
The ball eventually found one player who had gone almost unnoticed all evening.
Giorgi Gvasalia.
The midfielder had quietly done his job.
Simple passes.
Defensive cover.
Winning second balls.
Nothing spectacular.
Until now.
He spotted space opening through the center.
Instead of recycling possession…
He accelerated.
One midfielder tried to stop him.
Too late.
Another lunged in.
Gvasalia skipped past him.
The crowd applauded.
He continued driving forward before releasing a perfectly timed pass toward Nika Ninua waiting just outside the penalty area.
Ninua controlled cleanly.
He lifted his head.
Options everywhere.
Vakhtang Salia drifted left.
Giorgi waited centrally.
Lominadze overlapped.
He could pass.
Cross.
Recycle.
Instead…
He unleashed a shot.
The strike flew viciously toward goal.
Oleksandr Vorobey barely moved.
He simply watched.
CLANG!
The ball crashed against the crossbar.
It bounced high into the air.
Then dropped toward the edge of the penalty area.
Players reacted instinctively.
Some rushed forward.
Others froze.
One player…
Moved differently.
Giorgi had already anticipated the rebound.
As the ball descended behind him…
He never tried controlling it.
Never let it bounce.
Instead…
He leaned backward.
Planted one foot.
Then launched himself into the air.
Time slowed.
His body became almost horizontal.
Both legs lifted above the ground.
His left arm balanced him.
His right foot swung overhead.
An overhead scissor kick.
The connection was perfect.
THUMP!
The ball rocketed away.
Not floating.
Flying.
Straight through a forest of bodies.
One defender ducked.
Another tried blocking.
Someone stuck out a leg.
None of them touched it.
The ball threaded impossibly through more than eight players packed inside the penalty area.
Vorobey saw it too late.
By the time the goalkeeper reacted…
The shot had already buried itself inside the side netting.
Goal.
Silence.
For one breathtaking second…
The entire stadium simply stared.
Then…
Pandemonium.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!”
the commentator screamed so loudly his voice cracked.
“WHAT HAVE WE JUST WITNESSED?!”
“GIORGI LORIA!”
“THAT IS ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE!”
“AN OVERHEAD SCISSOR KICK!”
“FROM THE EDGE OF THE BOX!”
“THROUGH A CROWD OF PLAYERS!”
“OH MY WORD!”
The replay rolled instantly.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Every angle somehow looked even more ridiculous than the last.
A former striker in the television studio stood speechless before finally managing one sentence.
“I’ve…
never seen that before.”
This time…
Giorgi knew exactly what he wanted to do.
Ever since he was a little boy kicking a ball around the yard…
He had imagined this moment.
His inspiration.
The striker whose videos he had watched countless times.
The celebration he had practiced when nobody was watching.
He sprinted toward the corner flag.
His teammates chased after him.
But they couldn’t catch him.
Not yet.
He slowed.
Turned toward the crowd.
Pointed at himself.
Then brought one finger to his wrist.
His expression seemed to say only one thing.
My time is now.
The stadium held its breath.
He leapt into the air.
Twisted.
Landed perfectly.
“SIUUUUUU!”
His roar echoed around the stadium as thousands of supporters joined him instinctively.
Even many neutral fans couldn’t resist.
“SIUUUUUU!”
The celebration rolled through the stands like thunder.
The commentator burst into laughter.
“Now that’s a celebration!”
“He went from eating an imaginary burger…”
“…to channeling his footballing idol!”
Vakhtang Salia finally reached him first.
“You’ve been waiting to do that one, haven’t you?”
Giorgi grinned from ear to ear.
“For years.”
Within seconds the rest of the team crashed into him.
Blue shirts surrounded number 55 once again.
On the touchline, Ferdinand Feldhofer folded his arms and smiled.
He had trusted the academy teenager.
The teenager had repaid that trust beyond anything anyone could have imagined.
High in the away section, Charlotte Loria stood applauding, shocked and proud of her son.
She had watched her son score spectacular goals before.
In the backyard.
At youth level.
In his dreams.
But never…
Never like this.
As the celebrations finally settled, the scoreboard glowed above the stadium.
<>FC Gagra 0–2 Dinamo Tbilisi<>
Two goals.
One first professional start.
And a sixteen-year-old who was beginning to make the extraordinary look almost routine.