The tunnel echoed with the muffled roar of the crowd. Players bounced on their toes, some silent, some praying, others lost in their own routines.

Thomas Müller, however, stood grinning like he was about to walk into a comedy club rather than a Champions League semi-final.

“Hey, Lewy,” he nudged his former teammate, “if I trip over my own feet again and score… just tell the cameras it was intentional, ja?”

Lewandowski shook his head, laughing. “Only you, Thomas.”

As the anthem blared and the teams marched out, Müller tilted his head toward the floodlights, eyes scanning the pitch like a chessboard.

Time to cause a little chaos—in the most Müller way possible.