The ball arced beautifully through the Oslo sky, sailing over two scrambling Romanian defenders before dropping perfectly at Erling Haaland's feet.
Theodore's vision had sliced straight through the Romanian backline, instantly creating a one-on-one opportunity for the young striker.
"Erling Haaland bears down on goal!" Martin Tyler's voice crackled through the television in the crowded Chongqing living room.
"He sets himself... he shoots!"
The ball rocketed off Haaland's boot—and flew completely over the crossbar, sailing deep into the stands.
"Oh, my word. Haaland has blasted it into orbit!" Tyler said, genuine shock bleeding into his commentary.
"He has absolutely wasted a majestic ball from Theodore Bjorn."
On the pitch, Haaland buried his face in his hands, his posture radiating pure agony.
Around him, tens of thousands of Norwegian fans let out a collective groan that echoed around Ullevaal Stadium.
"How the fuck do you miss that?!" a fan roared from the lower tier.
"What was going through his head?"
"It was harder to miss than it was to score!"
"Haaland's finish was as garbage as Theo's pass was brilliant. Get him off the pitch!"
Unsurprisingly, the home crowd was ruthless, with sections of the stands already hurling abuse at the young striker.
But Theodore didn't join in the frustration.
Instead, he jogged straight over to his friend and grabbed him by the back of the neck.
"Forget it, Erling," Theodore said firmly, pulling him up. "Get your head right and keep making those runs. I'll keep putting it on a plate for you."
Theodore's words seemed to steady Haaland, who gave a sharp nod, his eyes refocusing on the game.
Down on the touchline, Romania's head coach, Cosmin Contra, had seen enough.
After witnessing Theodore's defense-splitting pass, he immediately started screaming tactical adjustments at his players.
"Drop back! Everyone back! Watch their number sixteen!" Contra bellowed, pointing wildly at Theodore.
"Do not give him an inch of space to breathe!"
The Romanian squad instantly executed the order.
They completely abandoned their high press, willingly ceding possession as they dropped deep into their own half.
Even their lone striker, Pușcaș, fell back to the halfway line. Romania had officially parked the bus.
For the next ten minutes, Norway dominated possession but looked utterly toothless. The Romanian defense was an iron wall, forcing the Norwegian players into a series of fruitless, horizontal passes around the center circle.
Lagerbäck knew that if the tempo didn't change, they would never break through.
"Theo! Get out wide!" Lagerbäck roared from the technical area. "Use your feet, whip it into the box! Martin, you too! We need crosses, now!"
It didn't take long for the players to adjust. In the fifteenth minute, Theodore received the ball from Sander Berge out on the right flank.
He didn't hesitate.
Spotting Haaland and Mohamed Elyounoussi charging into the box, Theodore whipped a vicious, curling cross into the danger zone.
The delivery was pinpoint, dropping right onto Haaland's head.
The towering striker leapt high, shrugging off two Romanian center-backs to win the aerial duel.
"Haaland connects again!" Tyler announced.
"The header... and it's over the bar again. Out for a goal kick. The young Erling Haaland has squandered his second golden opportunity of the night."
The frustration in Ullevaal Stadium was palpable.
"Is he playing for Romania tonight?!"
"Get him up center-back, that was a fantastic defensive clearance!"
"Stop giving it to him, Theo, he's useless in front of goal tonight."
Haaland's repeated misses were putting immense pressure on Lagerbäck.
The manager glanced nervously at his bench, genuinely considering an early substitution.
But with less than twenty minutes played, hooking a young striker could destroy his confidence entirely.
After a brief internal debate, Lagerbäck decided to give him until halftime to find the net.
A minute later, Norway won the ball back in midfield. This time, Sander Berge bypassed Theodore on the right and played it out left to Ødegaard.
The crowd buzzed as the former prodigy took possession, waiting for him to follow the manager's instructions and whip a cross into the box where Haaland and Elyounoussi were already battling for position.
Instead, Ødegaard decided to take his man on.
Facing the Romanian fullback Chipciu, Ødegaard dropped his shoulder, hit the brakes, and suddenly cut inside onto his weaker right foot.
He accelerated past the fullback, but two Romanian defensive midfielders immediately stepped up to close the gap.
With his path blocked and his momentum carrying him inside, Ødegaard had no choice but to take a rushed shot with his right boot.
The effort lacked any real venom and was easily deflected out for a corner by Săpunaru.
Ødegaard jogged over to the flag to take the set piece.
He raised an arm, signaling the play, and whipped an inswinging cross toward the near post.
Haaland missed the initial flick-on, and for a split second, it looked like the Romanian defense was going to easily head it clear.
But suddenly, Theodore arrived!
Having drifted into the box unnoticed, Theodore found himself completely unmarked in the center of the penalty area.
As the ball floated toward him, he leapt into the air, hovering for what felt like an eternity with absolute composure.
With a brutal snap of his neck, Theodore executed a stunning, looping header.
The ball rocketed off his forehead and sailed perfectly into the top corner of the net.
Tătărușanu, the Romanian keeper, didn't even dive; he just stood rooted to the spot, watching it go in.
"GOAL!" Tyler's voice boomed through the Chongqing living room.
"Theodore Bjorn! A phenomenal header breaks the deadlock! It's one-nil to Norway, and who else but their rising star to find the breakthrough!"
Ullevaal Stadium absolutely erupted.
The tension of the last twenty minutes shattered into pure, unadulterated noise as tens of thousands of fans screamed his name.
"Fucking brilliant, Theo!"
"Always him, isn't it? Look at that header, Erling, take notes!"
"Absolute baller! What a player!"
Back in the village, Dongguo leapt off his plastic stool, nearly knocking over a table of snacks.
"Yes! That's my boy!" he roared, his voice cracking with emotion. "I told you, didn't I? He's incredible!"
On the pitch, the Norwegian squad swarmed Theodore near the corner flag.
Haaland jogged over, looking sheepish but relieved. "I had no idea you could head the ball like that, Theo," he laughed, slapping him on the back. "Don't you dare leave after the match, you're teaching me that technique."
"Deal," Theodore grinned.
With Norway ahead, the dynamic of the game instantly flipped.
The pressure was entirely on Romania, and Contra had no choice but to abandon the bus and push his men forward.
"Romania are pushing high now," Tyler noted as the match restarted. "They've lost their shape a bit, committing bodies forward in search of an immediate reply."
In the 32nd minute, the veteran Romanian midfielder Claudiu Keșerü found a pocket of space near the top of the Norwegian arc.
The 33-year-old was known for his lethal left foot, and as he shaped to shoot, Norwegian midfielder Ole Selnæs threw himself into a desperate sliding block.
But Selnæs was a fraction of a second too late.
Thump.
Keșerü unleashed a violent, swerving strike. The ball dipped and curled viciously, rocketing straight toward the top right corner.
Grytebust launched himself through the air, stretching his fingertips as far as they would go, but he couldn't get near it.
The ball smashed into the back of the net!
"And Romania are level!" Tyler shouted. "A trademark strike from the veteran Keșerü! He has absolutely buried that from distance. One-one!"
The atmosphere inside Ullevaal plummeted. The deafening cheers were instantly replaced by a nervous, quiet murmur.
To make matters worse, as soon as Romania equalized, they immediately dropped back into their suffocating defensive block, more than happy to escape Oslo with a hard-fought draw.