The match resumed, but the dynamic had shifted irrevocably. The "11-Second Goal" hung over the stadium like a toxic fog.
Jose Mourinho, smelling blood in the water, didn't sit back. He prowled the technical area, barking instructions in Portuguese and English.
He saw the fear in Kieran Trippier's eyes.
He saw the hesitation.
"Push right! Overload right!" Mourinho screamed at Valencia and Mata. "Isolate the kid on the left!"
It was a ruthless adjustment.
By shifting the United formation slightly to the right, he forced Tottenham's midfield to shuffle across.
This left Ling isolated on the left flank, one-on-one against Trippier. A gladiator duel where one combatant was armed with a spear and the other was holding a plastic fork.
Mauricio Pochettino saw the danger.
He stood on the touchline, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face pale.
He had a choice: Stick to his philosophy or survive?
"Son! Christian! Drop back!" Pochettino yelled, his voice cracking.
Spurs retreated.
The famous "To Dare Is To Do" motto died a quiet death as Eriksen and Son Heung-min dropped into wing-back positions.
Tottenham shifted into a cowardly 5-4-1. Harry Kane was left stranded on an island up front, watching the ball fly over his head.
The home fans, packed into the tight stands of White Hart Lane, began to turn.
They felt suffocated.
This was the final season at the Lane, They wanted glory, and Instead, they were watching their team cower in their own box.
"This is fucking embarrassing!" a Spurs fan in the front row screamed, kicking the advertising hoarding.
"Attack them! We're at home for fuck sake!"
26th Minute
Nemanja Matic won a loose ball in midfield and sprayed it wide to the left.
Ling trapped the ball on the touchline. He didn't move immediately. He just stood there, staring at Kieran Trippier.
Trippier backed off, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was already suffering from PTSD from the first goal.
He knew he couldn't dive in.
If he committed, Ling would ghost past him.
If he stood off, Ling would run at him.
"Dele! Dele, help me out!" Trippier screamed, his voice laced with panic. "Get over here!"
Dele Alli, Tottenham's enforcer in midfield, sprinted over.
Dele was a different beast to Trippier.
He was nasty. He was physical. He was the classic Premier League "shithouse" who would smile while stepping on your ankle.
"I got him," Dele growled.
He closed Ling down aggressively.
As he came in, Dele's left hand grabbed a handful of Ling's jersey at the shoulder—a subtle, dirty tug designed to throw Ling off balance.
It was the "Dark Arts" of football.
"Got you now, you little shit," Dele muttered under his breath.
Ling felt the tug.
He didn't complain to the referee and he didn't dive either.
He decelerated sharply, coming to a dead stop.
Dele, expecting a sprint, slammed the brakes, his momentum carrying him slightly too close.
Ling shielded the ball with his body, feeling Dele's chest pressing into his back. He glanced up, scanning the pitch.
Then, pure instinct took over.
Ling didn't turn.
He flicked his right heel backward.
Tap.
The ball rolled perfectly through Dele Alli's open legs.
A nutmeg.
The ultimate disrespect.
"Oh, he's absolutely done him!" Gary Neville gasped on commentary. "He's sent Dele packing for a hot dog!"
Dele stumbled, his legs tangled in humiliation.
The passing lane was wide open.
Matic surged into the space Ling had created. With Dele pulled out to the flank and nutmegged, the center of the pitch was naked.
"Trippier is frozen," Neville analyzed. "He should have covered, but he's terrified of Ling. United have the overload!"
Matic drove forward.
He slipped a pass to Juan Mata, who had drifted into the "Number 10" pocket.
Romelu Lukaku began a bulldozing run into the box, dragging two defenders with him like a gravity well.
Jesse Lingard buzzed around the edge of the area.
In the away end, the United fans began to chant, their voices echoing off the corrugated iron roof.
"Oh when the Reds! (Oh when the Reds!)Go marching in! (Go marching in!)Oh when the Reds go marching in!I want to be in that number!"
Singing their anthem on enemy territory gave them a twisted, sadistic satisfaction.
Mata, seeing the white shirts collapsing into the middle, didn't shoot.
He used the outside of his boot to flick a delicious switch-ball out to the right flank.
Antonio Valencia was galloping into space. He didn't take a touch. He whipped a low, curling cross toward the back post.
It wasn't the best cross Valencia had ever hit. It was slightly behind the play.
Jan Vertonghen was marking the zone. He should have cleared it. But the Belgian looked heavy-legged.
He tried to adjust his feet, got them tangled, and the ball skidded past his heel.
"He's missed it!" Martin Tyler shouted. "Vertonghen has missed it!"
The ball fell to the back post.
A bald head gleamed under the floodlights.
It was Ashley Young, the veteran winger-turned-fullback, who had ghosted in completely unmarked.
He didn't smash it. He simply opened his body and side-footed a controlled push-shot back across the goal.
Bang!
Hugo Lloris scrambled across his line, but he was beaten before he moved.
The ball nestled into the side netting.
0-2 Manchester United!
"IT IS TOO EASY!" Neville screamed. "Tottenham are falling apart! Ashley Young finishes it off, but the build-up was magnificent!"
Lloris sat on the goal line, staring at the grass.
"Fuck off," he whispered to no one in particular. "Just fuck off."
The away end detonated.
United fans were jumping, hugging, and falling over seats. They had expected a war but they were getting a massacre instead.
"WE WANT THREE! WE WANT THREE!"
In the middle of the red sea, a burly fan in a black jacket was jumping higher than anyone else.
He was screaming, veins popping in his neck.
"YES! SMASH THEM! SMASH THE SPURS BASTARDS!"
In his excitement, he threw his arms up.
His jacket zipper, which was loose, slid all the way down.
The red shirts around him froze.
Underneath the black jacket was a bright red jersey... but it had a white cannon on the chest.
And the sponsor said 'Fly Emirates'.
An Arsenal jersey.
A United fan next to him blinked. "Mate... what the fuck are you wearing?"
The Arsenal fan looked down, realized his mistake, and frantically zipped his jacket back up.
"Uh... nothing. Just... you know. Hate Spurs."
The United fan paused, then burst out laughing.
He slapped the Gooner on the back. "Fair play, lad! The enemy of my enemy is my friend! Get this man a beer! We're all Reds today!"
"SMASH TOTTENHAM!" the Arsenal fan screamed, raising his fist, accepted into the tribe for 90 minutes of shared hatred.
Meanwhile, in the home end, the exodus had begun.
Tottenham fans were streaming toward the exits after 27 minutes.
They couldn't stomach it.
...
On the touchline, Jose Mourinho wasn't smiling.
He was a shark who had tasted blood!
A 2-0 lead was dangerous. He knew United had been fragile lately. He didn't want to sit back.
He wanted to destroy their morale.
He whistled sharply, calling Nemanja Matic over.
"Nemanja!" Mourinho barked, grabbing the Serb's arm. "Do not stop. Spread them out. Use the width."
Mourinho pointed aggressively at the space behind Lukaku.
"Make the forwards drop deep, pull their center-backs out, and then kill them with the runs in behind. Exploit Ling. Trippier is dead on his feet. Kill him."
"Understood, Boss."
...
The match resumed, but the atmosphere had turned toxic.
The Tottenham players were losing their heads. Frustration boiled over them.
Dele Alli crunched into Mata late. Dembele left a boot in on Pogba.
Pochettino's side, usually so easy on the eye, had turned into a street gang.
It was the South American influence—if you can't win the game, win the fight.
"They are losing their discipline," Neville noted. "Spurs are trying to kick United off the park."
The ball rolled out to the left flank again.
Ling collected it. Eric Dier was tied up with Matic.
No help was coming to him.
It was Ling vs. Kieran Trippier. Round Three.
Trippier looked like a man facing a firing squad. He was breathing heavy, sweat dripping into his eyes.
Ling didn't pass. He drove at him.
He started the step-overs.
'Right foot over.Left foot over.'
He shifted his body weight violently from side to side, his hips swiveling like a pendulum.
"He is hypnotizing him!" Tyler shouted.
To Trippier, the ball seemed to be in two places at once. His brain couldn't process the feints. His feet felt like they were stuck in concrete.
'If I tackle, he goes past me. If I wait, he shoots.'
Ling saw the hesitation. He saw the fear.
He dipped his shoulder to the left...
---------
Read 30 chapters ahead and support me on patreon.
patreon (.)com/Newbietranslator