Whoa!!!
The atmosphere in the Ramón Sánchez-Pizjuán Stadium erupted into a frenzy of noise—half gasps of horror, half roars of anticipation.
In the blink of an eye, Ling had flicked his ankle, and Jesus Navas had collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Ling didn't stop to admire his handiwork. He had broken the line. He was nearing the byline inside the penalty area.
Sergio Rico, the goalkeeper, rushed out to close the angle.
The shot was almost impossible.
Top players play with their brains. Second-tier players rely on their bodies. Third-rate players simply don't know how to play.
Time seemed to slow down. Ling kept his head up. He saw the defenders scrambling back.
He saw the space opening up at the penalty spot.
Romelu Lukaku had initially made a run to the near post, but seeing Ling go wide, the big Belgian checked his run.
He peeled off the defender, finding a pocket of space in the center.
"CHUAN QIU!!!" (Pass the ball!!!)
A strangely accented Chinese phrase echoed through the Spanish night.
Lukaku had evidently picked up a few words from Ling during training.
Ling smirked. He didn't need to be told twice.
He wrapped the outside of his right boot around the ball. A gentle, floating Trivela cross.
The ball drifted over the desperate lunge of Clement Lenglet. It dropped perfectly into the path of the oncoming striker.
Boom!
Lukaku unleashed a thunderous left-footed volley from five meters out!
The sound of impact was sickeningly loud. The ball rocketed into the roof of the net like a cannonball.
1-2 Manchester United!
The thousands of traveling United fans in the upper tier surged forward, a wave of red ecstasy.
On the giant LED screen, the replay played in slow motion. It showed the cruelty of Ling's movement. The Elastico. The outside-inside touch.
It happened in a single frame. Navas's ankles seemed to buckle under the sheer physics of the move.
"That is illegal!" Martin Tyler shouted on the commentary. "He has dismantled the defense and put it on a plate for Lukaku!"
In the home stands, the mood turned toxic. The Sevilla fans, so loud minutes ago, clutched their heads.
"Berizzo was doing fine!" one fan screamed.
"Why did we hire Montella?!"
"We came back against Liverpool! We can do it again!" another shouted, though his voice lacked conviction.
On the pitch, Lukaku roared. He sprinted toward Ling.
The two players leaped into the air.
THUMP!
They collided in mid-air for a chest bump.
Ling landed and staggered back slightly, wincing. "Ouch. Romelu, have you gotten heavier? It felt like hitting a brick wall."
Lukaku grinned, clutching his own chest. "Maybe I've just gotten stronger, little man! Pure muscle!"
Ling forced a smile, but his mind was racing.
He is too big.
Ling noticed it during training. Lukaku had been bulking up, presumably to prepare for the World Cup with Belgium. He wanted to be a tank.
But in the Premier League, and especially in the Champions League, you need mobility. Lukaku's first step was heavier. His reaction time was a fraction slower.
'I need to talk to him,' Ling thought.
If he keeps adding mass, his knees won't hold up. Speed is his weapon, not just strength.
On the sideline, Vincenzo Montella had lost his composure.
"Don't lunge in!" Montella screamed, veins bulging in his neck. "How many times have I told you?! Do not dive in on him!"
Jesus Navas picked himself up from the turf, looking at the bench with innocent, frustrated eyes.
'If you think it's so easy, boss, you come and stop him.'
Navas looked at Ling's retreating back. He felt a pang of nostalgia—and age. He remembered when he was the young, lightning-fast winger tearing up defenses in England.
Now? He was chasing shadows.
"Banega," Navas gasped. "Cover the inside. I can't handle him alone."
...
Peep!
The match resumed. And so did the Mourinho Masterclass.
A 2-1 away lead in the Champions League is gold dust. Mourinho didn't want a third goal. He wanted to kill the game.
He signaled to the pitch.
Formation Shift: 4-5-1.
Ling and Rashford dropped deep, acting almost as auxiliary fullbacks. The midfield became a congested block of five.
From a bird's eye view, United formed three distinct, rigid defensive lines. They suffocated Sevilla. Every time the Spanish side tried to play through the middle, they hit a wall of Matic and McTominay. Every time they went wide, Ling or Rashford was there to double-team.
89th Minute
Sevilla had one last push.
Navas received the ball on the touchline. He saw Ling in front of him.
Summoning the last of his energy, Navas nudged the ball forward and executed a La Croqueta—shifting the ball from right foot to left to skip past Ling's tackle.
He was through!
But only for a second.
Ling turned. He dug his cleats into the turf.
Zoom.
In three strides, Ling closed the five-yard gap.
He used his raw recovery pace to shoulder-barge Navas off the ball and clear it into the stands.
Navas stopped, hands on his knees, gasping for air. He looked at Ling, who wasn't even breathing hard.
'Youth,' Navas thought bitterly. 'It wins every time.'
Peep-peep-peep!
The final whistle blew.
Sevilla 1 - 2 Manchester United.
"OHHHH!"
The away end erupted. It wasn't a trophy, but it was a massive step.
For the first time in years, United looked comfortable in the knockout stages of the Champions League.
The dark days of Moyes' endless crosses and Van Gaal's sleep-inducing possession were gone.
This team finally had teeth!
As Ling walked toward the tunnel, soaking in the applause, he heard a high-pitched voice.
"Ling! Ling! Look!"
He looked up.
A young boy, maybe seven years old, was leaning over the railing of the away section. He was holding up a piece of paper.
It was a crayon drawing. A stick figure in a red shirt with the number 7, kicking a ball into a goal. It was crude, but the effort was undeniable.
Ling smiled. He stopped and walked over to the stewards.
"Hey little man," Ling shouted. "Is that me?"
"Yes!" the boy squealed. "I drew it for you!"
"It's amazing. Better than the real thing," Ling laughed. He pulled off his match-worn jersey. "I tell you what. I'll trade you. My shirt for your art."
The boy's eyes went as wide as saucers.
"REALLY?"
"Deal."
Ling tossed the sweaty jersey up. The boy caught it, burying his face in the fabric. He dropped the drawing down, and Ling caught it gently.
Ling unrolled the paper, looking at the scribbles. He tucked it carefully under his arm and walked down the tunnel, shirtless and smiling.
Back in the locker room, he taped the drawing to his locker.
"New masterpiece?" De Gea asked, grinning.
"Best trophy I've won all week," Ling replied.
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