The locker room was silent. Unnaturally so.
No one spoke. No one moved. Even breathing felt too loud.
The score at halftime: 1–1.
After a dream start, China's lead had been erased. Argentina had equalized, and with it, the momentum of the match shifted.
For the players—who had not only taken the lead but created multiple chances to bury the game—it was a cruel blow.
They all knew it: had they converted even one more of those chances, this final might already be out of Argentina's reach.
But that's how football works.
Opportunities missed don't ask for permission before vanishing.
And sometimes, a team's limitations in finishing come not from tactics or desire, but from the natural limits of individual quality.
As Argentina's goal went in, regret swept through the team like cold air.
And yet, no one blamed each other. Not Yang Yang. Not the defenders. Not the keeper.
Yang Yang had done everything he could.
He was double-marked the entire half. Zabaleta had stuck to him like glue, shadowing every run. But even so, Yang Yang adapted—he dropped deeper, roamed centrally, and created chances.
But his teammates couldn't convert.
And he never once turned to scold or accuse.
Because how could you blame someone who had given everything?
Still… the truth was obvious.
The blow of losing a lead always cuts deeper for the team that had it—especially when that team is China, where the weight of historical doubt always lingers.
Around the world, the stereotype remained: Chinese players are fragile under pressure. They break at the moment of truth.
Yang Yang didn't believe that.
But looking around the locker room, seeing teammates staring blankly at the floor, shoulders slumped, eyes dim—he feared that belief was starting to appear.
If they went out in the second half like this—shaken, uncertain, disconnected—they would lose. That much he knew.
Not because Argentina was better.
But because China would beat itself.
He wouldn't let that happen.
Yang Yang stood.
The sudden motion startled the room. A few heads turned. Some flinched, half-expecting him to erupt in frustration.
But instead, he looked each of them in the eye—firm, calm, unwavering.
"I'm confident I can still score in the second half."
The statement hung in the air like thunder.
Eyes turned toward him in disbelief and hope.
Hadn't he already done it once? Hadn't he asked the coach for ten minutes before kickoff and scored in nine?
Now he was saying he could do it again.
And more than that—he meant it.
"But I need all of you. We cannot let Argentina score again. No mistakes. No slips.
I'll win this game with a goal—but only if we protect that goal together. I believe in this. I believe in us."
No one spoke right away.
Then Chen Tao stood. "I'm with you."
Feng Xiaoting nodded. "Me too. I believe it."
Gao Lin raised his voice. "Say no more. Whatever you need—even if I have to defend—I'm in."
Zhou Haibin got up. "Count me in."
Hao Junmin raised his hand silently.
Then, Cui Peng, usually the most laid-back of the group, stood up with a clenched jaw. "I don't like losing either. I'll fight to the end. And yeah… I believe you'll score."
One by one, the team stood behind him.
Not because they knew they would win.
But because Yang Yang made them believe they could.
In the corner, Coach Krautzun stood still, arms folded. He hadn't said a word.
He didn't need to.
For a moment, watching the young men rally around Yang Yang, he felt almost irrelevant.
Tactics? Shape? Substitutions?
None of it mattered more than this.
He remembered something Arsène Wenger once said:
"To reach the top, a footballer needs unreasonable self-belief. Every great player carries with him this irrational confidence. If you cannot overcome the doubt inside you, you will never reach your full potential."
And now, watching Yang Yang, he understood.
This was a great player.
Because his belief wasn't just his own—it was contagious.
Maybe they'd still lose.
But without belief, they wouldn't even have a chance.
And with it?
Anything was possible.
...
...
The second half began.
Neither side made substitutions during the break.
Argentina picked up right where they left off—confident in possession, slowly tightening the grip on the tempo. With the score level, they didn't rush. They pressed China methodically, looking to wear them down.
China, by contrast, remained compact. They sat deep, holding their shape, waiting for the moment to strike on the counter.
Only three minutes in, Argentina carved out the first chance of the half.
Archubi, positioned about 25 meters from goal, took a snap shot from distance. It flew just inches over the bar, drawing gasps from both sets of supporters. The Chinese bench exhaled—too close.
On the pitch, Yang Yang immediately sensed danger. He dropped deeper on the left flank, helping out defensively while shouting instructions.
"Stay calm! Stick to the plan! Trust me!" he barked, waving his arms to signal composure.
Chen Tao tracked back on the right. Gao Lin stayed forward as the lone out ball, pinned against Argentina's center-backs.
Minute by minute, Argentina crept forward, crossing the midfield line with increasing numbers.
But the Chinese players refused to fold.
They ran tirelessly, tracked every run, and put their bodies on the line. On the sidelines, Chinese fans began singing the national anthem to rally their players. Dutch locals, swept up in the emotion, joined in with cheers and applause.
From the stands, the Ajax players could feel the tension. No longer joking or chatting—they leaned forward, riveted. They had seen Yang Yang shine before, but now... now, this was something else.
Then, in the 58th minute, came the moment.
Argentina pressed high again—but this time, Cui Peng read the pass perfectly. He stepped in, lunged into a tackle, and won the ball cleanly near the edge of China's penalty area.
He wasted no time, sending it forward to Zhou Haibin, who was already turning into space.
Zhou took a touch and played a sharp grounded pass toward Gao Lin, who stood strong with his back to goal. The striker cushioned the ball back with a soft touch, drawing Garay toward him.
Out of midfield, Hao Junmin burst forward, seizing the layoff. He took one glance up—and released the ball into space behind the left channel.
Yang Yang was already moving.
He had been waiting, coiled like a spring, hovering near the 30-meter line. The moment Hao played the pass, he exploded forward, slicing through the gap like a red arrow.
Zabaleta turned too late.
The crowd at Galgenwaard Stadion erupted. People leapt from their seats as Yang Yang raced onto the ball, his pace unmatched.
He controlled it in stride, surged into the box, and now the geometry shifted.
To his right: Paletta, charging back, trying to angle him wide.
Ahead: Ustari, crouched low at the near post, arms spread wide, watching every twitch of Yang Yang's body.
To his left: another defender sliding across to cut off the far angle.
Every route to goal was closing.
Then—Yang Yang stopped.
A sudden, hard brake. The ball followed him, rolling gently. Paletta overran, caught off-guard. He tried to recover, but Yang Yang shifted his weight and used his left shoulder to hold him off.
Planted. Composed.
One breath. One step. One shift.
Yang Yang tapped the ball with his right foot diagonally across his body, repositioning it into the center of the penalty area. Paletta stumbled, reaching—too late.
The Chinese winger reset his stance.
And then he struck.
Right foot. Low. Clean. Far post.
The ball skipped just inside the outstretched leg of the covering defender and flashed past Ustari's dive—
—and slammed into the back of the net.
"YANG YANG! YANG YANG!!! YANG YANG!!!"
"GOAL!!!"
"Unbelievable—it's the 58th minute and Yang Yang scores again!"
"What a devastating counterattack! From defense to goal in seconds—Yang Yang ran nearly 40 meters and finished it with absolute precision!"
"Two to one! China is back in front!"
...
The Galgenwaard Stadion exploded.
It wasn't just noise—it was a detonation of joy. The entire stadium erupted into chaos, fans leaping from their seats, fists raised, flags whipping through the air as one name echoed like a chorus in the wind:
"YANG YANG! YANG YANG! YANG YANG!"
Everywhere—behind the goal, along the sidelines, in every corner of the stands—supporters screamed his name as if the sound itself could carry him higher.
Up in the stands, Ibrahimović, Maxwell, and the rest of Yang Yang's old Ajax teammates were shouting like madmen, hugging each other, roaring with pride.
But this wasn't just about football anymore.
In the VIP section, Yang Yang's parents, Uncle Shen Ming, Su Wenhong, and the rest of their relatives were all on their feet. Some clapped furiously, some wiped tears from their eyes, unable to contain the emotion of the moment.
Su Ye stood still, her body frozen with intensity. Her fists clenched at her sides, her teeth biting down so hard on her lower lip that a tiny bead of blood appeared.
But she didn't even notice.
She couldn't take her eyes off him.
She had known, since that Champions League final last year, that she would never forget him. That no matter where life led, she would always carry that image:
The boy who never gave up.
The boy who lit up the pitch when it mattered most.
"Unbelievable! This… this is beyond anything we've seen!" the Chinese commentator shouted breathlessly.
"We're out of words! What else can we say about Yang Yang?"
"Every single time the team needs him, he steps up! There's nothing he can't do!"
"I want to kneel—Yang Yang, you are unbelievable!"
"What composure! What precision! What timing! That is a goal from another world!"
All across China, millions of fans watching on TV jumped from their couches, shouted in bars, or burst into tears at home. It was the kind of moment that made people believe football was more than just a game.
Even on the pitch, the players weren't immune.
The Chinese squad rushed to Yang Yang, embracing him, surrounding him—not just as a teammate, but almost as something more. They didn't just celebrate—they revered.
He had promised them in the locker room:
"I will score again."
And now, he had delivered.
They looked at him the way soldiers look at a general who leads from the front, never flinching. A player who didn't just carry their hopes—but proved again and again that he could turn belief into reality.
And behind them, on the pitch, Lionel Messi stood frozen.
Hands clenched into fists.
Jaw tight.
Number 18 for Argentina had watched the entire celebration, watched Yang Yang's name echo across the stadium, watched the Chinese fans lose themselves in his rival's brilliance.
And it burned.
Messi stared at the touchline where Yang Yang was still surrounded by his teammates, chanting and celebrating.
The sound of the crowd calling his rival's name kept ringing in his ears.
He wasn't convinced.
Not yet.
...
Patreon (for support only, story stays free):patreon.com/MTLstoriesedits