Beep! Beep!
The sharp blast of the whistle echoed across the training ground at De Toekmost, cutting through the cold spring air. Assistant coach Ruud Krol raised his hand, signaling a temporary halt to the session.
He stepped briskly onto the pitch, his voice firm.
"Maicon!"
The Brazilian full-back jogged over quickly, sweat clinging to his forehead, brow furrowed in anticipation.
"You've got to commit when you push forward," Krol said, pointing directly toward Yang Yang's recent movement.
"Look—Yang cuts inside here, occupying the central channel. That entire right flank opens up. You've got to exploit it—drive into that space and stretch them wide. That's your job in this structure. You're not just a full-back, you're an attacking outlet."
Maicon nodded, absorbing the instruction.
"I get it, but…" he hesitated, pointing behind him, "…if I push up and we lose the ball, I won't be able to recover. That's a lot of space to leave exposed."
Krol nodded—he'd expected that concern.
"De Jong's covering you. You've got protection. That's why he's there. We need to be aggressive early on. Milan won't give us many windows. If we hesitate, those windows close."
He paused, making eye contact to emphasize his next words.
"We're not playing this game to survive. We're playing it to turn the tie around. That means taking risks. Understood?"
Maicon gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
Krol blew the whistle again, and training resumed.
This was a closed-door session, sealed off from press and public. Every drill, every sequence, every simulated phase of play had one target in mind: breaking AC Milan early.
The focus of the past week had remained consistent—aggressive opening play. Not a surprise. It was the only realistic way forward.
Everyone knew the equation. Ajax needed to score. It was not a tactical secret—it was an open necessity.
The risk was obvious: Milan were masters of the counterattack. Push too far, too early, and you could be punished.
So the question had hung over the squad all week: Do you dare?
The answer from Ronald Koeman and Ruud Krol had been clear: Yes.
Ajax would go for it.
They might lose—but they would do so on their own terms, playing boldly, not hesitating into defeat.
This wasn't reckless. The drills were systematic, focused on patterns, combinations, and positional rotation. It was about removing hesitation and refining timing.
Yang Yang's link-up play with Charisteas, Maicon, Sneijder, and Yaya Touré had become instinctive. The chemistry was there. The only thing left was tightening the execution in key moments.
One such moment had just occurred. Yang Yang had made a diagonal run into the middle, dragging his marker. Maicon hesitated and stayed outside the 30-meter zone, anticipating a turnover. The coaching staff didn't blame him—it was natural caution—but not enough.
For Ajax to beat Milan, "safe" would not be enough.
The left flank, meanwhile, needed work. The triangle of Pienaar, Yaya Touré, and Maxwell had shown moments of control, but not enough penetration. They weren't forcing Milan's right side—particularly Gattuso—into difficult positions. That had to change.
Based on Milan's weekend lineup against Lecce, the Ajax staff were confident that Cafu would not start. His form was poor, and Maldini's wasn't much better. Ancelotti wouldn't risk that kind of instability in such a critical match.
That pointed to a reshuffle—likely Nesta and Maldini in central defense, with Kaladze shifted to left-back.
Ancelotti was a tactician rooted in Italian caution. Everyone knew it.
Even before his success at Milan, Ancelotti had been widely criticized—particularly during his time at Juventus—for being overly conservative, more so than even Capello. Whether at Reggiana, Parma, or the early years at San Siro, his tactical restraint had been his calling card.
And yet, in recent seasons, the narrative had shifted. His reimagining of Pirlo as a deep-lying playmaker was now considered one of European football's most elegant tactical evolutions. Even Cruyff had praised him.
Football was strange like that. The game never stood still.
Perceptions evolved. Reputations shifted.
In this world, no label ever lasted. The moment you clung too tightly to one identity—defensive, attacking, bold, cautious—it became a liability.
That's why Koeman and Krol weren't afraid to listen to Yang Yang. That's why they were ready to take a calculated risk.
Because the moment you stop evolving, you lose.
And Ajax weren't ready to lose.
...
...
After the afternoon training session, the players gradually left the grounds at De Toekmost.
With the second leg against AC Milan just one day away, the coaching staff had kept the session sharp but relatively light, and most players were instructed to rest and focus on recovery. There was no need for extra drills or lingering exercises—not this close to a match of such magnitude.
But Yang Yang, true to his habits, stayed behind.
Carrying a ball under his arm, he made his way to a quiet corner of the training ground, the same one he had quietly claimed over the past few seasons. This was where he worked in silence, away from cameras, teammates, and distractions.
There was no one else today. The pitch was empty, and even the assistant staff had begun packing up. But for Yang Yang, this was still part of the day's work.
He fastened the weighted sandbags around his ankles, something he had made routine for these solo sessions, and began with a light warm-up. He touched the ball gently with the soles of his feet, moved through short acceleration bursts, and practiced controlled directional turns. These movements had become second nature—a rhythm he followed almost without thinking.
Once his body was ready, he set up two tall training poles near the fence, positioned close enough together to simulate an extremely narrow shooting channel. Roughly fifteen meters from the target, he placed a series of disc markers on the grass. These would act as defenders or barriers—obstacles meant to force him into unpredictable footwork and changes of direction.
Moving through the cones at varying angles, Yang Yang changed pace and direction without a preset pattern. Once he reached the final marker, he struck the ball toward the space between the poles. The goal was not power, but precision.
This was one of the techniques he used to improve his ability to score from tight angles, especially in moments where defenders left very little room for movement. In matches, those moments came without warning. The ball might break loose, or the space might briefly open for a shot that required perfect placement and split-second decision-making.
It wasn't glamorous. The exercise could be repetitive and, at times, mentally draining. But it worked.
In the dream training system, where Zax simulated high-intensity defensive scenarios, Yang Yang could run this type of training at full match speed with dynamic reactions. There, he could rehearse everything from fast counters to crowded box finishes, replicating every variable in near-perfect realism.
But in real life, there was still something valuable about repetition under quiet conditions. Here, there were no perfect simulations, no AI-controlled defenders. There was only the feeling of the ball, the sound of his breathing, and the demand for execution without error.
He had made this part of his daily process, and the results were clear. Many of his 43 Eredivisie goals this season had come in situations where other forwards might hesitate or pass. Whether the angle was tight or the shooting lane was small, he trusted his instincts—and more importantly, his preparation.
This kind of training wasn't just about refining technique. It was about reinforcing confidence. As Van Nistelrooy once said, training doesn't always produce visible improvement immediately, but it convinces you that you're getting better. And sometimes, that belief is what separates a great player from an ordinary one.
...
...
"I knew it, you must still be here."
Just as Yang Yang finished his training, a familiar voice came from behind.
It was Marco van Basten.
"Hi, Marco, what brings you here?" Yang Yang turned around, still catching his breath, and smiled.
Van Basten, dressed neatly in a suit, stood under the fading light in the distance, his figure almost dreamlike.
"How could I not come when you have such an important game tomorrow?" the Dutch national team coach replied with a grin.
As he walked closer and saw Yang Yang finishing up, Van Basten's eyes landed on the two poles placed in front of the fence. He immediately understood what Yang Yang had been doing and let out a laugh.
Yang Yang, a little embarrassed, hurried over to remove them.
The setup looked rather crude.
"While this kind of training isn't useless," Van Basten said with a shake of the head, "it still doesn't address your real issue."
Yang Yang nodded. He understood what the coach was referring to.
After he packed up, the two of them walked slowly toward the training facility, chatting along the way.
Naturally, their conversation shifted toward the upcoming Champions League match and Yang Yang's recent performances.
Van Basten was direct—he advised Yang Yang not to consider Real Madrid. That team, at the moment, was in disarray and not the right environment for him.
This opinion happened to align with Yang Yang's own thoughts.
"I've always felt people misunderstand me," Van Basten said with a smile.
"Most remember me for the goals, the shots, the headlines. But in truth, what made me who I am wasn't just my shooting—it was my completeness as a player."
Yang Yang listened intently. Insights from someone like Van Basten were invaluable to him.
"Football skills and tactics don't really change. When the ball reaches the final third, you need someone who can hold it up, someone who can run off the ball, someone to deliver the final pass, someone to respond quickly, and someone who can finish. If a team has all of that, and the division of roles is clear and well-coordinated, scoring becomes much easier."
"No matter how tactics evolve, the core principles stay the same."
"Back when I played, the midfield was often congested—it was difficult to advance through the middle. That's why teams favored using the wings. There was more space. Cruyff once told me, 'You're just a finisher, because there are many others who can score goals.'"
"But I wanted more. I wanted to be better than others. And to do that, I had to offer something no one else did. So I started learning to receive the ball like a midfielder, distribute it, assist, and support my teammates. Of course, I never forgot how to score."
"That's why, at the time, people said I was a different kind of striker—because for many years, they hadn't seen a tall, strong forward who also moved and played like a creative midfielder."
Yang Yang nodded silently. He had already guessed what Van Basten was trying to tell him.
"To be honest," Van Basten continued, "when I first saw Ibrahimović, I was stunned. His talent surpasses mine. Technically, he's better than I ever was. He seemed like the perfect striker. But what a shame…"
He trailed off, shaking his head with a trace of regret in his expression.
Yang Yang had heard similar stories before—how Van Basten, during his time at Ajax, had taken a particular interest in Ibrahimović, often training with him and passing on his knowledge and experience.
But Yang Yang also understood Van Basten's regret. Ibrahimović's character had been a major obstacle.
With his physical gifts and raw talent, the Swedish striker could've reached incredible heights. But he didn't.
"Yang, you need to understand one thing. Football is never fixed. It's always changing. No one knows how it will evolve next. But one thing will never change: the best players are always the ones who are the hardest to contain."
"For a striker, completeness means having no glaring weaknesses, no obvious limitations. That's what makes it so difficult for opponents to develop effective strategies against you. You started as a winger, but once you added the ability to cut inside and threaten centrally, you became a goal-scoring threat."
Yang Yang understood his meaning clearly.
Technical versatility leads to tactical variety.
He himself had been working toward that goal—improving his heading, building up his weaker foot, mastering off-the-ball movement.
"But do you know what your biggest issue is right now?" Van Basten asked seriously as they reached the front of the De Toekmost training facility.
Yang Yang thought for a moment, then guessed, "Heading?"
Van Basten chuckled. "That's just one flaw. But it's not your biggest problem."
He found that talking to Yang Yang was always a pleasure. This Chinese kid was sharp and perceptive.
"Then tell me," Yang Yang said, spreading his hands, half-smiling, "I'm ready. Go ahead."
Van Basten returned the smile. "Your biggest problem? You're not selfish or aggressive enough."
Yang Yang looked confused. "What do you mean?"
"To be honest, as a professional player, you're excellent. As a teammate, you're dependable. Everyone who knows you can vouch for your loyalty and character. But as a striker, especially a top-level goal-scorer, you're too considerate."
"I'll bet that every time you take a shot, you're always thinking: 'Don't waste the opportunity my teammates created for me,' right?"
Van Basten laughed, and Yang Yang didn't respond—because the coach was right.
From the first day he coached him, Van Basten had known what kind of person Yang Yang was.
Three years had been more than enough to understand his nature.
"For a striker, that kind of thinking can be a problem."
Yang Yang frowned. "I still don't quite follow."
"Let me put it more bluntly: as the team's primary scorer, your very presence on the pitch gives your teammates value. When they work to create a chance for you, they trust you to take it. Whether or not the ball ends up in the net is secondary—what matters is that you had the courage to try."
"And sometimes, it's not even about scoring. A shot from 25 meters might not go in, but it forces your opponent to adjust. They realize you're dangerous even from distance, so they expand their defensive zone. That creates space for everyone."
"As the team's main threat, you need to show your teammates you're fearless—that you're willing to shoulder the burden. Professional players, like all people, develop patterns. They follow the strongest presence on the pitch."
Yang Yang thought back.
To the World Youth Championship, when he told head coach Krautzun he'd score within ten minutes—and did.
To the goal he scored against AC Milan in the dying moments of the first leg. The angle was tight, the odds slim. He hadn't been sure, but he took the risk anyway.
Sneijder, Yaya Touré, and the others had trusted him completely.
Not once did they question him.
In hindsight, it wasn't just trust—it was belief.
Who else would they have put faith in, if not him?
Van Basten watched Yang Yang sink into thought and knew he was digesting every word. That was all he hoped for.
Everyone had their own path, their own personality, their own rhythm. It was these things that shaped their destiny.
Van Basten had once believed Ibrahimović would become the perfect striker, but the Swede's personality simply didn't allow it.
Character determines fate.
And Yang Yang had his own character—his own way forward.
"Think about Raúl," Van Basten said, giving Yang Yang a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Sometimes being too selfless can be a burden."
Raúl, once the golden boy of Spanish football, had become Real Madrid's captain and spiritual leader after Hierro and Del Bosque left. But the weight of that responsibility slowly crushed him.
With each superstar arrival, he was pushed further from goal—eventually into midfield. And he endured it all in silence.
In just three years, his light had dimmed.
Yang Yang understood.
Van Basten didn't want him to abandon selflessness, but to drop the mental weight. To be bold. To attack freely. To take on more responsibility, not less.
That kind of spirit could lift an entire team.
Yang Yang smiled suddenly.
"Marco, want to bet on something?"
Van Basten blinked. "A bet?"
"Yeah," Yang Yang said, eyes shining. "Do you dare?"
Van Basten chuckled. "Already making bets now, huh? What is it?"
"Just a dinner," Yang Yang said casually. "But not just any dinner. Loser treats the whole team—wherever I choose."
Van Basten hesitated. That wouldn't be cheap.
"What? Scared?" Yang Yang teased him.
The Dutchman sighed. "Fine, what's the wager?"
"I score within the first ten minutes tomorrow," Yang Yang said, full of confidence.
Van Basten paused, then nodded. "Deal."
"Great. It's settled."
"Don't worry," Van Basten said, smiling as they clasped hands for a high-five. "I've got a strong stomach."
...
...
The next morning, word of the bet between Yang Yang and Marco van Basten had already spread across the training grounds of De Toekmost.
At first, no one believed it. A bet? Between Yang Yang and the national team coach?
But as more players whispered about it in the corridors and changing rooms, it quickly became the talk of the day.
Scoring within ten minutes?
Against AC Milan?
A team that was the very embodiment of Italian defensive discipline?
"Yang, have you suddenly developed a taste for treating people lately?"
"If you wanted to buy us dinner, you could've just said so. Why drag Marco into this?"
"Ten minutes to score a goal... do you know who their defenders are?"
"This is madness."
"Actually, maybe not impossible. Risky? Sure. But sometimes risk is what makes it fun."
"I'm with you, Yang. At least you've got guts."
The reactions varied. Some teammates teased him, others looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, while a few admired his boldness.
Yang Yang, standing at the edge of the pitch with his arms folded and a confident grin, took it all in calmly.
He looked around at his teammates. Each of them responded in their own way—some laughing, others shaking their heads—but none of them truly dismissed him.
He let their voices settle before replying.
"I'm confident," Yang Yang said with conviction. "If you give me chances, I'll finish them. Ten minutes is plenty. Honestly, if the opportunities are right, I might even score two."
His words, delivered with such certainty, left the group stunned.
Was this really Yang Yang?
The same Yang Yang who always prioritized teamwork over flair, who rarely made boastful remarks?
Wasn't this... more like something Ibrahimović would say?
Yet despite the surprise, no one laughed.
There was something compelling about Yang Yang's tone. Something electric.
Ajax were preparing to face AC Milan—one of Europe's most feared sides, especially when defending a lead. Getting the first goal would be everything. And Yang Yang, in his own way, was sending them a message.
As long as you get me the ball in those opening minutes, I'll do the rest.
One goal. Two, even.
Maybe it sounded crazy—but suddenly, it didn't feel impossible.
"Alright then," Sneijder was the first to respond. His football IQ had always been high, and he immediately grasped what Yang Yang was doing—not just hyping himself up, but lifting the entire team's belief. "Let's go for it."
"Let's give them a fight!"
"Ten minutes? Fine, I'm in."
"Yeah! I'm betting on you too!"
One by one, voices joined in. Whether they believed he would score or not didn't matter anymore. The spark had been lit. The tone was set.
And besides, if the worst happened?
There'd still be a team dinner waiting at the end.
Yang Yang looked around at them with a mischievous smile. "Then you'd better start thinking about where we're eating tomorrow. Let's not give Marco a chance to save money."
The room erupted with laughter.
...
...
AC Milan arrived in Amsterdam one day before the match, sticking to a routine of quiet professionalism.
Ajax, however, didn't receive their opponent's official squad list until the final moments before kickoff. It was only after the team concluded their pre-match warm-up and returned to the dressing room at the Amsterdam Arena that the roster was finally handed over.
There were no surprises.
Dida would start in goal.
The defensive line featured Serginho on the left, Kaladze and Nesta as the centre-back pairing, with Jaap Stam stationed at right-back.
In midfield, Pirlo would operate as the deep-lying playmaker. To his left, Clarence Seedorf; to the right, Gennaro Gattuso. Kaka took the advanced central role just behind the front two.
And that front line? The only change from the first leg: Filippo Inzaghi replaced Gilardino.
A signal of intent.
Ancelotti was coming to Amsterdam with a counter-attacking plan.
It was vintage Inzaghi—one of the sharpest predators in Europe, always hovering near the offside line, darting into gaps, and exploiting any defensive hesitation. Sir Alex Ferguson once called him "the man who was born offside," but that only captured a fraction of his cunning. He thrived in chaos, and in transitions.
Ajax, for their part, made no changes.
Stekelenburg kept his place in goal.
The back four: Maxwell on the left, Vermaelen and Heitinga in central defence, and Maicon on the right.
The midfield trio was anchored by De Jong, with Yaya Touré and Wesley Sneijder offering mobility and passing options ahead of him.
In attack, it was the same trident that had powered them all season: Steven Pienaar wide left, Angelos Charisteas through the centre, and Yang Yang cutting in from the right.
It was a lineup filled with continuity and chemistry.
But tension hung in the air.
Several players, including Yang Yang, were carrying two yellow cards. One more, and they'd be suspended for the next Champions League match—if Ajax advanced.
In the locker room, Ruud Krol gathered the squad for final instructions. His tone was firm, but not overbearing.
"Stay sharp," he said. "Don't give the referee reasons. We don't play afraid, but we play smart."
As the referee's chime echoed through the tunnel—calling the teams to line up—Yang Yang stood and clapped his hands once.
He turned toward his teammates.
Maxwell leaned in, smirking. "Well? How are you feeling? Ready to win that bet?"
Yang Yang's grin widened. His eyes drifted from face to face, reading the room.
"Actually," he said calmly, "what I really want to know is—where do you guys want to eat tomorrow night?"
That earned a ripple of laughter through the group. The nerves didn't vanish, but the pressure eased. In that moment, confidence was contagious.