Noon, April 16 — Mandemakers Stadion, Waalwijk, Netherlands
Matchday 34 of the Eredivisie. Ajax travelled to face RKC Waalwijk.
The modest Mandemakers Stadion, with a capacity of just 7,500, was packed to the brim. Not a single seat was empty. Even the cold, exposed corners of the stands—normally deserted during routine league fixtures—were tightly packed with eager spectators. Along the edge of the pitch, dozens of journalists stood shoulder to shoulder, having been granted permission to view the match from ground level. The stadium pulsed with nervous energy and expectation.
Tickets for this game had sold out over two weeks ago, long before any final team sheet had been announced. No one wanted to miss what could be a historic afternoon.
All eyes were on one man—Yang Yang.
The 19-year-old Ajax forward had spent the last two seasons shattering expectations. Today, he stood on the cusp of surpassing one of the most sacred records in European football history: Dudu Georgescu's 47-goal single-season mark, untouched for years. Yang Yang had equalled it just days earlier. Now, he needed just one more to stand alone atop the record books, and two to set a new, unthinkable standard—50 goals in a league season.
From fans packed into the stands to viewers glued to television sets around the world, the anticipation was suffocating.
Mandemakers Stadion, usually a venue overlooked by broadcasters, had become the epicentre of world football for one afternoon. The infrastructure wasn't ideal—the pitch was narrow, the lighting sub-par, and the broadcast facilities rudimentary—but today none of that mattered. What mattered was the possibility of witnessing history.
Due to league regulations, all matches in the final two rounds of the season kicked off simultaneously. Today's start time: 13:30.
Both squads had arrived well ahead of schedule. Players from Ajax and Waalwijk went through their pre-match routines with focused urgency. The spotlight, of course, was fixed firmly on Yang Yang, who went about his warmup with quiet intensity, as if the weight of expectation were no heavier than a training bib.
Refereeing the occasion was Jack van Hulten, a 43-year-old veteran official known for his firm hand and unflinching consistency. His appointment to such a high-stakes fixture was seen as a nod to the importance of maintaining control amidst the inevitable pressure.
In the pre-match press conference, Waalwijk head coach Adrie Koster made it clear: his side would play with full integrity. There would be no leniency, no bending to the narrative. Waalwijk would not roll over.
"We are professionals," Koster had said. "We owe it to ourselves and to the league to give our best. Our job is to play to win—and to make sure Yang Yang doesn't score."
To that end, Koster named his strongest possible starting eleven. He set his team up in a compact 4-5-1 formation, aiming to crowd the midfield and deny Ajax any fluency in transition. It was a deliberate attempt to stifle space, break rhythm, and limit Yang Yang's influence.
It was also a clear signal: Waalwijk would not participate in the coronation parade. They were here to spoil the party.
As the players emerged from the tunnel and the teams took their positions on the pitch, the tension was palpable. A nation held its breath. A continent watched with curiosity. And somewhere, in the minds of everyone present, a single question lingered:
Could Yang Yang do it?
History was one goal away.
...
...
Yang Yang stood naked before the washbasin in the visiting team's dressing room, his hands gripping the porcelain edge, his eyes fixed on the mirror.
From the television broadcasts, many fans still thought of him as slim—even fragile—but in person, his physique told a different story. Muscles sculpted through years of training and discipline wrapped his frame, but they weren't bulky. They were balanced, compact, designed for speed and precision. His build was functional, not cosmetic. Explosive rather than overwhelming. It was the result of meticulous gym work, daily stair sprints, and most of all, the swimming he had kept up since childhood.
Now, staring at his own reflection, Yang Yang was trying to steady his breathing.
This was it.
One more goal would shatter a record untouched for over fifty years. Two would etch his name in history with permanent ink.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound came softly—three taps against a locker door.
"Almost time," came Sneijder's voice, calm but pointed.
Yang Yang blinked as if waking from a trance. He nodded without looking, turned on the tap, cupped the cold water in his hands, and splashed his face with force. Droplets clung to his jawline and dripped onto the tiled floor. He exhaled heavily, looked back into the mirror, and met his own eyes.
"Come on," he whispered under his breath. "You've got this."
He took a final breath and turned away from the sink.
Sneijder was waiting for him. "How are you feeling?"
Yang Yang shrugged with a faint smile as he walked. "A bit nervous. But I'll be fine once we're out there."
Sneijder nodded. "Of course you're nervous. We all are."
Yang Yang smiled, appreciating the honesty.
"But you're not alone," Sneijder added. "We're with you. All of us."
Yang Yang didn't need to reply. The gratitude was in his eyes. He gave a firm nod, a quiet acknowledgment that he understood—and that it mattered.
Back inside the main dressing room, his teammates were already dressed, waiting silently. Some sat on benches, tying their boots for the second or third time. Others leaned forward, elbows on knees, heads down in quiet focus. A few cast glances at Yang Yang as he returned to his locker.
He looked around at them all—young, talented, hungry.
How far they had come.
He knew that without them—without their passes, their pressing, their protection—he would never have made it this far. It was their team. It was their journey too.
He let out a quiet chuckle, trying to break the silence. "You all look like we're heading into a war."
A few managed small laughs. Nervous ones. But the tension didn't lift.
At his locker, Yang Yang pulled on his matchday jersey, the white and red of Ajax stretching over his back. He reached into the top corner of the compartment and retrieved a small, colorful bracelet—woven thread, warm to the touch.
Su Ye had sent it just two days ago.
Her weaving skills had improved immensely in the past year. The craftsmanship was finer now, the colors more vivid, the design more intricate. A year ago, she started sending him a new bracelet every couple of weeks. With every package, his chest would tighten just a bit more. This one was beautiful.
He took out his phone and opened her QQ message:
"Come on! You can do it! All of us are cheering for you!"
He smiled. His reply was short, but he meant every word:
"I'm going to play."
He then sent short texts to his parents, to Wei Zheng, and a few others, before slipping the phone back into his bag.
He tied the bracelet around his wrist, gave it a small tug for luck, and gently closed his locker.
When he turned around, the room was quiet again. All eyes were on him.
They were waiting.
Yang Yang met their gazes, his expression calm now—focused.
He took one long breath and exhaled slowly.
"Ready?" he asked softly.
No one answered.
They didn't need to.
...
...
"Goooooaaal!!!"
"Waalwijk strike first!"
"Eighteen minutes on the clock, and the home side has stunned Ajax with a blistering counterattack!"
"It all began with a long clearance out of defence. Hans van der Haar rose highest in midfield to flick it on with a well-placed header, and Anthony Lurling—timed his run to perfection—surged in behind the Ajax back line, took one touch to steady, and rifled the ball past Stekelenburg with a low finish into the far corner!"
"Mandemakers Stadion erupts! The underdogs are in front!"
"That goal flips the script completely. Ajax, chasing history tonight through Yang Yang, suddenly find themselves trailing and under pressure. You can feel the tension creeping into their game."
"And remember, this is a night that started poorly for the visitors. Just twelve minutes in, a heavy aerial collision forced Greek forward Angelos Charisteas off the pitch. He took a nasty knock to the head challenging for a high ball and had to be stretchered off. Nicklas Bendtner came on as his replacement, but losing such an experienced forward early on is a major blow."
"Waalwijk, meanwhile, were expected to sit deep and absorb pressure—and that's exactly what they've done. But defensively, they've been exceptionally well-drilled so far. Koster clearly had his side organized to frustrate Ajax, and now with the lead, they'll dig in even deeper."
"Let's not forget: Waalwijk may sit in the lower half of the table, but this team can score goals. In fact, they've outscored the likes of Groningen and even sixth-place Utrecht this season. The problem hasn't been up front—it's been at the back. Defensively they've been leaky, especially on the road."
"But here at home, they're a different beast. And tonight, they've reminded everyone they're not here to be anyone's stepping stone. Ajax came out aggressive, pushing high and trying to impose themselves—but instead, it's Waalwijk who land the first punch."
"A huge goal in this title celebration and record-chasing night—and a real test now for Ronald Koeman's side."
...
...
Yang Yang let out a sharp exhale as he watched Anthony Lurling sprint toward the corner flag, arms outstretched in celebration, the Waalwijk fans behind him erupting with joy.
It wasn't the goal itself that shook him—conceding first wasn't unfamiliar territory for Ajax. In the Eredivisie, Ajax's firepower and confidence meant a one-goal deficit was hardly cause for panic.
But it wasn't the scoreboard that troubled Yang Yang. It was how they had conceded.
The match had barely settled into its rhythm when the visitors had already lost Charisteas to injury and gone behind on the counter. And the real issue? Ajax weren't playing their football.
For the past fifteen minutes, the team had been disjointed, their usual fluency missing. Yang Yang knew exactly why.
Everyone was trying too hard—for him.
He saw it in every pass forced into tight spaces, in every premature cross from the flanks, in the impatient shots from outside the box. His teammates wanted the record as much as he did, maybe even more, and they were trying to serve it on a platter.
But that desperation had made them predictable.
Waalwijk had clearly studied them. They didn't just mark Yang Yang—they smothered him. A deep-lying back five collapsed on him whenever he came near the box, with a midfield screen that gave neither Sneijder nor Yaya Touré the time to dictate tempo.
The home side's low block was compact, narrow, and disciplined. And Ajax, instead of stretching them wide or shifting the ball with speed, were funnelling everything toward Yang Yang.
That played straight into Waalwijk's hands.
The goal was the consequence—a sharp counterattack punishing Ajax's imprecision and imbalance.
Now, trailing 1–0, the stakes had changed.
Yang Yang turned on his heel and jogged directly toward Sneijder and Yaya Touré, signaling urgently with his hands as he approached.
...
...
Beijing, a residential neighborhood.
Though the sun had long set in the Chinese capital, the warmth of anticipation still hung in the air. It was Sunday night, and while most students had already returned to campus to prepare for the coming week, Su Ye had stayed behind. She couldn't miss this.
At just past 9:00 PM Beijing time, the entire country was tuned in.
In a rare decision, the national broadcaster had scheduled a live simulcast of the Eredivisie match between Ajax and Waalwijk, prompted by overwhelming demand from Chinese football fans. It wasn't just a league game—it was the game where Yang Yang might rewrite European history.
Su Ye sat curled up on the living room sofa beside her parents, her hands clutched tightly in her lap. Her father, Su Wenhong, an old football romantic who had once idolized Van Basten and Hidetoshi Nakata, leaned forward in his armchair, gaze fixed. Her mother, Ye Qing, was quiet but attentive, watching more for her daughter than the match.
When Anthony Lurling's goal went in and Waalwijk took the lead, the room fell into a tense silence.
Even Su Wenhong, usually unshakeable, let out a long sigh.
"A bit too eager," he muttered. "They're forcing it. Everyone wants Yang Yang to score, but they've forgotten how to play their football."
He wasn't wrong.
On-screen, the broadcaster didn't cut to the goal celebration. With limited equipment and resources at Mandemakers Stadion, the feed lingered awkwardly on the pitch. But what it showed was something far more important than the replay of a goal.
It showed Yang Yang walking—no, striding—across the field toward Sneijder and Yaya Touré. His arms gestured deliberately. His expression was focused, not flustered.
The entire Ajax team looked like they were playing with the weight of history pressing down on their shoulders.
But Yang Yang?
He looked like he had just shaken it off.
"He's talking to them," Su Ye whispered. Her voice was soft, but filled with faith. "He's going to fix it. I know he will."
Ye Qing glanced sideways at her daughter and caught the faint tremble in her voice. She reached out and gently rested a hand over Su Ye's.
But Su Wenhong remained locked on the screen, nodding with a quiet conviction. "He's been through too much to panic now. He's learned how to read the game like a coach. That boy sees what others don't."
Su Ye nodded, her lips tightening into a small but resolute smile.
She didn't need replays, commentators, or analysis.
She believed.
...
...
In Quanzhou, China, Yang Yang's family sat closely together in the living room, the television casting flickering light across their anxious expressions. Despite the late hour, the atmosphere was tense and focused. Every eye in the room was fixed on the live broadcast, watching Ajax trail behind in what was quickly becoming one of the most historic games of Yang Yang's career.
Wei Zheng, seated upright with arms crossed, broke the silence with quiet conviction. "He can handle the pressure. He's prepared for this."
Back in the Netherlands, in the heart of Almere, the Shen Ji Chinese Restaurant had transformed into a makeshift fan zone. The familiar scent of stir-fried dishes lingered in the air, but tonight, no one was here for dinner. Shen Ming, Yang Yang's uncle, had invited several of Yang Yang's old teammates and coaches from his days in Almere. Among them was Johnny Rep, the veteran head coach who once mentored the teenager now on the verge of breaking European football history.
The room had erupted in groans when Waalwijk scored, and now a heavy silence had fallen. John Rep leaned forward in his seat, tapping his fingers anxiously on the edge of the table.
"The most important thing now is composure," he said, speaking to no one in particular. "Yang Yang needs to adapt. He's smart—he'll see it. If he keeps trying to force the middle, with Waalwijk crowding the box like this, he'll not only miss his chance, Ajax might lose the match altogether."
Across the country, inside the Dutch Football Association's media room, national team manager Marco van Basten watched the game with his assistant John van 't Schip. The two sat in focused silence as Yang Yang appeared on-screen, deep in discussion with his midfielders.
Van 't Schip was the first to speak. "The key now is width. They've locked down the center, so Yang needs to drag defenders wide. Work the flanks, create chaos, and let the goals come naturally. Once they equalize, then he can go after the record."
Van Basten nodded thoughtfully, arms folded. "Ajax has the strength. If they stay fluid, the goals will come. But this next stretch—it all depends on Yang Yang."