De Kuip, Rotterdam
When referee Pieter Vink blew the final whistle, the crowd at De Kuip rose to its feet as one. The stadium was roaring, not just with noise, but with recognition. Ajax had done it again. Players and coaching staff erupted from the bench, flooding the pitch with open arms and elated shouts. On the scoreboard, the numbers blinked back:
Ajax 2, PSV Eindhoven 1.
But nothing about this match had been simple.
This was a final written in tension and grit, the kind that isn't always defined by goals, but by the unbearable pressure in between. Guus Hiddink's Eindhoven had come with a meticulous plan, forged through two and a half weeks of focused preparation. They had dissected Ajax from every angle, studied their rhythm, their triggers, their breathing patterns in attack. Hiddink, ever the strategist, had laid out a battle of attrition.
The first half bore the marks of that preparation. PSV sat deep when needed, pressed high when provoked, and remained tactically disciplined. Ajax saw more of the ball, but possession alone was toothless. Yang Yang was heavily shadowed, Sneijder had little space to thread the final pass, and the flanks were shut down with surgical precision. The halftime whistle came with neither side finding the net.
But finals aren't remembered for what happens before the break.
Just three minutes into the second half, Ajax came alive.
Sneijder, finally granted a sliver of daylight in midfield, slid a crisp, cutting through ball into the inside right channel. Yang Yang, who had been quiet by necessity, burst forward with a vengeance. Absent from the Camp Nou and still burning from the helplessness of watching his team fall without him, he met the pass with surgical calm. One touch to settle, another to shoot—low, precise, and clinical past Gomes.
1-0 to Ajax. The eruption from the Ajax end of the stadium was deafening.
But celebrations were short-lived.
Within three minutes, Ajax showed signs of fragility. A poorly defended corner saw Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink rise above the pack and direct a thumping header towards goal. Stekelenburg did brilliantly to parry the effort, but the rebound fell into chaos. Michael Lamey, unmarked amidst the scramble, pounced and smashed home the equalizer.
1-1. Parity restored. And with it, the match descended into a tactical grind.
For the next half-hour, both benches scrambled to adjust. Substitutions came in waves—fresh legs, new angles, renewed energy—but neither side found the edge. PSV looked content to drag the match toward extra time, while Ajax, despite fatigue, hunted for one more opening.
And it came in the dying breath of regulation.
Ninety minutes on the clock. Yaya Touré, positioned just outside the box, took control with poise. With PSV retreating into shape, he lifted his head and floated a diagonal ball over the retreating backline. Yang Yang, having ghosted into the left channel, timed his run to perfection. The ball dropped, and with defenders converging, he struck it first time with his left foot.
A blur of motion. A thud. The net rippled.
2-1 Ajax.
The goal sent De Kuip into delirium. Touré sprinted to the corner flag with Yang Yang. Stekelenburg ran the length of the pitch. The bench emptied again. In a moment that was at once catharsis and conquest, Ajax had reclaimed their crown.
Yang Yang, with a brace in the Dutch Cup final, sealed the victory.
...
All the players celebrated visibly on the pitch.
Yang Yang, too, felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
The long, demanding season had finally come to an end.
But just as quickly as that feeling washed over him, a deeper, more bittersweet emotion began to rise.
Because he knew—it wasn't just the end of a season.
It was the end of his Ajax journey.
If nothing unexpected happened, this Dutch Cup final would mark the last time he wore the red and white of Ajax, the last time he stepped onto the field as one of them.
Three unforgettable years.
In those three years, Ajax had watched him transform—no, they had shaped him—from an unknown, raw talent into the phenomenon that was Yang Yang. Here, he had bled and grown. He had suffered defeats and tasted glory. He had been nurtured, challenged, and ultimately refined.
This was more than a club to him.
This was where he'd become himself.
He had told himself for weeks now that he was ready for this. That the farewell, when it came, wouldn't catch him off guard.
But it had. It did.
The sadness threatened to break through. But he steeled himself. He swallowed the emotion and smiled as he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around each of his teammates, one by one.
"Thank you, Douglas," he said, embracing Maicon tightly. "Thank you for fighting beside me all this time. Believe me, you'll become the best right-back in the world. I hope one day we'll share a pitch again."
He turned to Sneijder next. "Wesley, thank you for every pass. You've made the game feel so easy. I've never seen a playmaker like you."
Then Yaya Touré. "Yaya, we've only had a year, but it was enough. You were more than a teammate—you were a comrade."
When he reached Thomas Vermaelen, his voice cracked slightly. "Thomas, my brother. Wherever I go next, I'll carry your name with me. Let's meet again on the same side, someday."
He threw his arms around Maxwell with a smile that was half-playful, half-teary. "You're crying again, aren't you? Man, you're worse than a girl. Be tougher, more fearless. You'll be the best left-back in Europe, I swear it!"
He moved down the line—Ron Vlaar, Ryan Babel, Emmanuelson, Nicklas Bendtner, and even the young Belgian defender Toby Alderweireld, who had broken into the squad during the Dutch Cup campaign. He said something personal to each of them, a word of encouragement, a thank you, a farewell disguised as optimism.
Nobody said it aloud, but everyone understood.
This was his goodbye.
This final was the end of his Ajax story.
By the time the sun rose tomorrow, Yang Yang would no longer be their teammate.
Where he would go next remained a mystery. But wherever it was, the destination didn't matter—what mattered was that his time in Amsterdam had come to a close.
Thanks to the €40 million release clause written into his contract a year earlier, any club willing to meet that price could unlock the next chapter of his career.
He had said his farewells to his teammates. Now it was time to face the stands.
Yang Yang walked slowly toward the sidelines, raising his hands high as he turned toward the Ajax supporters.
He clapped above his head. A gesture of gratitude.
It was routine—every Ajax player did it after big wins—but the atmosphere in the stadium had shifted. The fans knew. You could feel it. You could see it in their eyes, hear it in the hush that overtook the applause.
Some even tried to chant for him to stay—but the words fell short, drowned in the reality of what everyone already knew.
They loved Yang Yang. That's why they had to let him go.
Because the Eredivisie couldn't hold him any longer.
Just as it couldn't hold Cruyff. Or Van Basten. Or Rijkaard. Or Bergkamp. Or Litmanen.
Now, it was Yang Yang's turn to leave.
But he wasn't leaving empty-handed.
His transfer fee would set a new record in Eredivisie history—€40 million. A windfall that Ajax could use to build, to renew, to dream again. They could re-sign key players, lure new ones, maybe push deeper into Europe. That money was his parting gift.
In the stands, many fans wept—some openly, some behind scarves and sleeves. Some held up scarves. Others banners.
One caught Yang Yang's eye, and it hit him like a punch to the chest.
"This is always your home. Please come back to see us often!"
His throat tightened.
His vision blurred.
He blinked fast, trying to push back the tears.
He had prepared for this moment, and still it broke him.
Three years.
He had memorized every corner of this club, this city, this way of life. It was in him now.
Sometimes he wondered if staying here forever would've been such a bad thing.
But he had dreams. He had a purpose.
He had to chase something greater.
So he would go.
He must.
...
Yang Yang walked slowly toward the technical area, where the coaches were gathered.
He approached Ronald Koeman and, without hesitation, threw his arms around the head coach.
"Thank you, Ronald," Yang Yang said sincerely, voice tinged with emotion. "Thank you for your trust, your care, and your guidance over these past three years."
Ronald Koeman, a man long accustomed to the constant comings and goings in professional football, felt himself moved despite it all. There was something different about this farewell.
He placed both hands firmly on Yang Yang's shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes, and offered a final piece of wisdom.
"Son, let me give you one last word of advice."
Yang Yang stood tall in front of him, nodding solemnly.
"You're ready. You already have the quality to play for any top team in Europe—England, Spain, Italy, Germany. Don't ever doubt that. Trust in yourself. Just like you've done these last three years, keep working, keep pushing. If you do, I'm sure of it—you will become the best player in the world."
Yang Yang's eyes shimmered. He nodded again, this time even more firmly, and embraced Ronald Koeman tightly once more.
From the head coach, Yang Yang turned to the assistant manager—Ruud Krol.
This was different.
With Krol, the bond ran even deeper. It was he who had first recommended Yang Yang from Almere. He had been there from the beginning. He had overseen Yang Yang's earliest development, designed his one-on-one training, and never stopped believing in his potential.
For Yang Yang, Ruud Krol wasn't just a coach.
He was a mentor. A teacher. Family.
The Ajax assistant met him with a knowing, heavy gaze and nodded several times, words not coming easily.
"It's time," he said quietly, voice slightly hoarse. "Go and show the world. I'll be here... waiting to hear your name again."
That simple sentence, spoken with so much quiet pride, made Yang Yang's chest tighten. He stepped in quickly, hugging Krol with genuine gratitude.
Then came Kruitenberg.
Among the squad, the Dutch fitness coach had always had a tough reputation. His sessions were brutal. His expectations were relentless. Many players grumbled about his methods, but not Yang Yang.
Because Yang Yang knew—without Kruitenberg's work, he wouldn't have been able to maintain such elite fitness, especially through this final stretch of the season.
"You've been incredible," Yang Yang said with honesty. "I wouldn't have made it to the end like this without your program. You've been key to my form."
Kruitenberg chuckled, his usual sternness softened. "You put in the work. That's why it paid off. Just don't stop now. I want to hear even bigger things from you soon."
They exchanged a strong handshake and a quick hug.
Then, as Yang Yang turned slightly, he noticed someone already approaching with open arms and a giant grin—Winston Bogarde.
The moment Yang Yang let go of Kruitenberg, Bogarde stepped in eagerly, arms wide like a child waiting for a hug.
But Yang Yang turned away.
As if he'd forgotten.
"Wait, hey, what about me?" Bogarde called out, clearly flustered.
Laughter rippled through the coaching staff and players nearby.
Even Yang Yang couldn't help but laugh as he stopped and turned around, playing along.
"Oh, you?" he teased. "I thought you were coming back to China with me. I figured I'd save the hug for later."
Bogarde folded his arms with mock indignation. "Yeah, yeah, but the cameras are rolling, man. The fans are watching. You hugged everyone except me. They'll think we've fallen out or something!"
That drew more laughter. Everyone at De Toekomst knew—the bond between Yang Yang and Bogarde was like that of brothers. Always joking, always teasing, but always inseparable.
"Fine, since you're so desperate, come here," Yang Yang said dramatically, walking over.
Bogarde's face dropped into exaggerated offense. "Desperate? I asked for it?"
He shook his head, grinning wide.
"Man, can you at least try to give me some dignity?"
...
...
After lifting the Dutch Cup in a pulsating final at De Kuip in Rotterdam, Ajax officially closed the curtain on another remarkable season—adding the KNVB Cup to their Eredivisie title and completing a domestic double.
The scenes of celebration painted a picture of dominance, but for anyone paying close attention to what unfolded on the pitch after the final whistle, it was clear: the moment was more than a trophy celebration. It was a farewell.
In the past three seasons, Ajax had delivered a treble and two doubles. This season, they had also reached the semi-finals of the UEFA Champions League. Under Ronald Koeman, the club had firmly re-established itself not only as the standard-bearer of Dutch football but also as a respected force in Europe.
And yet, as the players walked off the pitch, the spotlight was already shifting.
It wasn't the silverware that was dominating the front pages the next morning. It was the farewell of a star.
Across newspapers in the Netherlands and beyond, the headlines were unanimous: Yang Yang has played his final match for Ajax.
The Telegraaf ran a detailed editorial, suggesting the player had all but confirmed his exit through his actions on the pitch. While Ajax officials refrained from issuing a final statement, their tone spoke volumes.
Director Arie van Eijden, long known for his measured words, admitted in an interview that although Yang Yang's departure wasn't yet formalized, the club had been bracing for it.
"There's no question," Van Eijden acknowledged, "Yang Yang has been our most decisive player in the last two seasons. His performances have exceeded all expectations, leading us to success after success, and leaving a mark on every competition he's played in."
"But Ajax has never been a one-man team. In our hundred-year history, we have developed legends—Cruyff, Van Basten, Rijkaard, Bergkamp. Yang Yang is a continuation of that tradition. And after him, we will develop the next."
Still, planning for next season remained uncertain. With Yang Yang's €40 million release clause available to any club willing to pay, it was no longer a question of whether—but where.
Speculation had once pointed firmly toward Serie A. Many had assumed he would reunite with former Ajax teammates Zlatan Ibrahimović and Hatem Trabelsi at Juventus, rekindling the trio that had powered the club's 2003–04 treble. Their chemistry had been remarkable, and Juventus had the financial and footballing pull.
But now, the unfolding Calciopoli scandal—the explosive "Phonegate"—had changed everything. With Juventus at the center of referee manipulation allegations, the allure of Italy was fading fast. For a player of Yang Yang's integrity and ambition, such a destination suddenly seemed poisoned.
The Bundesliga, meanwhile, had always been unlikely. Reporters close to Yang Yang's camp confirmed that neither he nor his representatives viewed Germany as the right environment for his growth at this stage.
That left only two realistic destinations: La Liga and the Premier League.
Dutch national team coach Marco van Basten spoke publicly, stating that Yang Yang's technical style would thrive in either Spain or England. Both leagues, in his view, would test the winger's creativity and sharpen his football intelligence.
Among the Spanish giants, only two clubs could realistically match Ajax's asking price: Real Madrid and FC Barcelona.
At the Santiago Bernabéu, presidential elections loomed. Candidate Fernando Martín had declared that if elected, he would make Yang Yang and Robinho the foundations of a new Real Madrid dynasty. For many socios disillusioned by the Galáctico decline, it was an appealing vision.
His opponent, Ramón Calderón, struck a different tone. Calderón argued that Fernando Martín was merely continuing Florentino Pérez's flawed policy. He promised reforms and declared his priority target would be Manchester United's Cristiano Ronaldo, whom he considered the perfect heir to the club's attacking legacy.
Calderón's words had an immediate ripple effect.
If Real Madrid were divided in vision, the Premier League was unified in ambition.
At Old Trafford, Sir Alex Ferguson made clear that United would not sell Ronaldo—but that they also intended to pursue Yang Yang aggressively. Ferguson believed in building for the future, and in his mind, Yang was a generational talent. A potential Ballon d'Or winner.
"Players like him," Ferguson told British press, "they come along once in a decade. He fits what United stands for."
Transfer fee? Not an obstacle. "The price is what the market demands," he said. "You pay it. Simple."
Chelsea, too, weren't hiding their intentions. José Mourinho had been tracking Yang Yang for over a year. This summer, the Portuguese manager knew time was running out. If the winger joined another superpower, Chelsea's chances would disappear permanently.
Especially if he joined Real Madrid—Mourinho's greatest fear.
Even Arsenal and Liverpool had entered the fray.
At Highbury, with Thierry Henry edging toward the exit door, Arsène Wenger had identified Yang Yang as the perfect replacement. But with Henry's contractual situation likely to bring a lower-than-expected fee, Arsenal would have to dig deeper to compete financially.
Wenger urged the board to act swiftly and decisively.
Liverpool's situation was similar. Rafa Benítez had long admired Yang's intelligence and tactical versatility. But again, the obstacle was money.
However, that equation might be shifting.
After Adidas acquired Reebok earlier that year, the company transferred Reebok's Liverpool sponsorship to its own portfolio. Starting in the 2006–07 season, Adidas would officially sponsor the Reds—at £10 million annually.
British media reported that Adidas intended to push hard for either Liverpool or Chelsea—both Adidas teams—to win the Yang Yang transfer battle.
For the German sportswear giant, losing Yang Yang to a Nike-sponsored club like Real Madrid or Manchester United was a major risk.
As always, behind the glamour of football lay layers of corporate maneuvering, marketing wars, and broadcast deals.
To the average fan, this was just a transfer saga.
But Yang Yang knew better.
He was caught at the center of a storm.
A storm that had only just begun.
And though he couldn't yet make out the path ahead, one thing was already perfectly clear to him.
He don't want to go to Serie A!
...
...
"I don't want to go to Serie A!"
It was midday, the day after the Dutch Cup final. Yang Yang was preparing to fly back to Beijing when Mino Raiola arrived in Amsterdam from Italy, bringing with him the latest updates on the Calciopoli scandal.
Moggi had fallen—and Juventus with him.
What had initially been dismissed as whispers of controversy had now exploded into a full-blown catastrophe. The scandal—already dubbed Calciopoli by Italian and global media—had begun to engulf not just Juventus, but also AC Milan, Lazio, Fiorentina, and others. The full extent of the damage was still unclear, but the storm was no longer just brewing. It had made landfall.
"This situation won't be resolved in a few weeks," Yang Yang said seriously, sitting across from Raiola in his Amsterdam flat. "It could last months. Maybe even years. I can't afford to walk into that kind of chaos—not now."
Raiola nodded firmly. "I completely agree. The atmosphere in Serie A is unstable. Players are panicking, club officials are tightening their circles, and fans are on edge. Everyone wants out. This is not the time to walk in."
Serie A may still have been the strongest league on paper, but La Liga's momentum had been steadily growing in recent years, and the Premier League's global appeal was expanding at a staggering pace. For a player like Yang Yang—only 19 but already one of Europe's elite—taking a risk on an imploding league was not only unwise, it was unnecessary.
"Ibrahimović is already panicking," Raiola added. "He has a long-term contract with Juventus. He's stuck for now."
Yang Yang looked at him, concerned. "What happens if Juve are found guilty? What are you hearing?"
Raiola exhaled deeply. "It's bad. Very bad. From what I'm hearing, the Italian government wants to make an example. Relegation is on the table."
"Relegation?" Yang Yang repeated, stunned.
It was worse than he thought.
For Juventus as an institution, Serie B might be a temporary setback—two or three years of rebuilding before bouncing back. But for its players, particularly those in their prime, it was a career nightmare. Zlatan had just entered his peak. Playing second division football would be a death sentence for his development.
"The information is chaotic," Raiola continued. "Too many conflicting stories, too many people spinning it their way. All I can do is wait for the dust to settle. But if Juve are relegated, I'll do everything I can to get Zlatan out."
Yang Yang nodded slowly. He understood what that meant—for Zlatan, for others, and for himself.
"By the way," Raiola said, shifting gears, "Nike and Adidas have both reached out again. They're pushing hard. Nike wants to extend your current deal. Adidas wants to poach you."
"Let's stall them," Yang Yang replied.
"That's the plan. Officially, I've told them I'm too busy dealing with the fallout in Italy. That I need time to monitor the situation. In truth, I want to delay until after the World Cup."
Yang Yang gave him a look. Raiola smiled knowingly.
"You don't need to say anything. I know. Look, Nike has seen what you're doing for them in the Chinese market—they've made a fortune from it. Adidas wants in. China's in the World Cup again. This is their shot to turn you into their icon. If you play well—even decently—they'll shower you in sponsorship money. If you don't? They'll still offer a good deal."
Yang Yang trusted him. He knew Raiola's reputation—ruthless, cunning, but undeniably effective.
"Anyway," Raiola went on, "you've already got a stable of deals. You're not hurting for money. Focus on the football."
Yang Yang stood and stretched. "I plan to head back home and start preparing for the World Cup. That's all that matters now."
Raiola nodded. "I'll handle the rest. Just say the word."
Serie A was collapsing. The Bundesliga, while solid, didn't match Yang Yang's ambitions or visibility. That left two real options: La Liga and the Premier League. But in Spain, things were complicated. Real Madrid was in the middle of a bitter presidential race, and Yang Yang had no interest in getting caught in political crossfire.
Neither of the two leading candidates, Fernando Martín or Ramón Calderón, inspired his confidence the way Florentino Pérez had. Their promises rang hollow—talks of revolutions and new galácticos, but none of the vision.
Yang Yang didn't want promises.
He wanted stability. Ambition. A clear path forward.
So for now, his eyes were on the Premier League.
As for which club—Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal, Liverpool—only time would tell.
The European transfer market moved fast. Alliances shifted. Fortunes turned overnight.
For now, Yang Yang would return to China.
The World Cup was calling.