"What about Zlatan?"
That was the first thing Yang Yang asked the moment he saw Mino Raiola again. His concern went straight to his friend Ibrahimović.
The reason was clear: the Calciopoli scandal had struck Juventus like a tsunami, and Zlatan was at the heart of the chaos.
Raiola sighed, shaking his head. "It's a mess over there. Juventus is scrambling to manage the fallout—media, lawyers, damage control—but honestly? The chances of relegation are increasing by the day."
Yang Yang frowned. The reports in the press were just the tip of the iceberg—whatever the media revealed was the product of internal power struggles and carefully orchestrated public relations. The real chaos behind the scenes was far murkier.
Just like how Moggi had clearly gotten wind of the storm before it broke and vanished ahead of the investigation.
But Yang Yang wasn't interested in the politics. He just cared about his friend.
Raiola, ever the businessman, quickly pivoted. "You don't need to worry about pressure at this World Cup. You've had a phenomenal season. If your form dips a bit here, it's normal. Every top player hits a plateau after a breakout year. As for transfers and sponsor negotiations—I'll handle it."
The Italian had flown to Germany not only to console Ibrahimović, but more importantly, to manage Yang Yang's off-field affairs: transfer talks and sponsorships.
"I've already floated our asking price to both Nike and Adidas," Raiola announced, an unmistakable twinkle in his eye.
Yang Yang narrowed his eyes. "How much?"
"Fifteen million euros."
Yang Yang blinked, stunned. "Fifteen million? Are you serious?"
"One thousand percent," Raiola replied coolly.
Yang Yang exhaled and shook his head, chuckling. "They must've thrown chairs at you."
"They stormed out. Slammed the table and walked," Raiola said without shame. "I expected nothing less."
Yang Yang couldn't help but laugh. "You do know even Beckham hasn't pulled that kind of number?"
"Their last contract with you was three million. I know a fivefold jump seems insane, but you really don't understand your market value yet."
Raiola leaned forward, suddenly dead serious. "Let me give you a quick lesson in global economics. The Chinese market is exploding. You remember the deal with Porsche Cayenne, right?"
Yang Yang nodded. That endorsement had been massive.
"Well," Raiola continued, "Nike has seen their revenue in China grow by more than 50% year-on-year ever since you signed. This year alone, they're projecting $800 million from China, and half of that is attributed directly to your influence. By 2008—the Beijing Olympics—they expect to hit $2 billion. In 2010? Over $3 billion."
He paused to let that sink in.
"Adidas is panicking. They have more stores than Nike but significantly less revenue in China. That's why they're desperate to steal you away. You are their ticket to reclaiming the market."
Yang Yang understood. He had majored in business administration after all. And hearing Raiola frame it this way made the €15 million demand seem... strategic rather than greedy.
His father Yang Yongqiang and Wei Zheng had told him something similar. Despite Nike and Adidas dominating the local market, Chinese domestic brands—aside from Li Ning—were virtually absent from the top tier. Their family's small business had only managed to carve out a niche on the margins with running shoes.
Yang Yang had once considered building his own brand. But Wei Zheng had quickly advised against it, famously saying, "You're no Miao Xiaorong Buddha statue—don't try to sit in a temple that isn't built yet."
Yang Yang had taken the advice to heart and shelved the idea. Timing and scale mattered.
"Both brands are ruthless negotiators," Raiola went on. "Asking for €15 million forces them to blink. I'm not saying we'll get that number, but it sets a new ceiling. Whoever moves first will take a hit, but they'll also secure the most valuable athlete in Asia—and one of the hottest stars in Europe."
Yang Yang stared at Raiola's satisfied smirk. Every time the man smiled like that, one word popped into his mind: health quotient. A strange combination of danger and cunning genius.
They soon turned to the matter of Yang Yang's next club.
Serie A? Off the table. The phone scandal had poisoned the league.
The Bundesliga? Not appealing enough for a player at Yang Yang's level.
La Liga? Unlikely—Real Madrid's presidential war had made the situation toxic. Barcelona was overloaded in attack.
That left only one real destination: the Premier League.
And among its top four—Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal, and Liverpool—Yang Yang found each an exciting prospect. Each club had its own appeal, style, and ambition.
No matter which door opened, he was confident he could walk through it and become a starter.
What mattered most wasn't salary. Raiola would handle that. What Yang Yang demanded was clarity in tactical role.
He needed to join a team where he could express his strengths—where the system would not shackle him, but showcase him.
...
...
After his meeting with Raiola, Yang Yang quickly shifted his focus back to the national team. The World Cup was just days away, and China's opening match would be a daunting one—against Mexico.
The Central American side had impressed many during the previous year's FIFA Confederations Cup. Their compact, technical style of play—quick feet, crisp passing, and intelligent movement—had left a lasting impression. In particular, their midfield organization had stood out, built around one unlikely figure.
At the tactical meeting on the eve of the game, Arie Haan's attention was firmly fixed on a specific threat.
"If nothing changes," the Dutchman said grimly, tapping on a tactical board, "Zinha will be starting tomorrow."
Zinha—born Antônio Naelson—was the creative heartbeat of Mexico's midfield. A Brazilian-born playmaker, just 1.60 meters tall, his size belied his influence. Slippery, agile, and constantly drifting into the right half-space, he was capable of controlling the rhythm of an entire game.
"He's their metronome," Haan warned. "He floats in the right channel, often between the lines, drawing defenders out. That area will be critical."
He turned to Zhao Junzhe and Cao Yang.
"You two will be responsible for collapsing on that space whenever he's on the ball. Stay compact, don't chase blindly, and always communicate. One steps, the other covers."
Both nodded. They knew the assignment would demand total concentration for 90 minutes.
"Now, their main threat in the box is Borgetti," Haan continued. "Not the tallest striker—only 1.83 meters—but he times his jumps better than anyone. In qualifying, he scored 14 goals, and even if he underwhelmed last season at Bolton, don't be fooled."
The room fell silent. Yang Yang sat near the back, quietly taking everything in.
"They're not your typical CONCACAF side," Haan said. "Technically sound, very tidy in possession. Their midfield patterns are sharp, and they rely on short, intricate combinations. They don't rely on long balls or crosses unless they're looking for Borgetti."
The veteran coach let the weight of the message settle.
"They're miles ahead of Costa Rica—the team we lost to in 2002. This is a different level entirely."
He paused, then added with a faint smile, "Of course, this time, we have something different too."
Eyes in the room turned to Yang Yang.
This was the first World Cup for China since that dismal debut in 2002, where the team had failed to score a single goal. Four years later, the squad was younger, rawer, but infused with a spark that hadn't existed before.
That spark wore the number 11 shirt and had just shattered goal-scoring records across Europe.
Yang Yang.
No one in the room said it, but everyone felt it: if China were to do anything extraordinary in Germany, it would be because of him.
Arie Haan didn't try to sugarcoat the situation.
"Tomorrow, we will almost certainly be outmatched in possession. They will dominate the ball. We'll be reactive, not proactive. So our job is simple—defend, defend, and defend again!"
He emphasized the word three times, his tone growing sharper with each repetition.
"This isn't about flair. This is about structure, organization, and discipline. We stay compact. We defend as a unit. If we do that, I promise you—we'll get one chance. Maybe two. And if we do…"
His eyes scanned the room before locking onto Yang Yang.
"…we'll have someone who can take it."
...
...
Despite being well aware of the looming disparity in strength, and having prepared mentally for what was expected to be a defensive siege, the Chinese national team managed to hold their structure remarkably well throughout the early stages of the match.
Mexico dominated possession—hovering near 60%—but China remained compact, resilient, and disciplined in their shape. The back four held their lines, midfielders tracked runs, and even Yang Yang was often seen dropping into his own half to apply pressure. For thirty minutes, it was an exhausting, thankless task, but it looked like it might pay off.
Then came the 37th minute.
Zinha, the diminutive playmaker who had been Arie Haan's primary concern during tactical preparation, finally found a crack. Positioned wide on the right, he shifted onto his left foot just as Zhao Junzhe closed in—too late. A perfectly weighted diagonal pass cut between Zhao and Cao Yang. Right midfielder Mario Méndez made a blistering overlap, surged into the box and met the pass first-time with his instep, rifling a low shot past Li Leilei at the near post.
1–0, Mexico.
The goal cut deep.
For over half an hour, China had absorbed wave after wave, sacrificing attacking ambition for the sake of defensive shape. And just when it seemed the halftime whistle might offer some reprieve, the breakthrough came—a clean, clinical strike that unraveled all their previous effort.
Worse still, just three minutes later, they nearly collapsed altogether.
In the 40th minute, under pressure, goalkeeper Li Leilei attempted a long clearance but mis-hit it. The ball failed to escape the central third and was immediately contested in the air. Mexico won the second ball, heading it back toward the Chinese penalty area. A panicked clearance attempt ricocheted off a red shirt and fell to Zinha once more, now lurking on the edge of the box.
He shaped to shoot. The Chinese backline was disoriented.
But before the ball could leave Zinha's foot, Yang Yang—who had tracked back all the way from the forward line—came sliding across at full stretch. He took the strike directly to his thigh, smothered the danger, and scrambled to his feet in one fluid motion. Without hesitation, he swept the ball out of play for a Mexican throw-in.
That single defensive act drew applause even from neutral fans. It spared China from a second gut-punch before halftime.
The whistle soon followed. In the dressing room, the players regrouped. The second half began with the same Mexican control, but China now appeared less frantic. Arie Haan's adjustments had tightened the central channels, and the midfield compacted slightly better.
Still, China couldn't string passes together in possession. Yang Yang, effectively isolated up front, was forced to drop deep again and again—often initiating attacks and trying to finish them himself.
Then, in the 56th minute, a rare moment of opportunity emerged.
Zheng Zhi intercepted a lateral pass in midfield and immediately sprang forward, threading a ball into space.
Yang Yang—already anticipating—exploded into the channel. A Mexican defender closed in, but Yang delayed his move with a subtle feint to the right, shifting his weight as if preparing to cut outside. At the last second, he pulled the ball through the defender's legs with a nutmeg and burst free down the left flank.
Now he was in stride. Now there was space.
"A quick counterattack by the Chinese team!"
Yang Yang broke into full sprint, surging down the center channel with the ball glued to his feet. As two Mexican defenders converged, he shifted his weight with a sharp feint, then executed a lightning-quick double step-over, slicing through the gap like a scalpel.
"Beautiful footwork from Yang Yang!"
Without breaking stride, he slipped the ball between an incoming defender's legs—a second nutmeg in the same move—and cut diagonally toward the right.
It was a move honed on the training pitches of Alkmaar under Van Gaal, where precision, timing, and positional awareness had been drilled into him relentlessly. And it showed now, as he pulled the Mexican line apart like thread.
Gao Lin, recognizing the moment, peeled toward the right flank to draw away a marker, instinctively trusting Yang Yang to find him. The pass arrived with perfect weight—just a touch ahead, inviting Gao Lin into space. He shielded the ball with his back to goal, then quickly laid it off with a smart turn.
Chen Tao, reading the play, burst down the wing like a piston.
"The Chinese team are in full flight now! Chen Tao driving toward the byline…"
With the crowd rising in anticipation, Chen Tao took a touch and looked up. He scanned the field. Yang Yang was arriving late into the penalty area—but Mexico's recovery was sharp. Their backline had collapsed with pace, sealing off the central lanes and cutting off a low ball option.
Chen Tao hesitated. He knew Yang Yang wasn't renowned for headers. Was it worth the risk?
Just then, he caught a glimpse of Yang Yang, making a subtle but unmistakable gesture—two fingers tapped above his temple. The signal was clear.
Play it high.
Without a second's delay, Chen Tao shaped his body and lifted a curling cross toward the far post, arching it just over the Mexican center-back's leap. The ball spun through the air, descending quickly as it bent toward the blind side of the defense.
Yang Yang had already anticipated it.
Timed to perfection, he arrived in the box with a sudden change of pace, locating the drop zone with an instinct only the top forwards possess. There were no defenders left in his path. Only the goalkeeper.
He noticed the keeper's weight had already shifted left, reacting prematurely to Chen Tao's delivery.
In that split second, Yang Yang made up his mind.
Rather than leaping early or throwing his body forward, he braced himself, planted both feet, and allowed the ball to descend. As it dropped across his line of vision, he leaned slightly backward, keeping his core tight. Then, with an explosive contraction of his torso and neck, he snapped his head through the ball—redirecting it back across goal, aiming low toward the keeper's right.
This wasn't just a reflex. This was the star skill [Klinsmann's Header], he had trained relentlessly in the Dream Training System—hundreds of repetitions from every angle, every velocity.
The connection was clean. The direction—precise.
The power from his core surged into his forehead like a loaded spring, and the moment he struck it, his balance gave way. Yang Yang stumbled sideways, catching himself with one hand against the turf. But he didn't need to stay upright.
He only needed to watch.
His head turned. His eyes lifted. And there it was:
The ball arced low and fast, skipping just beyond the outstretched arm of the Mexican keeper, nestling into the bottom-right corner.
A goal. Against all odds.
1–1!
...
"GOAL!!!"
"Gooooooooooooal for China!"
"In the 56th minute here in Nuremberg, the Chinese national team has done it — they've finally scored their first-ever goal at a FIFA World Cup!"
"And of course, it's Yang Yang!"
The 19-year-old forward sprang up from the turf, his face lit with exhilaration. Sprinting to the touchline with arms wide open, he soaked in the roar of thousands of Chinese supporters in the stands — fists pumping, flags waving, voices breaking with joy.
It was more than just a goal.
It was a moment of history.
After decades of frustration and painful silence on the biggest stage in football, China had finally found the net at a World Cup. And it was Yang Yang — the youngest star of this squad — who delivered the breakthrough.
The Chinese supporters who had traveled to Germany, many of whom were already on their feet for most of the second half, erupted into scenes of euphoria. Red banners rose across the Nuremberg stands, flares were lit, tears rolled down cheeks. They had waited so long. Too long.
"Yang Yang! Absolutely magnificent from the young man!"
"To everyone watching at home — remember this moment. China has scored at the World Cup!"
"It's taken decades, and now it's happened. Yang Yang may only be 19, but with that header, he's carried the hopes of a nation."
"That's right — if the records are correct, this is actually Yang Yang's first goal with his head in his professional career!"
"Let's take another look at how it all unfolded..."
The replay flickered onto the screen.
"It started with a ball recovery in midfield. Zheng Zhi pounced on a misplaced pass and immediately launched the counter."
"Yang Yang drove forward, showed exceptional control under pressure, then slipped it wide to Gao Lin. Gao, holding off his marker, quickly laid it off to Chen Tao, who surged down the right channel."
"Mexico were quick to recover, and Chen Tao had no space to send a ground cross into the box. But here's the brilliant part — Yang Yang gave him the signal. A simple hand gesture, pointing above his head. And Chen Tao delivered."
"A perfectly weighted cross, floated to the back post."
"And Yang Yang? Perfect timing. He peeled away from his marker, stayed onside, adjusted his run — and then the header: low, precise, to the far corner. The goalkeeper had moved left, anticipating a near-post finish, but Yang Yang went right. That moment of decision? That's what made the difference."
"1–1. Against the run of play? Maybe. But you can't say it wasn't earned."
All the Chinese players rushed toward Yang Yang in a wave of red shirts, arms raised, shouting in disbelief and joy. One by one, they gathered around him, wrapping him in a circle of pure elation.
China's first-ever goal at a World Cup.
It wasn't just a goal — it was a statement. A breakthrough. A line in the sand.
Yang Yang, crouched for a moment, his fists clenched and face flushed, stood at the center of it all. He'd done what no Chinese player before him had ever done — and he'd done it with a header, of all things.
"Honestly, I had a feeling you'd been working on your headers lately!" laughed Zheng Zhi, gripping Yang Yang by the shoulders, still breathless from the sprint.
Yang Yang grinned, sweat running down his temples. "I've been practicing. A lot," he replied, trying to catch his breath. "Still can't believe it worked."
His voice was almost lost in the noise. The players around him patted his back, ruffled his hair, even lifted him slightly off the ground in celebration.
For Yang Yang, this was a goal to remember — not just because it was historic, but because it proved something to himself, too. One of his weakest areas had just become the most unforgettable moment of his young career.
And for China, it was more than a goal.
It was the first page of a new chapter.
...
...
Although Yang Yang scored in the 56th minute to equalize at 1–1, the Chinese team ultimately fell short, as Mexico reasserted their quality in the 76th minute of the second half.
This time, it wasn't Zinha who made the difference, but a well-rehearsed set-piece.
Pavel Pardo delivered a precise free kick from the right. Franco Guillermo rose at the near post to flick the ball across the box. The Chinese back line failed to react quickly enough, leaving Omar Bravo unmarked at the far post. The Mexican striker controlled and finished cleanly with his right foot to restore the lead, 2–1.
That goal would prove decisive, with the scoreline remaining unchanged until the final whistle.
The Chinese team suffered a narrow and disappointing defeat.
Yang Yang was understandably frustrated by the result, but he also recognized that his teammates had given everything they had.
This was simply the reality of their current level. Against a technically superior Mexico, taking points was always going to be an uphill battle.
The final possession stats told the story: 63% to 37% in Mexico's favor. The disparity was clear.
Still, despite the loss, the Chinese team's resilience and defensive organization earned praise from both domestic and international media.
Yang Yang's individual performance, in particular, drew widespread acclaim.
Reuters described Yang Yang's goal as "more valuable than a win."
Back home, both the press and supporters acknowledged the collective effort. There was no criticism—only recognition of the fight shown, and the realism of their limitations.
As for Yang Yang, it was evident to anyone watching that he had carried the team forward. He was the engine behind nearly every Chinese chance. Dropping deep to link play, driving the ball into the final third, and ultimately scoring despite intense pressure—all while converting with a header, historically one of his weaker traits.
No one could ask more of him.
His goal, the first in the Chinese men's national team's World Cup history, broke a decades-long drought. Even the AFC and FIFA issued official statements to recognize the historical significance of the moment.
In a post-match interview with CCTV, Yang Yang kept his emotions in check but made one thing clear: he hoped this goal was only the beginning.
...
...
June 17, 15:00. Frankfurt.
Inside the Commerzbank-Arena, better known to the locals as the Waldstadion, the Chinese national team faced off against Portugal in the second round of Group D at the 2006 FIFA World Cup.
The match kicked off under humid summer skies, and from the very first whistle, Portugal wasted no time asserting their dominance. Within minutes, Luís Figo carved open the right wing, slicing through space before delivering a sharp low cross into the penalty area. Pauleta darted in front of goal, but under tight pressure from Feng Xiaoting and Li Weifeng, he miscontrolled the ball. The danger was only just averted.
That early scare prompted China to retreat into a more compact and disciplined defensive shape. They stopped pressing high, chose their moments more carefully, and focused on limiting space between the lines. But Portugal's intensity did not relent.
In the opening ten minutes, the Chinese team barely crossed the halfway line. Deco and Figo dictated the tempo, while Simao and Cristiano Ronaldo floated dangerously in the half-spaces. It looked like a siege.
But then came the twelfth minute—a brief reprieve and a spark.
Yang Yang picked up the ball near the center circle and began accelerating. Portugal's backline backed off initially, but as he cut to the inside, a challenge came in hard. Yang Yang was fouled just outside the final third, earning China a rare set-piece opportunity.
From the resulting delivery, Li Weifeng rose well at the penalty spot and made clean contact with his head, but his effort lacked direction and drifted over the bar.
Portugal answered immediately.
Barely a minute later, Figo switched wings and found space on the left. He whipped in another dangerous ball. Deco, arriving late at the edge of the box, killed the ball dead with his right foot and instantly struck it left-footed on the half-volley.
Li Leilei, reacting sharply, tipped the dipping shot over the bar with his fingertips.
And then, the unthinkable.
Minute 14.
China countered again—Sun Jihai carried the ball down the right flank after a quick interchange with Chen Tao. With remarkable energy, he drove to the edge of the box and spotted Gao Lin holding up play just inside the area.
Gao Lin, with his back to goal, laid it off calmly.
Chen Tao followed through, controlling the pass with one touch before threading it to Yang Yang at the top of the arc.
What happened next was pure brilliance.
Yang Yang received the ball with his left foot and immediately used a body feint to send Costinha the wrong way. He nudged the ball slightly to his left, his eyes still scanning the movement around him—and then, with perfect timing, he whipped his right heel back across the ball with astonishing precision.
The shot, disguised and unexpected, spun low past Ricardo, catching the Portuguese goalkeeper flat-footed.
Goal. 1–0 China.
"Yang Yang!"
"Goal! Goal for China!!!"
"Fourteenth minute! Unbelievable goal from Yang Yang!"
"The heel flick, right on the edge of the area! That's sensational!"
"That is China's second-ever goal in World Cup history, and once again, it's the 19-year-old who delivers!"
The stadium erupted—at least in the Chinese section. Yang Yang sprinted toward the touchline, sliding on both knees before the camera, and kissed the multicolored woven band around his left wrist with emotion burning in his eyes.
He knew what this meant—not just for the match, but for his country.
Wearing the national shirt, scoring on this stage… it was harder than anything he'd done with his club. But it also meant more.
In his heart, he believed that right now, somewhere across China, millions were rising to their feet for him.
And so, he gave them everything he had. He just didn't want to let them down.