"Chicharito!!!"
Zhang Jun shouted passionately from the commentary booth.
"The 13th minute of the second half—Chicharito Hernandez scores! And the assist comes from none other than Juninho D'Alessandro!"
"What a gorgeous pass! This goal owes eighty percent of its brilliance to Sandro!!"
"A surgical through-ball—hidden, sharp, and impossible to predict. Who would've thought he'd deliver such a pass?"
"Paoding Jieniu! Paoding Jieniu! Manchester United's attack was a work of art, and Sandro was the conductor. He passed, moved, read the play, shifted the rhythm—and finally threaded a killer pass that split Ajax's defense wide open!"
"Absolutely brilliant!!!"
"A world-class pass!!!"
Suddenly, commentators from around the world were singing praises.
Chicharito's finish was clean—but it was Sandro's orchestration that made it all possible.
"That goal was simply beautiful. Honestly, against such an attacking sequence, conceding was inevitable," the Dutch national broadcaster admitted.
"In fact, I feel like standing up and applauding that play. Juninho D'Alessandro... he's going to be all over the headlines tomorrow."
If the camera had swung toward the commentary booth at that moment, it would've shown someone instantly recognizable to any Dutch football fan—
Marco van Basten.
And just seconds later, the TV feed cut to the VIP box.
There stood another Dutch icon.
Johan Cruyff.
Applauding.
"Even Johan Cruyff is on his feet!" Zhang Jun gasped in disbelief.
...
Hernandez knew exactly who to thank.
Rather than racing to the corner flag, he wheeled around and ran straight to Sandro, pointing at him, urging him to join in on the celebration.
"That was incredible!!"
Chicharito charged toward Sandro and looked ready to lift him off the ground—until he realized the size difference and thought better of it.
The rest of the team swarmed around them, celebrating wildly.
On the sidelines, Sir Alex Ferguson was on his feet, fists in the air.
Turning to his assistant Mike Phelan, he grinned. "Did you see that? Did you see it?! This lad's not just a defensive midfielder!"
Phelan didn't reply. He was too caught up in admiration.
That entire move—almost like clockwork—was Sandro's creation.
An intellectual victory.
It was like he had Ajax's defensive blueprint burned into his brain. Every movement, every run, every option… he read them all before they happened.
A natural midfield general.
And not just one who defends—one who can dictate everything.
"We've got ourselves a gem," Ferguson said, eyes gleaming.
He looked at Sandro—calm as ever.
"Can you believe this is his first professional appearance?"
"Mentally unshakable."
"That's why I gambled on him."
A player's floor might be defined by technical ability.
But a player's ceiling?
Ferguson believed it was defined by mental toughness.
Those who could stay cool under pressure—those were the ones who rose to the top.
"There's no ceiling for him," Ferguson said firmly.
Phelan gave a slight nod. He didn't disagree.
Anyone watching could see it.
...
"One goal, one assist! What more do you want?!"
"Who's still doubting this kid?!"
"Defensive midfielder, my foot! Do domestic scouts even have eyes? This guy's Iniesta with defensive steel!"
"Legend in the making!"
Online, fans in Sandro's home country were going wild.
Even if some weren't tactically astute, they could still recognize brilliance.
After all, Sandro had both scored and assisted in a single match.
With Manchester United now leading 2–0, his debut stat line looked absolutely elite.
Clips of his goal and assist were everywhere.
The fans? In celebration mode.
But not everyone was cheering.
Ma Xin and Guo Chao, both tuning in with crossed fingers hoping for Sandro to flop, felt like the ground had dropped from under them.
They'd come hoping for a quiet debut, something they could twist into a negative story, muddying the waters for him.
After all, they knew how to spin things to the average fan.
But now?
What could they even write?
Even the most clueless viewer could recognize the brilliance in Sandro's performance.
"How the hell is this kid this good?" Ma Xin muttered, hands trembling.
Sandro had single-handedly made him look like a fool online—a complete clown.
He wasn't just a failed critic now.
He was a walking meme.
The term "professional football reporter" was now his curse, a punchline used to mock him.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
No player from their country had ever done this before—never made such a leap.
Never shown such world-class quality so fast.
Ma Xin sat frozen, his limbs cold.
He knew.
His days of wielding influence in football media…
Were over.
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