"Glory, Glory, Man United!" "Glory, Glory, Man United!" "As the Reds go marching on, on, on!"
A sea of red flags transformed Old Trafford into a moving, living entity.
The soaring anthem stirred the heart, and Ling, sitting on the substitutes' bench for the first time, was no exception.
He sat back, the leather of the seat cool against his warm-up gear, and just tried to breathe.
This was it.
The Theatre of Dreams.
For a player, there was nothing more wonderful than this.
He slightly clenched his fist, setting a small goal for himself: Break the duck. Score one goal in the top five leagues.
As the players took their positions, the starting lineups flashed on the giant screen.
Mourinho, as expected, had deployed his trusted 4-2-3-1.
Striker: Lukaku
Attacking Mid: Mata, Mkhitaryan, Rashford
Defensive Mid: Matic, Pogba
Defense: Valencia, Bailly, Jones, Blind
Goal Keeper : De Gea
West Ham, meanwhile, featured a few familiar names—Javier "Chicharito" Hernández, Zabaleta, and Joe Hart—but their main weapon was their style: high-intensity, physical, and tough.
They were the "Hammers," and they loved "robbing the rich."
The outcome was anything but certain.
...
In the LeSports Broadcast Room (Back in China)
"Good evening, dear viewers!" Zhan Jun's passionate voice filled the stream.
"Welcome to the 2017-18 Premier League season! Manchester United versus West Ham United!"
"And, of course, the news all of China is watching: young Ling, promoted just days ago, has made the official 18-man squad!"
"It's truly heartening," his partner, Zhang Lu, added. "Coach Zhang, do you think he has a chance to play?"
"Hehe," Zhang Lu chuckled, his voice calm and analytical. "I think there's a chance. Mourinho tends to make substitutions around the 75th minute, if United has a significant lead..."
"And this is the 'Mourinho Second-Year,' Coach Zhang!" Zhan Jun interjected, his excitement rising.
"Porto, Chelsea, Inter Milan, Real Madrid—he won the league in his second season at all of them. The 'Mourinho Second-Year Law'! After winning three trophies last season, let's hope he can maintain that momentum!"
"Alright, the match has started!"
...
On the Pitch
United played patiently, controlling possession, trying to draw West Ham out.
The Hammers' press was aggressive, but Mourinho's 4-2-3-1 was built to handle it, with the defensive midfielders dropping deep to create passing triangles.
The game quickly settled into a tense, tactical stalemate.
On the sidelines, Mourinho stood in his classic light-gray trench coat, arms crossed, his expression grave.
This was the settling-in phase.
The real match would begin around the 30-minute mark.
Ling, meanwhile, was in heaven.
He sat on the bench, just two seats down from Ibrahimovic.
Ling watched the game; Ibra narrated it.
"Look at Lukaku," Ibra muttered, loud enough for Ling to hear. "Such a fool. Why isn't he making the run to the left? That space is wide open."
A few minutes later, as Rashford was dispossessed.
"No. His timing is off. He's exploding too early. Don't you follow his example, kid. You wait. You wait for the pass, then you explode."
Ling soaked it all in, replaying the scenarios in his mind.
He wasn't just watching; he was simulating, placing himself in the action, internalizing the advice.
'Is this the template?' he wondered. 'Is it enhancing my football IQ, too?'
As they spoke, the match reached the 33rd minute.
West Ham's Obiang received a pass in midfield.
Matic, a shadow, closed him down instantly.
Under pressure, Obiang panicked and made a sloppy pass—directly into the path of a surging Marcus Rashford.
The counter was on.
Rashford drove forward, drawing two defenders.
He spotted the gap and slid a precise through-pass into the penalty area.
"Lukaku!" Zhan Jun screamed from the commentary booth.
The big Belgian had made an intelligent diagonal run, timing it perfectly to beat the offside trap.
One-on-one with a flustered Joe Hart, he opened his body and calmly slotted the ball into the far left corner.
It brushed the inside of the post and nestled into the net.
1-0, Manchester United!
Lukaku celebrated with his peculiar, stiff-backed salute.
Old Trafford erupted into a deafening storm of cheers.
After the match resumed, United's posture changed.
They dropped deeper, compressing the space, cutting off the midfield.
The intent was clear: We're set up for the counter. Now, what are you going to do about it?
West Ham had no choice but to push forward, but under United's tight, suffocating defense, they couldn't create a thing.
As the fans were still craving more, the referee blew the whistle for halftime.
...
During the break, Mourinho was brief.
They had control.
No need for excessive adjustments or over-complication.
He simply reiterated the tactical plan, demanding they maintain their discipline.
In the second half, the game's physicality intensified.
Bailly and Zabaleta both found their way into the referee's book with yellow cards.
Then, in the 53rd minute, the breakthrough.
Matic slid a pass to Mkhitaryan, who broke through the center and cleverly chipped the ball into the penalty area.
Lukaku, in scorching-hot form, met it on the volley and buried it.
2:0!
Old Trafford became a mix of extremes—ecstasy for the Red Devils, despair for the visiting Hammers.
With a two-goal lead, Mourinho did what Mourinho does.
He looked to shut the game down, prioritizing the three points over attractive football.
For the next twenty minutes, the game became a tactical grind, with neither team creating a significant chance.
In the LeSports broadcast room, Zhan Jun sighed.
"It seems our young talent, Ling, might not get to play today," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.
"But there's still time. I believe..."
He trailed off, his eyes fixed on the timer in the corner of the screen. 74:12.
"Hmm?"
Suddenly, he sat bolt upright.
He had spotted movement on the edge of the screen.
Mourinho was off the bench.
"Mourinho is up!" Zhan Jun's voice tensed. "He's looking at the bench."
On the sideline, Mourinho scanned his players.
Rashford's stamina was visibly gone. He could no longer execute the high-intensity press.
Mourinho needed a left midfielder.
The logical choice was Anthony Martial.
But as his eyes passed over Martial, they met Ling's.
The kid was on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, his eyes unwavering and fixed on the pitch, practically vibrating with anticipation.
Mourinho's resolve solidified.
"Fellaini. Ling," he said firmly. "Both of you. Go warm up. Now."
"Yes, Coach!"
Ling's hands clenched so hard his nails dug into his palms.
This was it.
The chance he had dreamed of.
He stood up and headed to the warm-up area, his focus absolute.
Next to him, Anthony Martial hung his head, his expression darkening.
'Him?'
'He's bringing the kid? Over me?'
Martial's jaw tightened.
With the Russia World Cup just a year away, he needed minutes.
'This hypocrite,' he fumed internally, 'he already took my #9 jersey for Zlatan, and now he's keeping me out of the lineup for no reason.'
He secretly raised his head and glared resentfully at Mourinho's back.
...
"Manchester United is about to make a substitution..." Zhan Jun said, his voice tight with nerves.
He was hoping, praying, that nothing would change on the pitch. In football, it was common for a player to warm up, only for a sudden goal to change the manager's mind.
"Here it is! West Ham throw-in. The fourth official has raised the LED board..."
Zhan Jun leaned into his microphone.
"Number 27, Marouane Fellaini, replaces number 8, Juan Mata. And... YES! Number 23... LING! JEREMY LING REPLACES NUMBER 19, RASHFORD!"
His professional calm shattered, and he hit the table.
"HE'S ON! HIS PREMIER LEAGUE DEBUT! AFTER NINE LONG YEARS, A CHINESE PLAYER IS STEPPING ONTO THE PREMIER LEAGUE PITCH AGAIN!"
He took a shaky breath, excitedly flipping open his notes.
"At this critical moment, Mourinho did not choose Martial! This shows the coaching staff's faith in Ling! We hope he can perform at his usual level!"
...
Back in Bin City, Yan Lanxia excitedly slapped her husband on the back.
"Chang! Did you see?! Did you see?! My son is the best!"
"Ouch!" Changzheng winced. "It's only the beginning! Why are you so excited? He hasn't even touched the ball!"
Yan Lanxia snorted, ignoring him.
'Hmph. Just an old man being stubborn.'
At that moment, countless people across China flooded the live chat.
[LING! GO FOR IT!!!]
[WE'VE WAITED FAR TOO LONG FOR THIS MOMENT!]
[Ten years ago, the total goals from Chinese players in the Prem was 4 and now It's still 4. We hope Ling can create new history!]
[Scoring on his debut? Calm down. Let's start with an assist!]
[It's a token appearance at 2-0. Don't get worked up.]
[I DON'T CARE! HE'S ON!]
[LOVE YOU, MOURINHO!]
[All this talk is pointless. If he's so good, he will score.]
...
On the Sidelines
Mourinho put his arm around Ling's shoulder, pulling him in close.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and intense. "Help Blind with the defensive duties on the flank. In attack, you stay wide. Stay on the chalk. West Ham's right-back, Zabaleta, already has a yellow card."
He locked eyes with Ling.
"Do not hesitate. Take him on."
Ling took a deep breath and nodded firmly.
He understood.
He knew exactly how much pressure Mourinho had taken on by making this call.
If he failed, they would both be crucified by the media.
He couldn't, and he wouldn't, betray that trust.
He felt the fourth official's hand on his back.
He looked at Rashford, who was jogging off, and gave him a high-five.
Feeling the weight of millions on his shoulders, Ling lifted his head.
He gazed at the fiery red sea of Old Trafford, listened to the deafening roar, and jogged onto the pitch.
He had finally taken the first step.