Goodison Park was in an uproar.
Samuel Eto'o pumped his arms frantically as he ran, as if proving a point to the world. Although he was now thirty-three and could no longer tear through defenses with the raw ferocity of his youth, his vast reservoir of experience still allowed him to command the Premier League stage. Underneath his hoisted jersey, however, a slight layer of subcutaneous fat was visible—a mark of his advancing years.
As he jogged back, he spared a triumphant glance for Kevin De Bruyne. A year ago, both had been relegated to the Chelsea bench; a year later, both had moved on. But today, Eto'o was determined to be the one with the last laugh.
He flashed a brilliant white smile at Roberto Martínez and mouthed, "I am Eto'o."
Martínez had brought him on during what Eto'o considered "garbage time," a slight that had deeply rankled the man who still saw himself as a global superstar. On the touchline, Martínez's expression remained stony, but a shadow crossed his brow. In his footballing upbringing, the manager's authority was absolute—not even a former Champions League winner was exempt. He was already quietly plotting how to bring the veteran to heel.
Dieter Hecking frowned slightly on the opposite bench. He hadn't quite expected Eto'o to be the one to break the deadlock, though there was no denying the Cameroonian's clinical instinct. Still, he wasn't overly concerned. Usually, Martínez paired Lukaku with Eto'o for maximum offensive impact. Without Lukaku to stretch the defense, Hecking believed that as long as Wolfsburg remained vigilant, they wouldn't concede another.
On the pitch, De Bruyne ignored Eto'o's posturing. He returned to his position, deep in thought. He realized that by bringing on Barkley, Everton had effectively traded attacking speed for raw power. Could Wolfsburg exploit that trade-off by using their own pace? It seemed viable.
He caught David Qin's eye. "David, stick to the plan. Pin Barry down as much as you can."
"I know what to do. Leave it to me," David nodded. Honestly, as much as he respected Eto'o as a legend of the game, the veteran's arrogance was starting to grate on him. A fire was smoldering in his chest.
Gazing up at the 2-1 scoreline on the LED board, David massaged his thighs to ease the mounting fatigue. The intensity of the Europa League was a step above the Bundesliga, and against a Premier League side, the physical toll was immense. Had he not been young and remarkably disciplined in his training, he might have hit his limit long ago.
The match resumed.
"Speaking of Eto'o," James Zhan mused during a lull in play, "I'm reminded of the Cameroon national team's departure for Brazil during this past World Cup. They had another breakdown in bonus negotiations with the federation. Eto'o, the captain, refused to board the plane, delaying their departure by eighteen hours."
"Then there was the incident where Alex Song was sent off for elbowing Mandžukić. Rumors circulated that a Singaporean betting firm had predicted a Cameroon red card and a heavy defeat before the match even started. FIFA investigated seven players. Eto'o claimed a knee injury kept him out of that game, but as the captain and undisputed 'Big Brother' of the squad, can he truly distance himself from the fallout? He did, after all, once run his own betting website."
James Zhan filled the air with anecdotes as the clock crept toward the 84th minute. After taking the lead, Everton abandoned their pursuit of total possession, dropping into a deeper defensive block. This was Martínez's philosophy: constant strategic adjustment based on the shifting landscape of the match.
"David!" Ricardo Rodríguez called out from the flank. After bypassing McGeady, he whipped the ball inside.
David was immediately hounded by Seamus Coleman. He braced himself against the defender, using his sole to kill the ball's momentum, but Gareth Barry sensed the opening and lunged in. The two-man press was synchronized and suffocating.
Just as the Everton faithful began to cheer for the anticipated turnover, David pulled the ball back with his right foot, tracing a sharp "L" on the grass.
Coleman instinctively closed his legs to prevent a nutmeg. But as David completed the drag-back, his toe hooked the ball back in—and in the same heartbeat, he transitioned into a push-pass forward.
Clack! He bypassed the lunging Barry in one fluid motion. It looked like a magic trick. The fans were left in a daze; they hadn't expected football to be played with such artistry in the midst of a battle. To them, the teenager's dazzling footwork felt like he was painting a masterpiece of spirit and motion.
Before they could even gasp, Barry—now beaten—reached out and snagged a handful of David's jersey. A tactical foul. Barry knew that with him drawn out to the wing, a massive hole had opened in the half-space. If David got through, the consequences would be catastrophic. He was happy to pay the price of a yellow card to kill the attack.
"He plays like a magician!" one fan exclaimed. "The way he combines feints with the ball... his creativity is limitless." "Can we buy him next season?"
The Everton fans, having caught their breath, began to murmur. They saw something in the boy that felt fundamentally different from the "industrialized" football they were used to. It was a quality that fascinated them, making them want to see him continue—even if he was the enemy tonight.
Eto'o, hearing the murmurs of admiration, spared a disdainful glance at David, who was still on the turf. I was ten times the player he is at that age, he thought.
David took two quick breaths on the grass, watched the referee brandish the yellow card, and immediately scrambled up. With less than three minutes of regulation time left, he couldn't afford to waste a second.
"What a pity! If David had gotten through, Wolfsburg would have almost certainly found an equalizer," James Zhan lamented, his disappointment palpable. "But we can't dwell on what-ifs. Let's see this free-kick."
At Goodison Park, the distance to the goal was too great for a direct shot. Wolfsburg chose to maintain possession, searching for one final opening. As the match neared its conclusion, the traveling fans gripped their scarves tight. They didn't want their European odyssey to begin with a defeat.
"Mr. Martínez, look at that boy," the Everton assistant coach remarked in the technical area. "They're trailing, and he's losing his head—hanging onto the ball far too long."
"No, you're missing it," Martínez corrected, shaking his head. "He could have turned and played it back to the fullback, but that would have meant the end of the attack. He chose to take it on himself because he knows that a single-point breakthrough would collapse our entire flank."
There was one thing Martínez didn't say aloud: if David failed, the media would drown him in criticism, accusing him of being a "ball-hog." Martínez found himself admiring the young player more and more; David was young, but he had a heart of iron.
On the other side, Dieter Hecking seemed to have relaxed, no longer consumed by the scoreline. It wasn't that he didn't want to win, but compared to the result of a single match, the maturity and responsibility David Qin was showing mattered more. Besides, Wolfsburg was in a favorable position to advance from Group H.
If he keeps growing like this, will we even be able to keep him? Hecking wondered. He shook his head with a wry smile. That was a problem for another day. For now, David's tactical priority in the squad was second only to De Bruyne's. He had already decided to funnel more resources into the boy's development.
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