"Only five minutes in, and disaster strikes!"
"Wang Dalei and Younis Mahmoud have collided violently while contesting a loose ball. From the looks of it, neither man can continue!"
"The referee has signaled for the stretchers. Both veterans are being carried off. Let's see how the managers respond. China brings on Zeng Cheng, while Iraq introduces Meram."
"In terms of tactical gravity, this blow might actually favor China," He Wei noted, his voice strained with the tension of the moment. He knew the Iraqi squad possessed an indomitable spirit, but beyond Younis, they were incredibly raw—averaging just 23.48 years of age. Younis wasn't just their offensive fulcrum; he was the soul of the team.
Sure enough, as play resumed, Iraq's rhythm faltered. David Qin, sharp as a razor, sensed the collective hesitation. He flashed a quick hand signal to his teammates and drifted toward the touchline. Zheng Zhi didn't miss a beat, threading a crisp pass into his path.
Never underestimate those forged in the fires of war; in football, that cliché carries the weight of gold. One only needs to look at the legends of Croatia to see that truth. Even without their captain, the Iraqi defense remained resolute. Salim, a stalwart of their domestic league, stepped up immediately. He didn't dive in; he simply stuck to David like a shadow, refusing to give him an inch of breathing room.
Simultaneously, Abdul-Amir closed the gap from the flank while Yasin sprinted back with gritted teeth to cut off the retreat.
They're really rolling out the red carpet for me, aren't they? David thought. He knew that trying to force a breakthrough here was a fool's errand. Even if he beat the first man, he'd likely be hacked down by the second. Reluctantly, he tapped the ball back to Zheng Zhi, abandoning the solo run for a more patient build-up.
"Iraq is swarming David Qin!" He Wei observed. "They're using sheer numbers to neutralize his individual brilliance. They've reinforced the central zones as well, cutting off the passing lanes to Yu Hai and Gao Lin. China needs someone else to step up and break the deadlock!"
But then, the unthinkable happened. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of minutes he'd logged throughout the tournament, or perhaps it was simple fatigue, but Zheng Zhi looked sluggish. As he tried to collect a return ball from Mei Fang near the center circle, his studs failed him. He slipped.
In elite football, a slip is a death sentence.
"A chance!" Kamil's eyes widened. He pounced on the loose ball, igniting his afterburners and driving straight at the heart of the Chinese defense. Because China had been in an attacking shape, the gaps between the defenders were cavernous. Kamil reached top speed in an instant.
Ren Hang scrambled to cover, trying to force Kamil toward the touchline, but the Iraqi winger glanced toward the box, adjusted his stride, and whipped in a vicious cross.
CRACK!
The substitute, Meram, held off Zhang Linpeng with a display of raw strength and met the ball with a thunderous first-time volley. It was a guided missile, screaming toward the top right corner. Zeng Cheng, while possessing faster reflexes than the man he replaced, lacked the same sweeping range.
He lunged. The ball clipped his palm, but the sheer velocity carried it through, bulging the white netting behind him.
"Meram scores! Iraq takes the lead!"
"Just nine minutes after the double injury, Iraq capitalizes on a rare Zheng Zhi error to make it 1-0! It's the old cliché—anything can happen on a football pitch. Younis leaving the game felt like a death knell for Iraq, yet a lapse from our own veteran has flipped the script!"
He Wei's voice dropped an octave, heavy with disappointment. In the stands, the small contingent of Iraqi fans erupted into hysterical celebration. They had felt their hopes dying when Younis was carried off, but fate—or perhaps their own relentless pressing—had rewarded them.
On the pitch, Meram sprinted into a wild celebration. As the backup to a national icon, the pressure on his shoulders was immense. He knew that for a nation ravaged by conflict, bringing joy through football was their highest calling. This was why they hungered for a repeat of the 2007 miracle.
"When Iraq stands together, no one can defeat us!" Meram roared, buried under a mountain of his teammates.
A short distance away, David Qin watched the celebrating Iraqis before turning to Zheng Zhi, who stood in silent, bowed contemplation.
"Hey! It's just one goal," David said, his tone intentionally light. "We'll just go and get it back."
"Exactly! Even Steven Gerrard had a slip—wait, bad example!" Gao Lin tried to help but immediately realized his blunder. Everyone remembered Gerrard's slip against Chelsea that cost Liverpool the title the previous season.
"Shut it, Gao-ge!" David joked, giving him a playful shove. He shrugged and looked at the veterans. "Just watch me. I'm putting on a show."
He knew the situation was critical. If someone didn't seize the initiative, the rot of low morale would spread through the team like a virus.
"Right! Let's go! Let's go!" Zheng Zhi rallied. He'd survived enough storms in his long career to keep his head, though the self-reproach still burned in his eyes.
Play resumed. On the touchline, Alain Perrin's face was a mask of anxiety. He knew exactly what David was thinking. Iraq had the lead, and they were about to "park the bus." Could they hold out for seventy minutes? In football history, Inter Milan had frustrated a peak Barcelona, and Greece had defended their way to a European Championship. The "bus" was a proven weapon.
"Give it everything," Perrin whispered, his eyes locked on David. Against a low block, individual magic was often the only skeleton key.
On the opposite bench, Radhi Shenaishil was screaming instructions. "Be aggressive in the middle! Use your bodies—this isn't ping-pong! Don't let him turn! Fouls if you have to, just shut him down!"
The 31st minute arrived. Mei Fang drove into the middle, and David drifted into the pocket to receive. Before the ball even reached his feet, he was clattered from behind.
Whistle. Foul. David adjusted his shin guards and climbed back up. He was being suffocated. Every touch was met with a heavy shoulder or a clipping of the heels, and the Australian referee's threshold for a yellow card was frustratingly high.
"Fine," David spat, his voice laced with fire. "Keep it coming! Let's see who breaks first!"
"Iraq's defense is growing more impenetrable by the minute," He Wei noted. "They say football is modern warfare; when one side gains a foothold, their morale soars. Look at them now! Wait—Qin has a chance to break on the wing, but Salim has literally bear-hugged him! This is... it's incredible."
Salim ignored the referee brandishing a yellow card. He stared David down with a cold, predatory gaze. In January of the previous year, one of Salim's teammates had been killed in a bombing during training. Salim had been standing right there. He didn't believe a kid who had never seen the dark side of the world could break a man who had stared death in the face.
"Intimidating," David murmured. He respected the grit, but on this pitch, he feared no one. Death? I've been there and back, pal. The hidden streak of ruthlessness in his character began to surface. He didn't say a word; he simply turned and trotted back into position.
By the 37th minute, David stopped looking for the safe pass. He received the ball and drove straight at Salim. They tangled again, but Salim was starting to lose his grip. If not for Yasin's desperate recovery, David would have been through.
"Is David getting frustrated?" He Wei asked. "He should have passed there, but he's taking them all on. This isn't the time for a personal vendetta!"
Iraq sensed the "impulse" of youth. Shenaishil signaled Salim to keep baiting him, to provoke a reaction. But none of them saw the calculated cunning hidden deep in David's eyes.
"Xiao Qin, stay cool, take it slow!" Gao Lin urged.
"I'm fine," David replied. "Watch my positioning. I'm coming through the middle next time."
By making a scene on the wing, he'd forced them to over-commit their cover to the touchline. The center was opening up. He only needed one opening.
The roar of thirty thousand fans swelled as the first half neared its conclusion. Perhaps it was the ticking clock, but the Iraqi defenders finally blinked. David drifted inward, accelerated past a lunging midfielder, and poked the ball to Gao Lin.
"Give it back!"
Gao Lin obliged, but the return pass was heavy, rolling too far in front of David. Dammit! Gao Lin cursed himself, bracing to sprint back and defend, but then he saw a shadow pouncing.
It was Kasim. The 23-year-old midfielder had grown up in the Tottenham academy and played for Brighton. He worshiped Younis and dreamed of being Iraq's next hero. This was his moment. If he could win this ball, the counter-attack was on. He committed everything, throwing himself into a sliding tackle!
Whoosh!
David felt the rush of air as Kasim's body skidded across the turf. In a blur of instinct, his right foot flicked under the ball.
Pop!
As if by magic, the ball defied gravity, arching into the air and sailing over the sliding Kasim. Kasim's eyes widened in disbelief. It wasn't just a move; it was a disappearing act.
David didn't wait for him to process the shock. He took the falling ball in stride, killing the momentum with his first touch and surging toward the box. He glanced around—no teammates were in position.
Now or never.
Facing the last line of defense, David didn't wait for Kayaf to close the gap. He broke into a series of lightning-fast step-overs. Left, right, left—his body was a blur of feints.
Kayaf bit. He lunged into a tackle.
David had been waiting for that exact twitch. With a sudden change of direction that looked like a waltz, he navigated the challenge with a delicate touch. But he wasn't done. He had trained his mind to see three moves ahead. As expected, another desperate, bone-crunching slide was coming in from Shakir.
The Chinese fans held their collective breath. Perrin stood on his tiptoes.
In the center of the storm, David was faster. He flicked his right foot upward with a sharp, percussive snap.
The ball rose again, carving an elegant, mocking arc over the keeper. Hameed could only watch, his hands dropping in a gesture of pure futility as the ball kissed the back of the net.
1-1!!!
"David Qin... the flick! The step-overs! THE CHIP!" He Wei's voice was a jagged edge of pure adrenaline. "IT'S IN! IT'S IN!"
"What are we even watching?" He Wei continued, his voice trembling. "A solo run for the ages! I can almost hear a melody coming from his boots! Every movement was a brushstroke, every touch a masterpiece. Perfect!"
"The 38th minute! David Qin, through sheer, unadulterated individual brilliance, has dragged China level! He is back, he is hungry, and he never—ever—lets the fans down! DAVID QIN!"
The cameras locked onto David as he executed a long, triumphant knee-slide, his arms outstretched. It defied logic, but the moment he had flicked the ball over Kasim, he had known. He felt the goal coming.
"How on earth did you do that?" Yu Hai gasped, running over. He'd never seen a goal like that outside of a video game.
"When I was a kid," David joked, his chest heaving, "a man told me I was a once-in-a-generation talent. He said for ten bucks, he'd give me the secret..."
"Piss off!" Yu Hai laughed, shoving him. "You've been watching too much Kung Fu Hustle!"
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