The next morning, under the pale glow of the rising sun, the air over Carrington was exceptionally fresh and cold.
Thud... thud... thud...
On a frosted training pitch, a lone figure was kicking a ball against a rebound wall.
The dull, repetitive thuds startled the sparrows sleeping in the rafters of the nearby stand.
Jeremy Ling had deliberately woken up half an hour earlier than his usual, already-early, alarm.
He had to experience the "First Touch" module.
After completing his basic warm-up drills, he set up several cones in a complex pattern, imagining them as defenders in various states of motion.
He stood at the wall, passing and receiving, over and over.
He pondered how to handle the ball from different positions, what moves to follow up with.
The ball returned from the wall.
Instead of just stopping it, Ling let it run across his body, his right foot cushioning its pace with an impossibly soft touch.
The ball didn't stop dead; it flowed, as if magnetically attached to him, rolling perfectly into the space behind "Cone 1."
In one fluid motion, he was past his imaginary defender and facing the next.
...
Time passed in this monotonous, focused training, and Ling's thinking about ball control, his "football-IQ," gradually improved.
The module wasn't just giving him skill; it was giving him insight.
However, he understood that the current intensity was far from sufficient.
Football with and without pressure are two entirely different, unrelated games.
After finishing this phase, Ling called over Scott McTominay, who had just arrived, to add some physical challenge.
"Scott, just... try and get the ball off me. Don't be nice."
Naturally, with a 6'4" 'mad dog' (as Mourinho called him) harassing him, he couldn't achieve the near-perfect, zen-like touches he had managed before.
But Ling didn't dwell on it, his mind already processing the errors.
Mastery comes with persistent, pressurized effort, not overnight success.
As training wrapped up near noon, McTominay rubbed his sore, over-worked shoulders.
"Ling, mate... seriously," he panted, "Don't you find this... boring? Doing this every single day? The same drills, over and over?"
"It's alright," Ling replied, toweling off.
He didn't elaborate much.
How could he explain? Having been reborn, his mindset was fundamentally different.
He had a finite amount of time to reach the pinnacle, and every second wasted was a betrayal of this second chance.
He just grinned.
"Hurry up. And don't forget, you're treating me to lunch. That Nando's. Your shout."
The two headed to the small strip of shops near the Carrington Training Ground.
"Actually," Ling said, pointing, "Let's try that new place."
....
"Hey, Ling!" A middle-aged man around forty, who had just hung a framed, brand-new Manchester United No. 23 jersey on the wall, turned and saw a familiar face.
He exclaimed in delighted, surprised Chinese.
Hearing his native language, Ling responded instinctively.
After some small talk, Ling learned the man was named Zhang Zhongbing, and like him, was Chinese.
Because his son had been accepted into Manchester City's youth academy, Zhang had come along to care for him and had opened this small restaurant to supplement the family income.
"Then you've chosen the wrong location," Ling said, puzzled. "United is here in the southwest. City's academy is all the way over in the northeast."
"Ahem..." Zhang Zhongbing looked slightly embarrassed but quickly regained his composure.
"Because... my son originally wanted to join United's youth academy. But he... he got rejected." He quickly brightened, taking the jersey back down from the wall.
"But he is still a huge fan of yours! Could you... could you give me an autograph?"
Ling naturally agreed, swiftly signing his name and posing for a photo with the proud father.
A few minutes later, the food arrived.
Scott McTominay stared at the table, his eyelids twitching uncontrollably.
He had come to enjoy "Chinese cuisine."
He'd been dreaming of sweet and sour pork, of egg-fried rice, of something, anything with a bit of flavour.
On the table in front of him sat a plate of skinned, steamed duck leg (no sauce), a bowl of plain white rice, and half a plate of steamed green cabbage.
"Ling..." Scott whispered. "Mate. What is this? I came for a proper Chinese, and this... this is even plainer than the cafeteria's food."
Ling, however, dug in heartily.
This was exactly what he had requested.
"It's fuel, Scott. Not fun."
Lunch ended quickly.
Before leaving, Ling left his phone number with Mr. Zhang.
"If your son has any football-related questions, or just... anything... tell him to contact me."
Having personally experienced the hardships and loneliness of being in a foreign land, he felt compelled to help a fellow countryman when possible.
(there's honestly too many dudes with the name Zhang in this fic)
.....
October 28th. In north-central England, east of the Pennines, lies a small town of 150,000 people called Huddersfield.
The club, sharing its name with the town, is affectionately called "The Terriers" by fans.
Although it had only just entered the Premier League this season via the Championship playoffs, it boasts a glorious, forgotten history.
In 1926, Huddersfield became the first English team ever to achieve a top-flight league three-peat.
Historically, only four clubs have accomplished this feat.
The other three? Manchester United, Liverpool, and Arsenal.
As residents of a small town, daily entertainment options are limited.
Thus, on Premier League matchdays, the entire town sets aside its tasks and heads to the John Smith's Stadium to cheer for their team.
To them, football is not just a sport but a culture.
It's a representation of their community.
They see themselves as an integral part of it.
Perhaps it is this passionate, profound, and deep-rooted atmosphere that has enabled England to nurture over 40,000 football clubs.
....
📺 Sky Sports: Pre-Match 🎙️
Dave Jones: "Welcome back to Super Sunday! We are live at the John Smith's Stadium for what looks like a classic 'banana peel' of a game. Huddersfield Town versus Manchester United."
Paul Merson (Pundit): "This is a massive test for United, Dave. Massive. You're coming off a big European away day, you've got the travel in your legs... and you come here. This crowd is going to be up for it. This is their cup final. Huddersfield will sit deep, they'll defend for their lives, and they'll be physical. If United aren't 100% focused, they will drop points here. I'm tellin' ya."
....
Two hours later, the 9th round of the Premier League had begun.
Huddersfield's head coach, David Wagner, a disciple of JĂĽrgen Klopp, embodied the traditional German coaching style.
His overall approach leaned conservative, making him well-suited to guide the club in avoiding relegation.
He deployed a compact 4-2-3-1 formation.
On the other side, José Mourinho, considering the fatigue among some players, started Jesse Lingard in place of Mkhitaryan.
Ling started on the left.
They too fielded a 4-2-3-1 formation.
After the match began, the script played out exactly as Merson had predicted.
Huddersfield's players quickly retreated, forming a compact, dense defensive block in their own half, clearly aiming to play for a 0-0 draw or a lucky counter-attack.
In response, Manchester United's players pressed forward aggressively, unwilling to settle for anything less than three points against a relegation-threatened side.
However, they underestimated their opponents' resolute, desperate defensive stance.
Huddersfield completely abandoned the midfield, packing all eleven men into the final thirty yards.
Their challenges were robust, physical, and borderline-legal.
United had no clear opportunities.
United's usual method to break down a "parked bus" relied on Paul Pogba's creative, defense-splitting distribution from deep.
Their other approach was to "go route one" and launch aerial assaults at Marouane Fellaini.
But with both Pogba and Fellaini sidelined due to injury, neither tactic could be executed.
Thus, despite dominating possession and besieging Huddersfield for a full 25 minutes, United failed to alter the scoreline.
In the 28th minute, the unthinkable happened.
Against the run of play, Huddersfield's goalkeeper, Jonas Lössl, launched a simple, long, hopeful clearance up the pitch.
It wasn't even a counter-attack; it was just a hoof.
Perhaps due to the grueling travel between Portugal and England, or perhaps just a momentary lapse, Chris Smalling committed a basic, unforgivable error.
He moved under the high, swirling ball, positioned himself... and then completely misjudged its flight.
The ball sailed over his head.
He'd been caught flat-footed.
Laurent Depoitre, the Huddersfield striker, couldn't believe his luck.
He seized the chance, driving toward the box.
He faced the onrushing, exposed David De Gea and coolly curled a shot into the far corner.
1-0!
The John Smith's Stadium ignited.
The town's residents erupted in a single, fervent, deafening roar.
Securing three points against Manchester United today would not only smooth their relegation battle but also, more importantly, knock United off the top of the table.
For them, the latter was even more thrilling.
As fellow members of that elite, "three-peat" club, they had watched the other three (United, Liverpool, Arsenal) evolve into global powerhouses, while Huddersfield had fluctuated in the lower divisions for decades.
The stark contrast fueled a deep, burning sense of envy.
This goal was a small measure of revenge.
In contrast, the traveling Manchester United fans were left gaping, mouths open, clearly not expecting the relegation-battling team to score first, especially not from such an amateurish mistake.
The scene on the sidelines was entirely different.
Wagner looked delighted, pumping his fists, thinking to himself that today's luck was quite good.
From here on, United would have no choice but to intensify their attacks, which meant Huddersfield could turtle up, defend stubbornly, and exploit the space behind their opponents.
On the other side, Mourinho frowned slightly.
He didn't rage.
He simply signaled to the players on the pitch: Calm down. Slow the tempo. Do not concede another.
Under these circumstances, the first half, a story of sterile domination and one fatal error, quickly came to an end.
---------
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