The spotlight of the entire stadium seemed to narrow, focusing its searing beam on two players: Ling, with the ball glued to his right boot, and Trent Alexander-Arnold, the young Liverpool defender who had committed his soul to a desperate slide tackle.
Ling's gaze sharpened. He saw the slide coming—a reckless, all-or-nothing gamble born of frustration.
He had already adjusted his body position after dragging the ball back from Chamberlain.
Sweat dripped from his black hair, stinging his eyes, but his focus was absolute.
'Now.' Ling abruptly sprang into action.
His right foot pushed the ball outward, feinting to go down the line.
But midway through the motion, his ankle snapped. The point of contact switched instantly to the inside of his foot, hooking the ball back in the opposite direction.
The ball traced a bizarre, impossible arc, snapping back like a whip.
It was a fierce "Cow Tail"—the signature move of Ronaldinho.
"Fuck!" Alexander-Arnold hissed.
A chill ran down his spine.
He realized his mistake instantly, but gravity is a cruel mistress.
He had already committed his entire body weight to the slide. He clawed at the turf, desperate to change direction, but it was too late.
He slid helplessly past Ling, crashing into empty space and taking a divot of Old Trafford turf with him.
Every movement flowed seamlessly, without the slightest hesitation.
In the cramped, suffocating space near the corner flag, Ling had performed a magnificent dance, escaping the cage and leaving two Liverpool players in the dust.
"OH MY GOODNESS!" Gary Neville screamed, abandoning all professionalism. "What a brilliant breakthrough! He has sent Alexander-Arnold back to Anfield and Chamberlain to Emirates!"
"Neither of them could get near him! Oh my God! What kind of touch precision is that? Even a centimeter off and he loses it!"
"I can hardly believe my eyes!" Jamie Carragher whispered, sounding genuinely shaken.
"Ling has become the most dazzling player on the pitch!" Neville continued, his voice rising to a crescendo. "He single-handedly tore through Liverpool's right flank! Single-handedly!"
Neville turned to his co-commentator, a smug grin plastering his face.
"Jamie, what are you doing? Why aren't you saying anything? Are you stunned by Ling's performance? Answer me!"
Neville's tone was so sarcastic it was punchable.
Carragher pursed his lips tightly, staring at the monitor, refusing to give Neville the satisfaction of a response.
In the stands, Manchester United and Liverpool fans shared the same expression: disbelief.
Even the most ardent Scousers had to admit, deep down, that they had just witnessed magic.
Among the crowd, Zhang Wei's mouth hung wide open.
He looked like he could fit an entire egg inside is mouth.
He had always thought of football as a rugged sport—men running, tackling, sweating. But this... this revealed another side. Every touch was incredibly gentle, an art form capable of piercing through obstacles and striking deep into the soul.
An intense thrill coursed from his head to his toes.
He couldn't help himself; he joined the roaring United fans beside him.
"YEAHHH! GO ON SON!" Zhang Wei screamed, his voice cracking.
So this is football!
...
Back on the pitch, the danger wasn't over as Ling drove into the penalty area.
Dejan Lovren stepped up to meet him.
The Croatian center-back looked nervous. Lovren was a solid defender on his day, but his form was inconsistent, and ankle injuries had robbed him of his agility.
He hated defending against explosive speed. He knew that one burst of acceleration, one change of direction, and he would be left for dead.
Lovren crouched, backing off, terrified of diving in.
Ling saw the fear.
He was famously explosive, and the crowd waited for him to burn Lovren with pace.
But he didn't.
Because Jesse Lingard was unmarked.
Virgil van Dijk had been drawn out of position by Lukaku's run, leaving a gaping hole in the center of the box.
Lingard had ghosted into it.
At this point, holding onto the ball wouldn't be confidence, it would be selfishness.
Ling looked at Lovren, dropped his shoulder as if to shoot, and then simply rolled the ball sideways. A silver platter service.
Jesse Lingard wasn't the most talented player in the squad.
He lacked Pogba's flair or Rashford's speed. He was a supporting actor, a "rat" who scurried around harassing defenders and finding space.
But that was exactly why Mourinho loved him.
He was reliable, he did the dirty work and when the stars aligned, he knew how to finish.
Lingard took one touch to control the ball.
Van Dijk turned, realizing the danger, and threw himself in a desperate block.
Too late.
Lingard poked the ball toward the bottom corner.
Loris Karius dived, his fingers stretching, but the shot was low and true and it nestled into the net.
"LINGARDDDDD!"
Old Trafford erupted once more.
The fans who often criticized Lingard for his dancing and social media antics were now chanting his name.
"JESSE! JESSE! JESSE!"
After scoring, Lingard sprinted to the corner flag, beckoning Ling to dance with him.
Ling's footwork was a bit stiff as he tapped away, thinking he preferred a ball at his feet.
In contrast, Lingard moved with fluid grace, looking like he spent more time in a dance studio than on the training pitch.
Soon, Pogba, Lukaku, and Young joined in, creating a huddle of joyous chaos.
"Beautiful!" Gary Neville shouted. "Just before the end of the first half, Manchester United has turned the game around and taken the lead again! That is resilience!"
He turned to Carragher, holding up the United jersey.
"It's a shame Ling didn't score the goal himself, Jamie. But I think it won't be long before you pull on this jersey. It'll really bring out the blue in your eyes!"
"Haha!" Neville laughed heartily.
Carragher slammed his microphone onto the table in fury. "I don't understand it! Why did Klopp pair two defensively weak players together on that side? Arnold and Chamberlain? You are handing the flank to them on a plate!"
"They bear full responsibility for this goal!" Carragher raged, his face turning red. "Lovren and Van Dijk can't always clean up their mess! Arnold is defending like a schoolboy!"
"Absolutely right!" Neville chimed in, twisting the knife. "Look at how flustered Arnold is. It reminds me of Route 66—wide open and completely free! Hahaha!"
Carragher fell silent, fuming.
...
Meanwhile, the internet was ablaze.
@RedArmy: "Arnold's defending is painful to watch. He's getting cooked on national TV. 🍳 #MUNLIV"
@TacticalTim: "That assist though... Ling literally beat two men in a phone booth. Pure individual dominance."
@SkillzHub: "Did you see that touch? His right foot moves like it's playing a violin."
@KloppOut: "Why is our right side open every time? Klopp needs to fix this at halftime or we lose 4-1."
@NeutralFan: "Thank god Liverpool didn't draw United in the Champions League. Ling vs Arnold over two legs would be a massacre."
...
On the sidelines, Jose Mourinho had leaped into the air the moment the ball hit the net, punching the sky in exhilaration.
This goal had surpassed even his wildest expectations.
Rui Faria, his assistant, stared at the slow-motion replay on the giant screen. Every movement of Ling's dribble was crystal clear.
"Boss," Faria gasped, "has Ling improved again? Even in training, he doesn't do that. That was... that was Ronaldinho stuff."
Mourinho sighed in admiration, watching his players celebrate.
"Klopp tried to suppress him. He tried to bully him. But our left wing just obliterated them."
"Now," Mourinho smiled, "just having Ling standing there will terrify them!"
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