"David Qin!"
"He strikes! It's in! It's in!"
"He has breached the Uzbek fortress! In the 67th minute, David Qin has completed the comeback for China!"
"Catharsis! Pure catharsis!"
"I cannot recall the last time we came from behind to topple an Asian powerhouse, but today's performance will be etched into my memory forever!"
He Wei's voice crackled through the airwaves, reaching millions of ecstatic fans across the mainland.
At the Brisbane Stadium, David Qin celebrated under the searing sun. Sweat carved salty trails through the grime on his face; wiping it away stung like a burn, but he couldn't stop grinning. He turned to the nearest pitch-side camera and mouthed, "Thank you, Mr. Hecking!"
He meant it. Had it not been for Dieter Hecking's draconian standards at Wolfsburg, David might have succumbed to the bad habits that plague young stars. Instead, that stern old man had systematically identified and ironed out every flaw. It was the foundation of his explosive growth—and his rock-solid consistency.
European training really is a different world, Wu Lei thought, watching from a distance. When Ignatiy Nesterov made the initial save, Wu Lei had seen the pocket of space on the left, too. But he hadn't moved. He lacked that predatory instinct, thinking only of tracking back to prevent a counter-attack. David, however, had smelled blood.
"We can slow the tempo now," Zheng Zhi said, his features finally relaxing. "They're the ones who have to chase the game."
Alain Perrin felt the same relief. He had waited a long time for this opening. It hadn't come exactly as he'd drawn it up, but a goal was a goal.
"In the Big Five leagues, a defender wouldn't leave that weak side unguarded. David wouldn't have had such an easy look," Perrin remarked to his assistant. "The divide between top-tier leagues and the rest isn't just technical—it's cognitive."
As the game restarted, the erring Djeparov was hauled off. Just as Mirjalol Kasimov prepared to throw the kitchen sink at the Chinese defense, Perrin countered with clinical precision.
"Sun Ke on for Ji Xiang to keep the energy high on the wings. Wu Xi on for Jiang Zhipeng to help Zheng Zhi lock down the middle."
"The timing of these changes is impeccable!" The commentarist noted. "Perrin is reading the pulse of this squad perfectly. The dynamics have shifted; China is playing with veteran composure, while Uzbekistan is starting to unravel."
The Uzbek fans in the stands were equally frantic. They hammered their drums, desperate to drown out the Chinese contingent.
The Chinese fan leader noticed. "Listen to their beat! On the fourth stroke, give them everything you've got!"
Boom-boom-boom-boom!
"CHINA—VICTORY!"
After a few rounds, the Uzbek fans realized they were inadvertently providing the backing track for the Chinese chants.
On the pitch, the intensity mirrored the stands. As the clock ticked down, the trailing side grew reckless. Everyone knew the "Guozu" had fitness issues, but Uzbekistan couldn't exploit it. Their squad was a mix of aging veterans and unproven youth; their legs were gone, too.
In the 75th minute, Perrin signaled for his final sub: Liu Binbin for Gao Lin.
The intent was naked: Attack us. We're going to hit you on the break.
In the 86th minute, an Uzbek long-range effort was easily gathered by Wang Dalei. He didn't hesitate, punting a massive ball toward Sun Ke on the right. Sun Ke cushioned it, adjusted, and burned past Vitaliy Denisov.
"ONE MORE! ONE MORE!" the fans roared.
Sun Ke squared it to the charging Liu Binbin. A pure speedster with a full tank of gas, Liu simply hit the afterburners, ghosting past Mulladjanov.
"He rounds Nesterov with a burst of pace!"
"He slots it into the empty net! It's there!"
"3-1!!!"
"Liu Binbin seals it! The hammer blow!"
He Wei's roar was swallowed by the deafening cheers of the fans. It was the insurance goal they needed. But Perrin remained a statue on the touchline. He had seen too many miracles—and too many "Fergie Time" heartbreaks—to relax.
"Ten minutes left! Hold the line!" Perrin screamed, his hands cupped around his mouth.
David Qin looked at his teammates. They weren't lost or panicked. There was no "zombie" stare. They were snapping into tackles and demanding the ball. This was the spirit he had hoped for. David felt a fresh surge of adrenaline, tracking back to help the backline weather the final desperate Uzbek salvos.
"Zhang Linpeng shields it out!"
"Mei Fang with a clinical slide tackle! No way through for the wingers!"
Peep—Peep—Peep!
"It's over! It is all over!"
"After breaking an 18-year jinx against Saudi Arabia, China has now defeated Uzbekistan for the first time in 14 years!"
"For the first time in 27 years, the National Team has opened an Asian Cup group stage with two consecutive wins! Look at Alain Perrin—he's on the pitch, embracing every single player. He's absolutely delighted!"
He Wei glanced at the live updates from the other match in the group, and his face lit up with pure joy.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Saudi Arabia has beaten North Korea 3-1! Do you know what that means? It means we have qualified with a game to spare! For the first time in eight years, we are in the quarter-finals!"
He Wei closed his notes, his voice thick with emotion. "In 2007, we were knocked out by Uzbekistan in the final game. In 2011, it happened again. Today, we took the points and the qualification right out from under them. This is the perfect revenge. History will remember this moment!"
On the team bus, the atmosphere was electric. Outside, Chinese fans held a banner that read: China wins tonight, we get drunk tonight!
"David! Kill it in the quarter-finals! We'll see you in Sydney!" fans shouted, waving frantically at the windows.
"Crap!" one fan yelled to his buddy. "I bought tickets for the Melbourne quarter-final thinking we'd finish second in the group. Now I have to find a scalper to trade for Sydney tickets!"
"Me too! Who knew we'd sweep the first two games? These scalpers are going to rob me blind!"
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