November 6th.Premier League, Round 11.
The Manchester sky was a bruised purple, the air biting with the promise of winter.
Two hours before the kickoff between Manchester United and Watford.
Old Trafford was not just hosting a football match today; it was hosting a coronation.
A grand ceremony for the official handover of the Manchester United No. 7 jersey had been arranged.
Thousands of fans had arrived at the stadium hours early, filling the forecourt and the stands, their breath misting in the cold air, just to witness this historic moment.
The No. 7 at United is not merely a squad number.
It is a myth.
It is a heavy, holy fabric woven with the threads of genius and tragedy.
It belongs to the alcohol-fueled brilliance of George Best.
The collar-popping arrogance of Eric Cantona.
The celebrity precision of David Beckham.
The step-over dynamism of Cristiano Ronaldo.
But lately, it had been a graveyard.
Michael Owen, Antonio Valencia, Angel Di Maria, Memphis Depay... the shirt had chewed them up and spit them out.
Amidst the enthusiastic, roaring cheers of the Stretford End, José Mourinho stood on the pitch, holding the red shirt.
He handed it to the 18-year-old standing before him.
Jeremy Ling took the jersey.
He raised it to show the crowd—LING 7 printed in bold white—and then pulled it over his head.
In an instant, he felt it. It wasn't just cotton and polyester. It was lead.
An overwhelming, suffocating pressure bore down on him.
This number demanded intelligence.
It demanded stability, skill, speed, and goals.
It demanded that you didn't just play; you performed.
You didn't just exist; you entertained.
....
At this moment, the media coverage was in full swing.
In the LeSports studio in Beijing, the atmosphere was electric.
Zhan Jun: "Dear fans, look at your screens! What you are seeing now is Manchester United's new No. 7... Jeremy Ling!"
"To be honest, in just three months, young Ling has risen from the youth team to the first team and put on the jersey symbolizing absolute glory. It feels like a dream to me."
Zhang Lu: (Voice thick with emotion) "Indeed! I have covered football for decades. I never imagined a Chinese player would wear this jersey. Seeing it... my aging heart feels rejuvenated."
Zhan Jun: "Of course, this brings immense pressure. But look at his face. He is calm. If you check our interview, you'll know he plays for his family. He plays to survive. That makes him dangerous."
....
Meanwhile, on Sky Sports, the narrative was slightly different but equally hyped.
Gary Neville: "It's a massive statement. Mourinho is saying, 'This is my guy.' Giving an 18-year-old the 7? It's either madness or genius. But looking at his form... he might just be the one to break the curse."
The social media barrage flooded the internet, a mix of pride, fear, and memes.
[Ling is amazing! He looks born to wear it!]
[Seeing Ling in the 7... I feel like he's leveled up. He's not a rookie anymore; he's the main character.]
[By the way, I hope he won't be cursed. I specifically went to the temple yesterday to pray for him!]
[What a divine move! Getting the gods involved!]
[Can we call him "JL7" (Jeremy Ling 7) from now on? Like CR7?]
[Don't. Just don't. Let the kid be himself.]
[The shirt looks heavy. Hope his shoulders are broad enough.]
....
Three hours later. The pageantry was over.
The cold reality of the Premier League began.
The players entered the field under the lead of the referee, Lee Mason.
Old Trafford was a cauldron of noise, the name "LING" sung to the tune of "Glory Glory Man United."
Manchester United launched a fierce attack immediately after kickoff.
They were energized, feeding off the crowd's energy.
Marco Silva, the Watford manager and a compatriot of Mourinho, had set his team up to be compact.
He had instructed his players to play through passes to penetrate United's midfield, noticing a lack of defensive width.
However, things didn't go as he expected. United's shape was fluid, aggressive, and suffocating.
In the 18th minute of the match, Ling received the ball on the left wing.
He felt the eyes of the stadium on his back.
He didn't freeze.
He used two quick body feints—a drop of the shoulder left, a step-over right—to shake off the Watford right-back, Kiko Femenía.
He dribbled straight toward the byline, his pace electric.
Meanwhile, Manchester United players made synchronized forward runs.
Lukaku dragged the center-backs deep. Pogba arrived late at the edge of the box. Ling looked up.
He didn't cross blindly.
He spotted a run at the back post. He whipped a curling ball across the face of the goal. It bypassed everyone—the keeper, the defenders, the striker.
Thump!
With a dull sound of boot on leather, Ashley Young, the former Watford winger turned fullback, arrived like a steam train.
He volleyed the ball into the net with perfect technique.
1-0!
The fans in the stands excitedly raised their arms and cheered.
Ashley Young sprinted dozens of meters, celebrating with a passionate knee slide that tore up the turf.
Martin Tyler: "It's Ashley Young! Against his old club! But the work from Ling on the left... he turned Femenía inside out. That creates the goal."
Gary Neville: "You know what they say, Martin? Ashley Young is playing for a contract extension. When he's in a contract year, he turns into prime Roberto Carlos! That finish was spectacular!"
The match continued.
Watford tried to respond, relying on the physicality of Troy Deeney and the flair of Richarlison.
Richarlison, the young Brazilian, watched Ling from the other side of the pitch.
He saw the adulation, the touches, the confidence.
He felt a surge of competitive jealousy.
'I will be that good,' he thought. 'Someday.'
But today belonged to the Red Devils.
After scoring, Manchester United adjusted. They increased the aggressiveness of the center-backs, stepping up to intercept. Lingard and Ling cut inside frequently, clogging the midfield and disrupting Watford's progression.
Watford's attacks ground to a halt.
In the 39th minute of the match. Victor Lindelof completed a dominant aerial interception, heading the ball down to Paul Pogba.
Pogba, operating with the swagger of a man who owns the pitch, turned and played a penetrating, laser-guided through ball that sliced through Watford's midfield like a hot knife through butter.
Ling had cut inside to the central area.
He received the ball with his back to goal, surrounded by a cage of four Watford defenders.
Doucouré, Cleverley, Mariappa... they were all there.
Most players would pass back. Ling turned.
What followed was a breathtaking scene on the pitch. Facing a tackle from Doucouré, Ling deftly nudged the ball with the outside of his boot to change direction, a La Croqueta that left the midfielder tackling thin air.
He burst through the gap.
As he entered the penalty area, Mariappa slid in.
Ling didn't panic.
He waited for the slide, touched the ball away at the last millisecond, and unleashed a low, hard ground shot toward the far corner.
Zip.
The ball skidded off the wet grass, past the fingertips of Heurelho Gomes, and nestled into the bottom corner.
2-0!
Old Trafford instantly erupted.
It wasn't just a cheer; it was a roar of validation.
Manchester United fans leaped to their feet. They watched the number 7 player wheel away in celebration.
The same left-wing position. The same debut age. The same spirited confidence.
Memories of 2003 flooded back.
'Could it be? Are we witnessing the rise of the next global superstar?'
After scoring, Ling's emotions surged wildly.
This was his debut wearing the number seven jersey.
If he hadn't delivered, the media would have written: "Too Much Too Soon," or "The Heavy Shirt Weighs Him Down."
No matter how strong his mental fortitude, it would have left a scar.
But with that goal, the narrative changed. The weight vanished. He kissed the badge. He pointed to the number on his back.
I am number 7.
After the match resumed, Manchester United completely controlled the game.
They played "keep-ball," frustrating Watford until the final whistle.
Full Time: Manchester United 2-0 Watford.
11 matches unbeaten.
This record filled every Manchester United player with pride.
In the dressing room, the fatigue seemed to disappear, replaced by laughter and music.
The team spirit was bulletproof.
....
Meanwhile, on the other side of Manchester, the mood was different, though the result was familiar.
The Etihad Stadium had just concluded another masterclass.
Manchester City 3-1 Arsenal.
On the sidelines, Pep Guardiola and Arsène Wenger shook hands.
Though both wore professional smiles, the underlying sentiments were vastly different.
City were a machine. Arsenal were a tragedy.
The Arsenal fans in the away end showed no mercy to their legendary manager.
They chanted in unison, loud and cruel: "WENGER OUT! WENGER OUT!"
This behavior had escalated into a global meme.
It was no longer just football; it was a cultural phenomenon.
The words appeared everywhere.
A banner flown behind a plane at the stadium.
A sign held up at a music festival in Glastonbury.
Even in an NBA arena across the ocean, a random fan held up a sign: "TRUST THE PROCESS (BUT WENGER OUT)."
Listening to the harsh chants around him, seeing the dominance of City and the resurgence of United, Wenger's expression grew increasingly weary.
The game was leaving him behind.
....
Back at Old Trafford, the press conference was underway.
A reporter stood up. "José, you've won again. Ling was fantastic. But next week... next week you go back to Stamford Bridge. You face Chelsea. How do you feel?"
Mourinho stopped smiling.
His eyes grew cold and focused.
He stood up, buttoning his jacket. He looked directly into the camera.
"We will win." He turned and walked out.