In the 51st minute of the match, Ling felt the cold, wet grass of Stamford Bridge against his cheek again.
As soon as he received a sharp pass from Mkhitaryan, he was fiercely tackled by N'Golo Kanté.
The Frenchman took the ball, the man, and cleared it out of play in one efficient motion.
Ling got up, helplessly rubbing his face, and glanced over.
Kanté was already jogging back into position, giving him a very earnest, apologetic, and utterly terrifying smile.
'This guy is a nightmare,' Ling thought.
Kanté always seemed to anticipate his opponents' intentions two seconds before they happened.
He moved early to make defending look easy.
Ling was experiencing it firsthand.
Moreover, Ling was struggling with his positioning.
He usually played as a left winger, hugging the touchline.
Suddenly playing as a dual striker in a 3-5-2 felt unfamiliar.
He kept habitually dropping deep and wide to receive the ball.
This was a bad habit. It brought him too close to Chelsea's second defensive line, compressing the pitch and reducing the available space for Lukaku.
Stay high, Ling reminded himself inwardly. Trust the pass.
As possession constantly changed hands in a scrappy midfield battle, the match unknowingly reached the 57th minute.
Due to the overall formation and tactics, Chelsea's most efficient attacks were coming from the wings.
Marcos Alonso, with his all-around but unexceptional attributes, was the primary organizer on the left.
But his characteristics had been studied thoroughly in Mourinho's dark room.
Manchester United's right-side players pressed aggressively. Valencia pushed up high, denying any easy outlet.
Valencia capitalized on Alonso's slower footwork.
He teamed up with Pogba to execute a clean, crunching tackle near the touchline.
The ball broke loose.
Manchester United players sprinted forward—a classic Mourinho counterattack was underway!
On the sidelines, Antonio Conte waved his arms constantly, his hair flapping in the wind.
He shouted at the top of his lungs, "Press! Tiemoué! Don't just retreat! Press forward and disrupt them!"
As a defensive expert who had bored countless fans to sleep during his time coaching Juventus (while winning everything), he knew exactly how dangerous a rapid counterattack could be.
He knew the danger of space.
Tiemoué Bakayoko, the Chelsea midfielder, fiercely lunged toward the football, trying to kill the move before it began.
But Paul Pogba didn't hesitate for even a moment.
With a grace that defied his size, he planted his foot, rolled the ball back, and spun 360 degrees.
A Marseille Turn.
He evaded Bakayoko completely, leaving the midfielder sliding on the wet turf.
Martin Tyler: "Oh, that is delightful from Pogba! He's spun him inside out! United are away!"
Gary Neville: "This is the danger. This is the transition. Look at the runners!"
Pogba didn't make a careless pass.
He drove into the space Bakayoko had vacated. He dribbled toward the right flank, drawing the eyes of the defense.
This left N'Golo Kanté momentarily conflicted.
Should he stay central? Should he cover for his reckless partner?
Kanté, the ultimate team player, ultimately chose to cover for Bakayoko.
He shifted across to engage Pogba.
Yet in the very next instant, before Kanté could get there, Pogba released the ball.
A perfectly weighted, outside-of-the-boot pass, curling into the channel between the center-backs.
Manchester United's Number 6 connected with Manchester United's Number 7!
Ling gracefully controlled the ball on the run. He lifted his head slightly to survey what lay ahead.
Three defenders stood before him!
Cesar Azpilicueta to his right. Andreas Christensen in the center. Gary Cahill to his left.
The last of these, Cahill, was the strongest defensively, excelling at direct physical challenges.
But Christensen was the cover.
These facts flashed through Ling's mind, processed by his tactical acumen.
He instantly made the optimal decision.
'Isolate the weak link.'
Left!
A series of precise, elegant touches made it impossible to tell whether his feet controlled the ball or the ball guided his feet.
He drove straight at the gap between Azpilicueta and Christensen.
"Double-team him! Double-team! We can't let him through!" Azpilicueta suddenly felt his heart leap into his throat.
He instinctively shouted as he accelerated toward Ling, abandoning his zone.
Christensen immediately shifted position upon hearing this, his hands subtly tugging at Ling's jersey, trying to slow him down with the 'dark arts.'
And in that split second, Ling's muscles tensed.
He burst forward with explosive speed, a gear change that neither defender expected.
Tens of thousands of Chelsea fans wore expressions of dread.
How could a single player carry the momentum of an entire army? Under the gaze of countless eyes, Manchester United's Number 7 tore through Chelsea's iron chariot with terrifying acceleration!
Azpilicueta and Christensen collided with each other, their limbs tangling as they failed to make the tackle.
They tumbled to the ground in disarray, left only to watch as Ling charged toward the goal.
One-on-one with the keeper!!!
Thibaut Courtois was still processing the defensive collapse.
He suddenly found a red shirt materializing in his vision.
He frantically assumed a saving stance, spreading his long limbs like a starfish.
Ling didn't panic.
He quickly adjusted his steps. He opened his body shape, feigning a shot to the near post.
Courtois twitched.
Ling whipped his foot around the ball, curling it toward the far corner.
Thump!
The crisp sound was like a beautiful note plucked from a string.
But to Courtois, it was a jarring, sickening noise.
A point-blank shot, an acute angle, and a curling trajectory.
Even a world-class goalkeeper couldn't react in such a brief window.
In the time it took the tens of thousands of fans in the stadium to blink, the football was already resting peacefully in the back of the net.
1-1!!!
Whoosh!!!
The Manchester United fans in the Shed End leaped to their feet in exhilaration, embracing strangers in celebration.
They could never have imagined an equalizer arriving in such breathtaking fashion—it was pure ecstasy.
Someone began chanting the name on the back of the Number 7 jersey, and soon the away section erupted in a deafening roar.
"LING! LING! LING!"
For Ling, scoring felt like the release of long-pent-up fury.
The anger from the bus arrival, the insults toward Mourinho, the pressure of the shirt—it all exploded.
He sprinted wildly to the touchline, right in front of the Matthew Harding Stand.
Facing the tens of thousands of Chelsea fans who had been abusing him and his manager all afternoon, he stopped dead.
He raised a single finger to his lips.
'Shhhhh.I've heard enough of your taunts—so can you shut up now?'
Chelsea fans, of course, wouldn't tolerate such provocation.
They responded with a variety of international hand gestures and a stream of curses that would make a sailor blush.
"YOU'RE THE ONE WHO SHOULD SHUT UP!"
"GO TO HELL!"
"YOU'RE NOTHING BUT TRASH!"
The torrent of insults crashed over him like a storm, threatening to swallow him whole.
Coins and lighters rained down from the stands.
Yet Ling felt an overwhelming sense of exhilaration.
His posture grew even more upright, like a pine tree standing firm against wind and rain, unwavering in place.
Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared before him.
José Mourinho.
The manager had walked out of his technical area. He stood right next to Ling, facing the crowd.
Though he seemed somewhat weathered, he radiated strength, using his own body to shield his player from the vitriol.
He stared down the stand that used to worship him.
Ling's heart clenched abruptly.
He silently took two steps forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with the man in front of him.
He flashed a bright, toothy, defiant grin at the sea of angry blue.
Only then did he turn his head and say with a cheerful laugh, shouting over the noise.
"Coach! What do you think? Wasn't that goal a beauty?"
Mourinho turned around.
His eyes were shining. His smile was tinged with complex emotions—pride, vindication, and sadness.
"It was indeed a beauty, menino. It was perfect."
Meanwhile, the Manchester United fans, witnessing the Chelsea supporters hurling such insults at their own player—especially one who had grown up in Manchester United's youth academy and now wore the prestigious number 7 jersey—felt their eyes burn with fury.
"LONDON WHORES, YOU'RE THE REAL TRASH!"
"SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTHS!"
"OPEN YOUR DAMN EYES AND SEE—THIS IS MANCHESTER UNITED'S NUMBER 7!"
The fans of both teams immediately launched into a fierce war of words, neither side willing to back down. Spittle flew across the segregation lines.
The stewards struggled to hold the line.
...
Martin Tyler: "AND LING! HE'S DONE IT! He's silenced the Bridge! What a run! What a finish! Manchester United are level!"
Gary Neville: "That is absolute power! He's just bulldozed through two of the best defenders in the league! Christensen and Azpilicueta bounce off him! And the composure... that is a Number 7's goal!"
The fans in the live chat felt the same, flooding the screen.
[User: RedDevil_Forever]: "HE SHUSHED THEM! THE MADMAN! I LOVE HIM!"
[User: Mourinhos_Son]: "Look at Jose standing with him. That image is iconic. Father and Son against the world."
[User: Chelsea_Hater]: "Sit down Chelsea! 1-1! Game on!"
[User: Tactical_View]: "Pogba's turn was filth!"
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