The Newcastle United nightmare was only just beginning.
In the media, Manchester United had recently earned a new, somewhat tongue-in-cheek nickname: 'The Basketball Team.'
This wasn't a compliment on their dribbling; it was a nod to their relentless, towering aerial assaults.
With Lukaku, Pogba, Smalling, Matic, and now Zlatan back, the team was a land of giants.
Low crosses, diagonal balls from the flanks, and lofted passes from midfield—they were all delivered in rapid succession, forcing Newcastle United to compress their defensive shape into a panic-stricken box.
45+2 Minutes.
Ashley Young, rolling back the years, made a lung-bursting overlapping run down the left flank.
He feigned a cross, sending DeAndre Yedlin sliding past him, but instead cut the ball back sharply to the edge of the penalty area.
As the camera swiftly panned, the figure of Manchester United's Number 7 came into view.
Most of the Newcastle players were crowded deep inside the penalty area, expecting the high ball.
When they saw Jeremy Ling adjusting his stance in space, panic set in.
They instantly realized he was preparing to shoot.
Jonjo Shelvey and Ciaran Clark frantically rushed out to close him down, throwing their bodies in the way.
But by then, Ling had already positioned the ball slightly to the side.
He glanced up briefly toward the top right post—the postage stamp.
He began his angled run-up.
With a sudden, long stride, he struck the lower part of the ball, applying intense spin.
Bang!
The ball soared into the air.
It didn't travel in a straight line; it described a massive, exaggerated, beautiful arc.
It started outside the post and bent violently back in.
Rob Elliot, the Newcastle goalkeeper, reacted as quickly as he could.
He flew to his left.
But he could only watch helplessly as the ball bypassed his outstretched glove and nestled into the top corner of the net.
2-1!
Whoosh!!!
Old Trafford erupted once again.
The sound was deafening, a release of tension that had built up since the early Newcastle goal.
Ling sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees, his arms spread wide.
His teammates swarmed him.
With the first half not even over, they had not only equalized but taken the lead.
The psychology of the match had flipped.
Now, the pressure was squarely on Newcastle United.
Martin Tyler: "ASHLEY YOUNG CUTS IT BACK... AND LING!!! OH, THAT IS ABSOLUTELY MAGNIFICENT!"
"He's bent that in from nowhere! The curl, the dip... Rob Elliot had absolutely no chance! Manchester United turn it around in the blink of an eye!"
Gary Neville: "That technique is pure class. We talk about the 'Ronaldo chop,' but that finish... that's Beckham-esque. He wraps his foot around it and just whips it into the top bin. What a turnaround before halftime!"
....
Soon, it was halftime.
By the time the two teams returned to the pitch for the second half, Mourinho's ability to make crucial, game-winning in-game adjustments was on full display once again.
He didn't sit back on the lead.
He smelled blood.
He shifted the formation to a fluid 4-3-3.
He positioned Ling and Rashford closer to the penalty area as inside forwards, allowing Lukaku more freedom of movement to drift wide or drop deep, enhancing the offensive pressure.
Rafa Benítez, on the other touchline, looked frustrated.
Despite having a head full of tactical diagrams and strategies, he lacked the quality of players to execute them against this United onslaught.
He could only pace restlessly along the sidelines, adjusting his glasses.
In the 56th minute of the match.
Newcastle United tried to clear their lines, launching a long ball from their own half toward the forward, Joselu.
Chris Smalling, dominant in the air, consistently won the first header.
Nemanja Matić controlled the second ball with his chest and immediately passed it to the left flank.
Ling, who had dropped back to help defend the transition, received the ball and surged forward.
Facing the same pressing tackle from Matt Ritchie that had caught him out in the first half, he was fully prepared this time.
First, he used his body strength—boosted by his recent point allocation—to shield the ball, bouncing Ritchie off him.
Then, he swiftly cut inside, bypassing the recovering Yedlin with a drop of the shoulder.
The entire sequence flowed seamlessly.
He looked up and saw the run. He delivered a raking long pass to the right wing.
Marcus Rashford had made a brilliant forward run
. He carried the ball near the byline, drawing the defenders, and cut it back perfectly to the edge of the penalty area.
Paul Pogba was arriving late.
The Frenchman didn't break stride. He met the ball with a side-foot finish, guiding it into the net with effortless cool.
3-1!
Mourinho didn't stop there.
He wanted to bury his old rival.
He quickly signaled the fourth official.
Marouane Fellaini and Zlatan Ibrahimović were coming on.
The "Basketball Team" strategy was going into overdrive. The aerial bombardment continued.
In the 67th minute.
Matic played a clever through ball down the left flank. Ling burst into the box, beating the offside trap.
Instead of shooting from a tight angle, he delivered a floated cross to the far post.
Rashford leaped high, but instead of heading at goal, he cleverly headed it back across the face of the six-yard box.
Zlatan Ibrahimović was waiting.
The Lion didn't even have to jump. He tapped it in effortlessly.
4-1!
After scoring, Ibrahimović jogged over and wrapped his massive arms around Ling and Rashford's shoulders, pulling the two youngsters into a huddle.
"You two should feel a bit threatened," Zlatan grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Watch out, or I'll catch up to your goal tally by Christmas!"
"Zlatan," Ling joked back, breathless, "that tap-in wasn't nearly as beautiful as my curler!"
"Goals are goals, menino. I count them all."
Old Trafford erupted in a frenzy.
The "Glory Glory Man United" chant echoed throughout the stadium.
The fans in the stands felt exhilarated, their gloom from the early setback swept away by the four-goal comeback.
'Who would dare say we're out of form?' This performance filled them with confidence for the upcoming, dreaded away match against Arsenal.
On the sidelines, Benítez had completely abandoned any hope of winning the match.
His expression was complex and bitter.
He still felt a sense of injustice—if the team he coached had the budget and quality of United, he wouldn't have been humiliated like this.
And that was indeed the truth.
Meanwhile, Mourinho lived up to his "Special One" moniker.
He turned to the cameras, pointing downward at the pitch, and let out an impassioned roar.
Reporters seized the moment, capturing a classic photograph of Mourinho in his element: dominant, vindicated, and at home.
The match ultimately ended 4-1.
Not only did Manchester United extend their unbeaten league run to 14 games, but they also stretched their unbeaten home record to 40 matches—just four games away from equaling the legendary record set by Juventus.
...
Back in the dressing room, the Manchester United players were ecstatic.
The music was blaring—Pogba had control of the aux cord.
They stripped off their shirts and broke into awkward, joyous dance moves.
Ling didn't hold back either, joining in without hesitation, trying to copy Pogba's moves and failing miserably.
Just then, the door swung open.
Mourinho walked in. The music didn't stop.
"Pogba, Lingard," he said cheerfully, pointing at them. "You're dancing well. Keep the rhythm."
He looked at Ling. "Ling, you still need more practice. Stick to football."
He turned and left, leaving the dressing room to the players.
"Olé, olé, olé!"
The players exchanged glances and continued their excited shouts, twisting their bodies in celebration. The bond was strong.
...
As December arrived in England, the weather turned biting.
The withered yellow leaves on the trees along the streets of Manchester drifted down in the cold wind, painting a picturesque, melancholic scene.
Yet, inside the walls of the Carrington training base, the atmosphere was buzzing with energy.
Ling had just completed a basic dribbling drill around cones.
He took the towel handed to him by Rui Faria, wiped off his sweat, and exhaled a large cloud of white breath into the freezing air.
Instinctively, he opened his system.
[Dribbling: 90.1]
Dribbling attribute reached 90? Ling felt a surge of surprise, then couldn't help but smile wide.
What a wonderful day.
Faria, standing nearby with a stopwatch, noticed the goofy grin.
He rolled his eyes.
'Has this kid got a girlfriend?' Faria wondered. 'Why else would he suddenly have such a suggestive, happy expression in minus two degrees?'
Ling felt reinvigorated.
He switched to his weaker foot to continue the next set of dribbling drills.
He felt it.
After repeatedly using touches like flicks, pulls, cuts, knocks, steps, and sweeps, he could sense a noticeable improvement.
He and the ball moved as one, perfectly in sync.
Dribbling isn't just a single attribute; it is a comprehensive combination of ball feel, balance, physicality, and mental processing speed.
Hitting 90 meant he was entering the realm of the elite.
However, he knew getting complacent was dangerous.
90 was great, but the ceiling was 99.
'If I one day reach Ronaldo's level... does that mean I can't continue to progress? No. I will create a new level.' He gritted his teeth. 'Keep working.'
...
Two days passed in the blink of an eye.
Ling, along with his teammates, embarked on the journey to London.
This time, they were set to challenge Arsenal at the Emirates.
This match attracted a massive amount of attention from fans and media alike.
Not just because it was United vs. Arsenal, a classic rivalry.
But because Arsène Wenger and José Mourinho were famously, bitterly at odds.
Wenger, the idealist, strongly disliked Mourinho's emphasis on pragmatic, "anti-football" results and his abrasive style.
Mourinho, the realist, despised Wenger's protection from the media despite years of failure.
In simple terms, their football philosophies—and personalities—were diametrically opposed.
The media spent the week replaying their greatest hits.
The war of words was legendary.
Wenger: "Mourinho is putting the development of football at risk! He plays fear."
Mourinho: "Wenger is a voyeur. He likes to spy on others from afar! He is obsessed with Chelsea."
Wenger: "He is disconnected from reality and disrespectful."
Mourinho: "You know, Wenger is a specialist in failure, and I am not. If I supposedly have a great team and go eight years without a trophy, I leave. I don't stay."
If one were to compile all their mutual taunts, it would fill a book.
There was even the infamous scene where they physically shoved each other on the sidelines at Stamford Bridge, tie-pulling and all.
...
Match Day.
The Emirates Stadium grew noisy as kickoff approached.
In the tunnel, the air was thick.
Ling stood in the line.
He watched Mourinho and Wenger standing just a few feet apart.
They ignored each other completely, staring straight ahead, refusing to even acknowledge the other's existence.
Ling suddenly felt a wave of emotion.
'Mourinho was really hot-tempered in his younger days,' he thought. 'He offended almost everyone he could. But this... this is pure, distilled hatred.'
But then, a strange thought crossed his mind.
'Who would have thought that these two, so fiercely opposed, might one day reconcile? That one day, they might sit in a studio together and laugh about this?'
'Time,' Ling mused, adjusting his armband.
'is a funny thing'.
For now, though, it was war. And he was Mourinho's soldier.