Under the watchful eyes of countless fans back in China, the clock quietly ticked toward the 67th minute.
David Qin finally registered his first touch of the match. As he sized up the opposition, he saw Makoto Hasebe cutting off the lane for a through ball while Aleksandar Ignjovski shadowed his lateral passing route. A thought flashed through his mind: Should I take this on myself?
A split second later, he made his decision. He flicked the ball up sharply with his right foot.
Three-dimensional thinking.
Unlike many of his peers, the Ronaldinho template endowed him with an extraordinary sense of spatial awareness. He was never a player limited to the ground.
"A clever bit of improvisation!"
"He lofts it directly for Bendtner. 'The Lord' holds off Carlos Zambrano—is he turning to break free?"
"He hesitates... Ah, and there it is. Anderson Bamba pounced on that hesitation and intercepted cleanly! Possession back with Frankfurt."
For most players, "holding onto the ball too long" is a glaring weakness. For a select few, however, it is the hallmark of a genius. Those players can retain possession, shield the ball under pressure, and tear through a defense single-handedly, dragging defenders out of position like magnets. Clearly, Bendtner was not that kind of genius; he was merely a man with more confidence than sense.
After receiving the pass, Hasebe performed a sudden stop-and-go that left a pressing David Qin momentarily unbalanced. He then initiated a series of quick "give-and-go" passes on the right wing, forming a lethal three-man advancing unit with Stefan Aigner and Ignjovski. In the blink of an eye, they bypassed Guilavogui and danced past Rodríguez.
"The same old routine—they're looking for the cross!"
"Searching for Seferović!"
"Beautiful! Robin Knoche, the 189cm product of the Wolfsburg academy, clears it!"
"He's a beast in the air. Since being promoted to the first team a couple of seasons ago, he's become a rock at the back. Now, who's first to the second ball?"
Wolfsburg's perimeter defense was tight. Junior Malanda pinged a first-time pass to Guilavogui, who intelligently let it run through his legs. The ball sizzled across the turf toward Kevin De Bruyne, but Hasebe was already waiting for him.
"Kevin!"
David's voice cut through the stadium noise, reaching De Bruyne's ears.
The Belgian didn't hesitate. He held off Hasebe's challenge, feinting a step to the left before flicking a pass in the opposite direction with the outside of his boot.
Snap! The ball seemed to have eyes as it curled perfectly into David's stride.
"Beautiful," David thought, unable to suppress a grin.
The heat of the match surged against him, and the cacophony of the crowd intensified. He took the ball in his stride and began to accelerate.
"Don't let him past!" Hasebe roared.
In his path stood Frankfurt's right-back, Ignjovski. The Serbian was 174cm and weighed 68kg—his game was built on agility and balance. Trying to bully him the way David had bullied Tim Klose in training wasn't going to work.
David modulated his dribbling speed, his head up as he scanned the field. De Bruyne was charging through the middle but was being shadowed step-for-step by Hasebe. Bendtner was at the edge of the box, arms spread wide as if demanding the ball. And then, there was Vieirinha on the far side.
His thoughts crystallized. David's rhythm shifted abruptly. He touched the ball with the outside of his right foot, feinting an inside cut toward the center. Simultaneously, his body tilted, and his toe pointed toward Bendtner.
What's he doing?
The experienced Ignjovski immediately deduced that David wasn't trying to beat him—he was setting up an outside-the-foot pass to the striker. He instinctively shifted his weight half a step to intercept.
But what happened next made his knees buckle.
It wasn't a pass. It wasn't an inside cut.
The moment Ignjovski's center of gravity shifted, Wolfsburg's Number 13 used a subtle, magical flick of his ankle to rewrite the ball's trajectory.
"Wait... what?!"
"The Flip-Flap!"
"David Qin's exaggerated 'Elastico' has sent Ignjovski to the floor!"
"He has a clear path!"
It wasn't entirely clear. David could see Carlos Zambrano sprinting across to cover, and Kevin Trapp had already moved to guard the near post. Whether he shot or took another touch, he was in danger of wasting the opening.
He chose the outside-foot cross.
Snap! The camera tracked the ball's flight. At the end of the arc, thirty thousand fans saw a green-and-white blur.
Vieirinha!
Portuguese wingers often share the same traits: they are fast and efficient. Cristiano Ronaldo was that way in his youth, and Vieirinha was no different. He cut in from the right, met the descending ball, and unleashed a thunderous volley.
Trapp, stranded at the left post, wasn't the Flash; he couldn't teleport. He could only watch helplessly as the ball tore into the net.
2-1!
"Vieirinha! Vieirinha! GOAL!"
"Wolfsburg lead once again!"
"David Qin! Our young star has recorded a vital assist in his Bundesliga debut!"
"Look at the replay! David Qin first leaves Ignjovski for dead with that piece of skill, then curls a sensational outside-foot ball to Vieirinha! Even if the final ball was a bit tight, Vieirinha had enough time to adjust!"
Liu Jiayuan's voice was cracking with excitement. He had never imagined that David would secure an assist in his very first Bundesliga outing. The joy was intoxicating.
Chinese fans in front of their televisions stood in stunned silence before erupting as the replay played back.
Inside the Volkswagen Arena, the Wolfsburg supporters were in a frenzy.
"Wait, wasn't that kid just a marketing hire from the corporate office?"
"A marketing hire? You ever see a marketing hire move like that?"
"Exactly! Look at that footwork—it's like he's dancing! It's footballing ballet!"
The die-hard fans in the stands were now fixed on David. A crucial assist on your debut? That was a performance worth remembering. That was a performance worth cheering for.
On the pitch, Vieirinha didn't forget the chef who had served him the meal. He dragged David to the corner flag to celebrate, grinning wide. "David, that move was incredible. You've got the spirit of my idol, Cristiano."
David: "..."
He felt his style was worlds apart from Ronaldo's, whether the current version or the young "Step-over King" version. But he wasn't about to argue. It was a compliment, after all.
Gazing at the undulating sea of green and white and listening to the blood-pumping roars of the crowd, he had only one thought: I want this wave to rise for me. I want these cheers to be for my name.
An assist was no longer enough. Scoring was the goal.
"Hey, kid. You're nothing like Cristiano," Bendtner said confidently as he walked over. "You're more like me. Not the technique, mind you—I mean that fire you have in your eyes."
David: "..."
He suddenly felt that Wolfsburg was devoid of "normal" people. It was either "The Lord" or the "Introverted Maestro." Was he the only sane one left?
While the others swarmed David, De Bruyne stood on the periphery, giving a simple wave of his hand as a celebration. Given his personality, he wouldn't push his way into the huddle, but his mind was replaying David's footwork.
Flair. It was an intangible quality, but he had undeniably felt it radiating from David Qin.