"Last season, Granit Xhaka averaged 7.2 successful long balls per game," Derek Rae noted as the teams battled for dominance. "In the entire Bundesliga, only Johannes Geis and Bayern's Xabi Alonso were more prolific from deep."
On the pitch, Tony Jantschke cushioned a pass into the center without breaking stride. Christoph Kramer killed the ball instantly, feinting to evade Luiz Gustavo before sliding a crisp pass to Max Kruse. This time, Kruse didn't turn; instead, he laid the ball off perfectly, setting a pedestal for Kramer to strike.
Thump! The dull echo of leather meeting leather rang out as the ball transformed into a guided missile. But a split second later, Diego Benaglio took flight. Arching his back in mid-air, he swatted the goal-bound rocket over the crossbar with a defiant palm.
The roar from the stands shifted instantly. The Mönchengladbach faithful stared at Benaglio in disbelief. Was every top-tier Bundesliga side anchored by a world-class keeper today?
It certainly seemed so. Over the grueling ten-month marathon of a league season, a top-tier goalkeeper is worth half a team. Benaglio's pedigree was undisputed; at the recently concluded World Cup, his save against France had been voted the best of Matchday 9. In the knockout stages against Argentina, he had single-handedly dragged Switzerland into extra time by stonewalling the likes of Rojo, Higuaín, Messi, and Mascherano. Had it not been for Di María's late heroics, the outcome of that match might have been very different.
Amidst the spectacular displays between the sticks, the first half drew to a close.
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Two sharp blasts signaled the interval. David Qin's gaze lingered on Xhaka and Sommer as he walked off. They were formidable. To break this deadlock—especially with Kramer sweeping up alongside Xhaka—he knew he had to be the catalyst. He needed to use his pace on the wing to stretch them, tearing a hole in Gladbach's central defensive line to give De Bruyne the room he needed to operate.
Inside the dressing room, Dieter Hecking was on the same wavelength. "David, your dribbling frequency wasn't high enough in the first half. You weren't putting them under enough pressure. In the second half, I want you demanding the ball more."
Hecking turned to the rest of the squad. "When David has possession, the central players must provide immediate support while minding the space behind them. Don't leave us exposed."
The manager stepped back, letting the players talk.
"Ivan," David said, turning to Perišić. "Try cutting into the half-spaces more. If we stay too wide, Gladbach has time to reset. We aren't doing enough damage through the middle right now."
"Got it. I'll give it a go," Perišić replied. He didn't mind taking tactical advice from the younger David; he was a man of immense character. This was the same Perišić who, as a teenager, had moved to France to support his father's struggling poultry farm, working with his pride intact.
"Kevin, any thoughts?" David asked.
He was often amused by the contrast in De Bruyne. On the pitch, the Belgian was a general, barked orders and orchestrating movements with ruthless precision. Off the pitch, he was a man of few words.
"Just focus on your 1v1s," De Bruyne said, his voice calm and reassuring. "I'll be right behind you in the middle."
In the opposite locker room, Xhaka was dissecting the Wolves. "Their transition zones between the wings and the half-spaces are vulnerable. We need to dwell there, pull their defenders out of position, and create gaps in the box."
Xhaka was as disciplined off the pitch as he was on it. He lived a life of rigorous routine—getting a haircut every two weeks, his wardrobe consisting almost entirely of kits and training gear. He thrived in that structure.
"I know their keeper and their full-backs well," Xhaka continued, his eyes sharp. "We target their right side. We press them there."
Lucien Favre took over. "Wolfsburg is second in the table. There's a gap between us, which makes this a classic six-pointer. We have to take all three."
"Welcome back, football fans!" Derek Rae's voice surged as the teams re-emerged. "After a scoreless first half, I suspect both managers have adjusted their sights. We're in for a treat."
"The whistle goes, and we are underway! Wolfsburg with the ball."
Gladbach pushed high immediately, deploying a suffocating press. They shadowed David and De Bruyne specifically, desperate to prevent a quick counter-attack. Cramped for space, the ball was cycled back to Naldo. The Brazilian didn't take any chances; he wound up and launched a massive long ball downfield.
But the desperate clearance was meat and drink for the Gladbach center-backs. They cushioned a header down to Xhaka.
Snap! Under pressure from De Bruyne, Xhaka clipped a neat pass to Kramer. In an instant, "The Foals" shifted into an attacking gear. Kramer executed a perfect one-two with Herrmann before sliding a through-ball to the "Gambler King," Max Kruse.
Kruse lived by the gamble on the pitch as much as he did at the poker table. He feinted to receive, then let the ball dummy through his legs. Robin Knoche was caught completely off guard.
"Oh!!" The crowd erupted as Kruse's clever turn left the defender for dead. It looked like the breakthrough was finally coming. Kruse surged after the ball, eyes locked on the goal as he wound up for the finish.
But just as his boot was about to make contact, Ricardo Rodríguez lunged. It was a high-stakes, thunderous sliding tackle inside the penalty area.
Crack! Kruse went flying, the ball spiraling away as he lost his balance. The referee waved play on—it was a perfectly timed, ball-first challenge.
Benaglio gathered the loose ball and, seeing Raffael charging at him, immediately launched a massive kick up the pitch.
"That's no aimless clearance!" Fuss shouted. "Down the left! David Qin!"
The fans held their breath. The long ball seemed to have too much on it, and Patrick Herrmann was already in pursuit. It looked like a lost cause; even if David reached it, Herrmann was positioned to intercept.
David didn't care about the odds. As the ball neared the touchline, he hooked it back with his left foot just as Herrmann closed the distance.
What now?
Three-dimensional space!
David's right foot swung back, meeting the falling ball and flicking it skyward. The Wolfsburg fans let out a collective gasp. This wasn't just a game anymore; it was a performance.
With a flash of visionary creativity, David turned the ball into a literal rainbow that sailed clean over Herrmann's head.
The tactical mastermind Lucien Favre stood on the touchline, mouth agape. He had watched countless highlights of David Qin, but there was a vast, terrifying chasm between seeing it on a screen and witnessing it in the flesh.
"Tor!" Dieter Hecking shouted, his heart racing. He had seen this brilliance before, but it never failed to move him. This was the raw beauty of the sport.
Herrmann spun around, frantically raising his hand to the fourth official. "That was out! It was over the line!"
No one listened. The linesman's flag stayed down. Play on.
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