On January 1st, David Qin and his teammates boarded a flight for Australia, touching down in Sydney nine hours later. Entry was a grueling process; as an island nation, Australia's customs and quarantine checks were notoriously stringent.
It took over an hour to clear the gates, but the fatigue vanished the moment they stepped into the arrivals hall. A sea of red jerseys—dozens of Chinese fans—erupted in cheers.
"Jia you, China!" "Go get 'em, David!" "Break the record! Take us all the way!"
Watching the exuberant crowd, David couldn't help but grin. One of the greatest perks of being a Chinese player was that no matter where you traveled in the world, you were never far from home. Among the supporters were several elderly fans, likely long-term Sydney residents. Though Chinese clubs often visited for the AFC Champions League, the national team stirred a different, deeper level of devotion.
One silver-haired gentleman gripped David's hand, pressing a bouquet of sunflowers into his palm. His voice was raspy with age and emotion. "I'm waiting for you back here in Sydney for the final. Don't let me down."
"We'll give it everything we've got, sir," David promised. It was the only guarantee he could make.
"That's all we ask," the old man replied, his cloudy eyes drifting toward the past. "At least you've given us hope again. Maybe before these old bones return to the earth, I'll get to see you lot play in another World Cup." He had traveled to the 2002 World Cup in South Korea. They hadn't won a game, but the spirit they showed against Brazil—that near-miss shot that rattled the post—was etched into his soul.
"You won't have to wait that long," David said softly. He remembered his own past life, sitting on the other side of the screen, watching with that same desperate, flickering hope.
Nearby, Zheng Zhi watched the fans swarm David. He leaned toward Wu Lei. "The kid's popularity is through the roof. Have you thought about making the jump to Europe yet?"
"Every single day," Wu Lei admitted, his eyes burning with ambition. "I'm young, I don't have financial pressure yet... why wouldn't I want to test myself against the best?"
"Wait until the Asian Cup is over, then ask David to help you get a foot in the door with some Bundesliga scouts," Zheng Zhi suggested. "With your pace, you might struggle for a starting spot immediately, but you'd be a lethal rotation player."
"I'd take that in a heartbeat," Wu Lei said. "I've talked to David about their training intensity—it's light-years ahead of the CSL. Even sitting on the bench over there, I'd improve faster than I would playing every week here."
"The pay is lower, though," Zheng Zhi noted with a bitter smile. "A lot of the youngsters back home refuse to leave because they want to cash in while the 'Golden Era' money is flowing."
"If I can become a regular in the Bundesliga, the big money will follow," Wu Lei countered. "Besides, if I spend a few years 'studying' abroad and then come back, I'll be worth even more."
Zheng Zhi nodded silently. Don't let the dreams under your pillow go moldy, he thought.
After the warm welcome, the team traveled 50 kilometers southwest to their training camp in Campbelltown.
"Is it just me, or is this pitch a bit..." David trailed off, looking at the patchy turf.
"Every decent facility was booked months in advance," explained Team Leader Liu Dianqiu. "We only secured this spot in November. It's the first time the FA has actually tried a pre-tournament training camp abroad. There are going to be some growing pains."
The pitch was originally a rugby field, and the turf had seen better days. "The grass is a bit rough, so head to the hotel and rest. I'll take the staff and try to level it out," Liu said. Per AFC rules, the local organizing committee only covers costs starting three days before the first match; everything until then was out of the Chinese FA's pocket.
"Want a hand?" David asked.
"Lord, no! You're here to win games, not garden. Get to the hotel. You can't sleep well in economy class anyway."
As the team acclimatized to the scorching Australian summer, the Chinese media was in a frenzy.
Xinhua News: "The National Team has begun closed-door sessions in Sydney. Our first test is Saudi Arabia on January 10th at Brisbane Stadium."
DONGQIUDI: "Coach Perrin is focusing on 'tempo'—specifically how the midfield and backline handle high-intensity pressing to transition into lightning-fast counter-attacks."
Kyoto Sports: "For years, we've suffered from a blunt attack. Gao Lin is reliable but lacks that killer instinct. That changes with David Qin. His world-class dribbling makes our left flank a surgical blade."
January 9th, 2015.
The team gathered in the conference room to watch the tournament opener: Australia vs. Kuwait. The Socceroos used their home advantage to bludgeon Kuwait with aerial dominance, winning 4-1.
"Take note," Perrin said, pausing the footage. "Australia's weapons are set pieces and crosses. Look at Tim Cahill—he's under 1.8 meters, but his attacking intuition is elite. He's always where the ball drops."
He switched the video to a recording of Saudi Arabia in the Gulf Cup. "Their tactics are deliberate. They slow the tempo down, inviting you to press high, then they hit lofted balls over the top or switch play to the wings. Individually, their link-up play is mediocre. But do not let them drag you into a static, positional battle. We aren't strong enough for a wrestling match. We need a war of movement!"
Perrin tapped the screen. "Numbers 9, 18, and 20 are the danger men. Meifang, you're man-marking 18. Zheng Zhi and Wu Xi, you double-team Al-Abid (No. 20). When we win the ball, we go."
Then he turned to David. "David, in Wolfsburg, your coaches give you freedom. It's the same here. I am giving you unlimited license to carry and shoot. Your job is to incinerate their right flank. Draw as many defenders as you can. I want them terrified of you."
Perrin was a disciple of Arsène Wenger. He believed in "Beautiful Football," but he was also a pragmatist. He was gambling his entire career—and his contract—on the idea that David Qin could single-handedly dismantle international defensive systems.
January 10th, 2015. Brisbane Stadium. Ten thousand Chinese fans turned the stands into a roaring crimson sea.
In the pre-match press conference, Saudi manager Cosmin Olăroiu was the picture of arrogance. "We haven't lost to China in eighteen years," he stated. "We beat them in the '84 final; we came from two goals down to score four against them in '96. I don't see any reason for that to change. We will turn eighteen years into nineteen, then twenty."
"What about David Qin?" a reporter asked. "The Bundesliga rising star?"
"He's a talented dribbler," Olăroiu replied with a shrug, though his heart was racing. He'd seen the highlights; he knew David's market value had hit €25.5 million. "But club football isn't international football. I want to see if he's still a 'star' when he doesn't have world-class teammates supporting him. We will be... 'physical' with him."
In the other room, Perrin just smiled. "Many managers in Germany thought they could 'limit' David. Shaaf, Di Matteo, Hecking... ask them how that worked out. After ninety minutes, I suspect Mr. Olăroiu will be singing a different tune."
In the locker room, the air was thick with tension. Zheng Zhi gathered the squad.
"Brothers! I don't need to tell you how much this matters," the captain growled. "Wearing this crest is an honor. Don't let the fans down. Don't let each other down. And for God's sake, don't let yourselves down!"
He held out his hand. "On three. One, two, three—CHINA!"
"JIA YOU! JIA YOU! JIA YOU!"
The roar thundered off the walls. As David stepped out of the tunnel and felt the blast of heat and the sight of the red wave in the stands, his pulse hammered against his ribs. This was different. This wasn't a friendly. This was for history.
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