David Qin had just finished his post-training massage and was preparing to head out for a brief stroll when he spotted a sea of red outside the facility. Chinese fans were busy draping banners and slogans along the perimeter fences.
Win together, rave together; lose together, brave together!
Keep pushing—don't let the fans down!
As long as you're moving forward, no matter how slow, we'll wait for you!
David waved warmly at them, swiped his security badge, and walked over. "Why aren't you guys at the stadium for the match?"
"Couldn't snag a ticket, could we?" a young man replied with a grin, quickly pulling a jersey from his bag. "David, sorry to bother, but could we get an autograph?"
"Hey, it's no bother at all. That's exactly why I came over," David said. He took the jerseys one by one. By the time he'd finished signing for over thirty people, his wrist felt a dull ache, but his smile remained intact.
"Mind taking a photo with us, mate?" David was asked by a passing Australian local. To his surprise, the man recognized him instantly. David hadn't realized that his performances had sent his name skyrocketing to the top of the trending charts in Australia; anyone who followed the sport knew exactly who the teenager from Wolfsburg was.
By the time the photos were done and he had signed one last autograph for the passerby, nearly forty minutes had slipped away. He decided to scrap the walk and headed back inside.
The rest of the squad arrived back at the base early that evening.
"How's the leg feeling?" Zheng Zhi asked, his smile a bit forced. Losing a semifinal was a bitter pill to swallow, especially since China had never tasted Asian Cup glory. They knew beating the hosts would have been a Herculean task, but reaching the final would have at least given them a puncher's chance. Now, they were playing for the scraps of third place.
"Recovering well. I should be fit for the next one," David replied. The third-place playoff was four days away, giving him a total of eight days of rest since the injury.
"Good," Zheng Zhi nodded, a flicker of genuine relief crossing his face.
After dinner, Alain Perrin gathered the squad. "Don't dwell on the loss. Our Asian Cup journey isn't over yet; we still have one more battle ahead of us. Look, we aren't living in a fairy tale. We have to face the gap between us and the elite and accept that they were stronger on the day. But we take the lessons, we find our resolve, and we turn this failure into fuel. Our time is far from over."
Perrin's background as a PE teacher, youth coach, and assistant had given him a keen sense of sports psychology. He knew exactly how to stop a defeat from becoming a psychological rot. The players nodded, their focus shifting.
Over the next few days, the atmosphere at the training base was electric. The squad channeled their frustration into their drills. David received the final all-clear from the hospital—his injury was fully healed. When he shared the news, the camp erupted in cheers. While players like Wu Lei were determined to prove they could carry the load, they weren't about to turn down the help of the team's most lethal weapon.
January 30th.
Newcastle Stadium.
China's opponent was Iraq, a nation forged in the fires of conflict, yet a perennial powerhouse in Asian football. Since the fall of the old regime in 2003, Iraq had reached the quarterfinals in four consecutive Asian Cups, including their miraculous 2007 title run. Their success extended beyond the continental stage; in 2004, just a year after the war ended, they finished fourth at the Athens Olympics—a feat surpassed only by Japan's 1966 bronze and South Korea's 2012 podium finish.
The dark history behind their resilience was harrowing. Under the previous regime, the FA was led by the dictator's son, who famously tortured players for losing matches. He'd shave their heads with a pocketknife, lash the soles of their feet, or force them to kick solid concrete balls until their feet were a bloody mess.
David, reading through a briefing on Iraqi football history, felt a sudden surge of gratitude for his own circumstances. He patted Gao Lin on the shoulder. "Good thing we're Chinese, Gao-ge. With your finishing... you'd have had your legs broken by now."
"That's brutal," Gao Lin muttered, shivering as he thought about some of his more infamous misses.
"Central Broadcasting Station! Central Broadcasting Station!"
"Good evening to all our viewers! We are coming to you live from Newcastle Stadium for the third-place playoff of the 2015 Asian Cup!"
"I am your commentator, He Wei, joined tonight by Liu Jiayuan."
On the pitch, the teams finished the anthems and exchanged pennants. Zheng Zhi lost the toss, and the veteran Iraqi captain, Younis Mahmoud, chose the side. Younis was a legend of the highest order. Currently unattached to any club, he had dedicated the twilight of his career solely to the national team. He was the only player to score in four consecutive Asian Cups and the talisman behind their 2007 triumph. He was also the man Chinese fans feared most; in the last ten years, Iraq had won four and drawn two against China. Younis himself had scored the winners that knocked China out of the 2014 World Cup qualifiers.
"China remains in their 4-2-3-1," He Wei observed. "We see Gao Lin leading the line today with Yu Hai dropping into the hole. It's an interesting tactical shift from Alain Perrin to provide more of a focal point. And of course, the big news—the return of David Qin. He missed the semifinal, but he's back tonight and looks sharp."
The whistle shrieked, and the match began. China started with measured composure, circulating the ball through the middle. Unlike the semifinal, they now had David Qin to provide an outlet.
"David Qin receives from Zheng Zhi, and Yasin is onto him immediately!"
Yasin, a physical presence from the Swiss leagues, pressed hard. David didn't hesitate. He pulled out a flamboyant Elasticò, the ball snapping from his instep to his laces in a blur. Yasin committed his weight, his foot lashing at thin air as David glided past.
The Chinese fans erupted. David was clearly back. He drove forward ten yards before the Iraqi cover arrived. "Double up! Don't let him through!" Salim screamed, cutting off the wing while a teammate shaded inside. Yasin was charging back, teeth grit.
Caught in a triple-team, David charged directly at the wall, feinting a central breakthrough. Just as Abdul-Amir stepped up to commit, David executed a sublime No-Look Pass. The ball zipped into the left channel, finding Yu Hai in stride. Known as the "Chinese Robben," Yu Hai didn't need a second invitation to cut inside.
"Yu Hai with the strike! It's deflected—Gao Lin is there for the second ball!"
"Wait... oh, you have to be kidding me!" He Wei sounded genuinely bewildered. "He was right there! How has he managed to miss the target from that distance?"
The ball sailed high into the stands. "My bad! My bad!" Gao Lin groaned, shaking his head. He'd been sprinting too fast; the momentum had carried his foot through the ball at the wrong angle.
"Don't sweat it! Go again!" David yelled, waving him back. "Reset! Defensive positions!"
Despite the miss, David felt better. Having Gao Lin as a target man pinned the Iraqi line back, stretching the game and opening space. But Iraq hit back with the ferocity of a cornered predator. Khalaf drove down the left, and though Zhang Chengdong dispossessed him, the Iraqi winger scrambled back to his feet to press the recovery. Under pressure, Zhang's clearance fell straight to Kasim, who launched a searching long ball behind Zhang Linpeng.
"Younis Mahmoud!"
"The 36-year-old is timing his run to perfection!"
"It's a footrace! A fifty-fifty!"
Wang Dalei, ever the aggressive sweeper-keeper, charged off his line. Younis didn't flinch. Neither man was going to yield.
CRUNCH.
The pitch-side microphones picked up the sickening thud of the collision. Wang Dalei was sent into a mid-air spin before slamming into the turf. He had managed to punch the ball clear of the box, but at a terrible cost. Younis fared no better, catching the full weight of the keeper's momentum.
"Are you okay?" players from both sides rushed over. The referee signaled frantically for the medics.
"Dammit... he hit me like a truck," Wang Dalei gasped, his face contorted in pain. "I think my shoulder's done for."
Across from him, Younis lay still, his eyes glazed, struggling to find his breath.
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