Super Wingstorm

”Go and ask him if there’s something wrong with his eyes! How could he not give a card for a foul that blatant, that malicious? My player is injured now! He’s only seventeen, and he’d only been on the pitch for a few minutes before their guy took him out!”

Ronald Koeman was unleashing his fury on the fourth official on the sideline. He was absolutely livid.

He hadn’t really registered it before, but in the moment Yang Yang was carried off on a stretcher, he was genuinely scared.

Never in the past six months had he been so acutely aware of Yang Yang’s importance to the team as he was right now.

If he was seriously injured and had to come off, this final would be well and truly over for Ajax.

The fourth official bore the brunt of Ronald Koeman’s fury, but he repeatedly reminded the Ajax manager that the referee on the pitch has the ultimate authority, and since no one had gotten a clear look at what happened yet, his decision not to issue a card was understandable.

Of course, he also added that he understood Ronald Koeman’s distress and would be sure to communicate with the referee about it.

Ronald Koeman, seething with frustration and nowhere to vent it, could only stalk back to his technical area. He went over to Yang Yang and asked the team doctor with concern, ”What’s the situation?”

”That knee strike was really hard. It must have hurt a lot, but thankfully, there’s no serious damage. He’ll be fine in a little while.”

As he spoke, the team doctor took a spray canister from his medical bag and applied it to the injured spot on Yang Yang’s thigh.

An icy, cool sensation spread from his right thigh, and the pain soon began to fade.

”Stand up and give it a try,” the team doctor said, patting Yang Yang.

Yang Yang scrambled to his feet and tested his right leg. Although there was still a slight twinge of discomfort, the worst of it was gone. He did a few hops on the spot, and after confirming he was okay, he nodded to his coach and the doctor.

”I’m fine. I can go back in.”

Ronald Koeman came over and clapped a firm hand on Yang Yang’s shoulder. ”That bastard plays dirty. He was deliberately trying to take you out of the game. You need to be careful. If you have to, just stay away from him.”

”I know what to do, boss. I won’t let him get away with it,” Yang Yang nodded.

”I’ve already protested to the fourth official and the referee. They both know what happened. He got away with it this time, but he won’t be so lucky again. I’m sure he’ll think twice before trying to foul you again.”

Yang Yang’s eyes lit up at this, and he nodded repeatedly.

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When Yang Yang was back on the sideline, waiting for a break in play to re-enter the field, the Ajax fans in the stadium erupted in another round of thunderous applause.

”We can see Yang Yang is about to come back on. It looks like he’s not seriously injured after all.”

”Looking at the slow-motion replay, that knee from Valente was definitely forceful, a solid impact right on his thigh. But from the looks of it now, he seems to be okay.”

”The Ajax fans are chanting Yang Yang’s name. There are only six minutes of regulation time left in the second half. It’s looking very likely this will go to extra time, and perhaps even a penalty shootout.”

”You have to wonder, with Yang Yang back on the pitch, can he still pull off a surprise for Ajax?”

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Seeing Yang Yang run back onto the pitch at the referee’s signal, Shen Lifang was already crying with relief.

She had seen Yang Yang get injured on television before, but this was the first time she had witnessed it in person. At that moment, she’d desperately wanted to rush down to the pitch. Thankfully, he had gotten back on his feet quickly.

”Auntie, it’s okay. He’s very tough,” a demure young woman sitting beside her said gently, handing her a tissue.

Shen Lifang nodded, but her eyes couldn’t hide her lingering unease and worry.

’Is he really okay?’

’Can he really keep playing?’

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Back on the pitch, Yang Yang came face to face with Valente. His eyes didn’t hide his fury in the slightest, but a mocking smirk played on his lips.

”You’re a real piece of work, you hypocrite.”

Nuno Valente shot Yang Yang a disdainful look and snorted. ”Kid, this is professional football. If you can’t handle it, you should run home to mommy. Whining to me won’t do you any good.”

Of course, Yang Yang knew this was how professional football was, but that didn’t lessen his contempt for Nuno Valente. He said nothing more, simply fixing the Porto left-back with a cold, mocking stare.

As a man approaching thirty with over a decade of professional football under his belt, Valente had seen it all. But now, being stared down by a seventeen-year-old kid, a stare that actually sent a slight shiver down his spine, he couldn’t help but curse himself for being so pathetic. Yet when he looked back at Yang Yang, the kid still had that same look, that same cold smirk. It made his blood start to boil.

’Damn kid. You’re asking for it, aren’t you?’

Just as the thought surfaced, Yang Yang exploded into motion, darting behind him at top speed. Nuno Valente’s reaction was just as quick; he spun around instantly to give chase, but he was already a step behind. He was forced to cut inside, conceding the line to Yang Yang, who ran onto the ball.

After controlling the ball, Yang Yang cut in diagonally from the right touchline toward the penalty area. By then, however, Valente had recovered his defensive position, setting up a one-on-one confrontation. Inside the box, the Porto defense was already set.

Yang Yang dribbled forward, relentlessly bearing down on Valente, forcing the Porto left-back to backpedal continuously.

Valente was just trying to buy time. As long as the midfielder Maniche or another teammate arrived to help double-team him, Yang Yang would be trapped.

But Yang Yang was already aware of this. With his [God’s Vision], he had a perfect read on the position and movement of every player on the pitch. How could he not know where Maniche was?

By the time Valente had backed up to the edge of the penalty area, Maniche was almost there. But just then, Yang Yang, who had been advancing at a steady, unhurried pace, suddenly cut the ball inside toward the center, feinting as if he were about to dribble horizontally across the top of the box.

’This is my chance!’

Valente and Maniche moved in unison, intending to trap him from both front and back. But the instant Valente committed, Yang Yang suddenly dragged the ball back with his left foot. The ball rolled behind him toward the byline, and he instantly changed direction, accelerating after it at full speed.

A drag-back and change of direction in a tight space—this was a move from [Ronaldo’s Rush].

By the time Valente shifted his weight and turned to chase, he was already a step behind. Yang Yang quickly sent in a cross with his right foot, a long, looping ball straight out of [Beckham’s Cross], delivering it toward the far post.

The ball carved a graceful arc through the air, sailing over Ibrahimovic and the two central defenders in the middle of the box, and dropped toward the far post.

Wesley Sonck at the far post was a half-step slow to react. Although he managed to reach the ball with a sliding shot, trying to redirect it into the goal, it ultimately hit the side netting. He couldn’t convert.

A collective groan of disappointment swept through the stadium.

The Belgian striker pounded the turf in frustration, overcome with regret.

On the sideline, manager Ronald Koeman leaped to his feet in frustration. What a golden opportunity!

He was unmarked! If he had just caught up to it and made clean contact, it would have been a goal! But in the end…

Ibrahimovic, however, gestured to the space in front of himself, signaling to Yang Yang that the pass should have come to him instead of going to the far post.

”I saw Jorge Costa was marking you. If I’d passed it to you, he would’ve just cleared it,” Yang Yang explained, shaking his head.

Porto’s two center-backs were both formidable. Jorge Costa was incredibly experienced, and Cavaleiro had been rock-solid the entire match.

As he walked back, Yang Yang made sure to glance over at Nuno Valente, another cold smirk on his face.

The Porto left-back could only glare daggers at Yang Yang as the furious roar of his manager, Mourinho, echoed from the sideline.

Before the match, Mourinho had ordered him to stick to Yang Yang like glue. For the most part, he had done a decent job, but Yang Yang still managed to find an opening. The kid was like a slippery eel; you just couldn’t get ahold of him.

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”What a troublesome kid.”

In the Porto technical area, assistant manager Boas sighed, frowning as he watched Yang Yang run relentlessly across the pitch.

Mourinho gave a slight nod. He didn’t reply, but he clearly agreed with his right-hand man’s assessment.

”He’s fast, has a great work rate, and he’s incredibly smart,” Boas said. ”He’s always running into open space to receive the ball. Whether he’s pressing high or tracking back on defense, he’s always proactive. A player like that is incredibly difficult to contain.”

The words seemed partly intended as an excuse for Valente.

Mourinho knew this all too well.

”His running isn’t the problem. The key is not to let him receive the ball comfortably,” the Porto manager said grimly.

Yang Yang’s strengths were his speed and his ability to run at defenders, but his first touch was his weakness. As long as Valente stayed tight on him, Mourinho was confident that Yang Yang’s threat could be minimized, if not nullified completely.

”After taking that hit from Valente, I thought the kid might be a bit intimidated,” Boas said with a wry shake of his head. ”But he’s a tough nut to crack. Not only did he not back down, he came back even more aggressively. The way he just ran at Valente had him completely flustered. If Valente weren’t already on a yellow card, he probably would’ve just taken him out.”

A defender on a yellow card is basically playing in shackles. They’re constrained in everything they do; it’s a huge handicap.

”He knows that. I’d even guess he’s hoping Valente tries something. The referee has been watching Valente, too, just waiting for a chance to even things up and compensate Ajax.” Mourinho knew perfectly well that the previous challenge had been a foul.

The referee had made a mistake, a clear error in judgment. But now he would be looking closely. The moment Valente or any other Porto player gave him an excuse, he wouldn’t hesitate to act, to make up for the disadvantage his earlier miscall had caused Ajax.

”Don’t give him the chance,” Mourinho muttered to himself, his eyes fixed on Valente on the pitch.

Having said that, the Porto manager turned and motioned to Boas. ”Get McCarthy warmed up and ready to go on. If nothing changes and we’re still tied at ninety minutes, we’ll make our move in extra time.”

As Boas headed over to the substitutes’ bench to get McCarthy, Mourinho turned back to face the pitch.

Just then, Yang Yang suddenly dropped back from the front line into midfield, raising his hand to call for the ball from Talabesi.