Starting as a Defensive Midfielder at Real Madrid

A meal of Argentinian barbecue had left Li Ang thoroughly satisfied, though he couldn’t say the same about the mate tea Messi and Di María drank so fondly.

The first sip twisted his face into an exaggerated grimace—a moment that was, of course, captured by a reporter and plastered across Spanish sports headlines the next day.

Still, with Di María and Iniesta joining them at dinner, the gathering stirred little controversy. It was a dinner among friends—nothing more.

All four tweeted photos after the meal, and with Di María acting as a bridge, Li Ang and Messi dining together suddenly made a lot of sense.

Since the match had been followed by the international break, Li Ang stayed in Barcelona for the night. The next morning, after saying goodbye to Di María at the hotel, he flew back to Madrid with his assistant.

Di María and Messi, of course, headed straight to their national team camp.

While waiting in the airport, Li Ang caught a TV segment previewing international fixtures and couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness.

When his assistant jokingly suggested he could always naturalize for Spain, Li Ang simply smiled and shook his head.

His answer was firm.

To his Spanish assistant, it seemed strange. Plenty of pros held dual citizenship; switching national teams wasn’t rare.

But Li Ang didn’t elaborate.

Maybe it was something only a Chinese footballer in his position could understand.

Some reasons sound sentimental. Mention them too often and you get labeled corny, self-important.

But when a real decision looms—one that defines your path—those reasons become anchors, quietly reminding you of your roots.

He couldn’t sever that. Couldn’t forget it.

All he could do was carry it forward.

※※※

During the international break, training facilities across Europe fell silent.

With most players away, the media lost interest. Even at Valdebebas, Real Madrid’s sprawling training center, there wasn’t much going on.

Had Marca’s reporters stuck around, they could have easily spotted Li Ang, Nacho, and Carvajal grinding through workouts.

But they’d covered that story too many times. Fans weren’t interested anymore.

Maybe if Li Ang showed up with a girlfriend, they’d pay attention again.

As it was, he didn’t even have female friends.

His social media during the break was full of training shots—shirtless, muscular, tanned—and always alongside Nacho or Carvajal.

Spanish fans were obsessed with his golden skin tone, leaving comments daily, begging him to post his ”tanning routine.”

Li Ang had no idea what to tell them. He just trained shirtless when it got hot, wiped on some sunscreen as Mendes advised, and that was it.

But when Cristiano Ronaldo returned to Valdebebas and enviously rubbed his arm, Li Ang realized how deep Iberian love for tanning went.

And so, with Cristiano’s permission, he posted on Weibo:

”Cristiano says he wants my skin tone. I’m taking him tanning with me. Any thoughts, CR7 fans? I’ll read your comments to him!”

He didn’t think much of it.

By morning, the post had over 30,000 comments.

In 2012, that kind of engagement was insane.

Li Ang sent Ronaldo a screenshot. The Portuguese star replied with a stunned emoji.

When Li Ang translated the flood of Chinese fans begging him not to tan, Ronaldo burst out laughing—but also looked conflicted.

Before training, Li Ang recorded a video of them joking in the rehab room.

”They really don’t want me to tan?”

”Well… not exactly. It’s not that they don’t want it, but they’d prefer the lighter-skinned version of you. It’s iconic to them.”

”Okay, okay… I get it.”

”So, no more tanning?”

”Nope—I’m still going to tan.”

(pause)

”But only during the offseason. During the season, I’ll stop. Please thank my Chinese fans for me. I love them.”

Li Ang uploaded the clip with subtitles.

For two straight days, he and Ronaldo topped Chinese social media trending lists.

Mendes was floored.

He’d spent months building marketing partnerships in China, pushing Li Ang’s brand—and here, a single casual video with Cristiano generated more traction than any formal campaign.

It opened his eyes to an entirely new promotional model.

Still, he didn’t want to overuse Li Ang’s star power. Rarity had value.

Until he refined a repeatable strategy, he advised Li Ang to keep a low profile and focus on training.

After all, the third round of the Champions League group stage was approaching.

For Mendes, this match wasn’t about Real Madrid securing the group’s top spot.

It was about Li Ang vs. Götze.

The battle for the crown of the ’90s generation.

Last year, Li Ang had edged Götze to win the Golden Boy Award.

But this year? Götze had been on fire. He helped Dortmund win the German double and had continued his rise.

Li Ang and Eden Hazard were now too old for the award. And Isco, though talented, lacked the stats and titles to compete.

So this year’s Golden Boy was all but guaranteed to go to Götze.

Still, German media had begun stirring the pot again—citing stats, hinting that last year’s vote may have been biased in Li Ang’s favor.

They didn’t outright claim Götze was better, but the tone was clear.

Li Ang’s fans weren’t having it.

The numbers spoke for themselves:

Serie A ChampionLa Liga ChampionChampions League WinnerFive titles in 2011 alone

Who else in the ’90s-born generation could claim that?

If you were ranking by accolades, Li Ang was undisputed.

And if you were ranking by ability?

Few denied Li Ang’s dominance over his generational peers.

Götze fans kept clinging to the claim that the two had never gone head-to-head.

Some were trolls. Others genuinely wanted the matchup.

Either way, they’d soon get it.

Madrid and Dortmund were about to clash.

And after that, win or lose, the noise would die down.

Li Ang had no issue with Götze personally. He respected him.

But he was tired of the constant comparisons. The unnecessary drama.

So yeah—let the pitch settle it.

On October 19, a pair of ordinary league fixtures drew unusual attention from neutral fans.

It was the final matchday before Champions League Round 3.

Both Li Ang and Götze started for their clubs, fully aware of what was coming.

They weren’t going to lose this ”preview” match.

Götze pushed forward with urgency, notching an assist in the 26th minute to help Lewandowski score early.

Li Ang had no flashy stats in the first half. But Madrid led 1–0, and their control of the match was evident.

Online, fans were already arguing, baiting each other.

The second half began. Götze kept pushing. His distribution was sharp. The crowd buzzed.

But Dortmund’s back line couldn’t hold.

Schalke caught them on the counter, equalizing early in the half.

Perišić, out of position, and Kehl, slow to track back, were both exposed.

Meanwhile in Madrid, Alonso and Modrić weren’t at their best defensively.

But Li Ang was everywhere.

He covered wide, he dropped deep, he stepped up—one-man shield mode activated.

Celta Vigo tried to break down the middle.

They couldn’t.

Every time they thought they had space, Li Ang was there—intercepting, blocking, harassing.

At the Bernabéu, the fans began chanting his name after every successful stop.

He didn’t record a goal or an assist, but Madrid still won 2–0.

Afterward, Ronaldo gave his post-match interview.

He talked about his goals, yes—but also made a point of praising Li Ang:

”He was a beast today. With him covering behind me, I can focus on attack. It’s that simple.”

Mourinho couldn’t stop smiling. Every mention of Li Ang lit up his face.

And Götze?

He walked off the pitch in defeat. Schalke had scored a stoppage-time winner.

It wasn’t Götze’s fault. He’d played well.

But in this unofficial prelude to their head-to-head, Li Ang had won the first round.

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