"Son Heung-min breaks through on the left flank and sends in a low cross!"
"He's looking for Kane near the penalty spot — and what a first touch that is!"
"Kane shakes off Maguire, opens his body, and side-foots it toward goal!"
"TOTTENHAM HAVE ONE BACK!"
"A flicker of life at Wembley, a roar from the white half of the stadium, and Harry Kane reminds Manchester United that Spurs may be wounded, but they are not yet dead!"
Jim Beglin quickly added, "That's a really sharp finish. United got a little loose after going two up. Wan-Bissaka lets Son get away too easily, and Maguire's tackle is a bit reckless. That goal should wake them up."
Wembley erupted.
Son Heung-min rushed into the goal, grabbed the ball, and sprinted back toward the center circle as if the whole match had suddenly been dragged back from the edge of death.
Kane waved toward the stands, urging the fans to raise their voices even louder.
"It's still anyone's game!" Son shouted to his teammates. "If we can score one, that proves we're not inferior to Manchester United!"
Even though they were not particularly fond of him, the Tottenham players still felt their spirits lift.
"Come on!"
Their roar rose together, rough and desperate.
Not far away, the Manchester United players showed little sign of dejection.
"Don't worry about conceding. Keep attacking them," Ling said, giving Maguire a firm punch on the shoulder.
"If they score one, we'll score two."
Then he returned to his position.
Looking at the back of Manchester United's number 7 as he led the team forward again, any lingering frustration among the United players vanished almost instantly.
Tottenham were a mid-to-lower-table team with just 14 points from 12 rounds, winless in their last five league matches.
Did they really think they could snatch a victory today?
Damn.... were they dreaming?
...
After Kane's goal, the match entered a white-hot phase.
Physical battles, speed, fouls, and furious transitions became the main themes under the Wembley lights.
But Tottenham's morale, which had surged after the goal, gradually began to fade as they struggled to create further danger.
On the flank, Wan-Bissaka threw away all complacency and defended Son Heung-min as if he were facing Ling himself.
Steady.
Tight.
Unyielding.
Meanwhile, Tottenham's talented midfielder Dele Alli, in his duel with Kanté, came to understand the meaning of a certain saying.
There were no insurmountable obstacles in this world.
Only Kanté, who could not be bypassed.
No matter how clever Alli's movement was, no matter how sharp his dribbling seemed, that little bald-headed figure shadowed him relentlessly.
Kanté did not always win the ball back immediately, but he kept forcing Alli into backward passes, preventing him from becoming the source of Tottenham's key attacks.
Alli was an emotional player by nature, and the more anxious he became, the more mistakes started creeping into his game.
Finally, in the 37th minute, Alli tried to dribble past his marker with a feint and burst of speed.
Instantly, a dark leg stretched out from the side.
The ball was cleanly intercepted, while Alli, thrown off balance by his own momentum, stumbled forward.
"KANTÉ AGAIN!"
"He arrives from the blind side like a thief in the night, and Tottenham's little moment of hope has been robbed at source!"
"Manchester United can counter here!"
Kanté pushed forward with his short strides, charging into Tottenham's half.
Son Heung-min sprinted back frantically from the side, gradually closing the gap between them.
But just as he was about to overtake—
Thump!
The ball rolled straight to the right flank, where Mahrez collected it and accelerated at full speed.
Manchester United's rapid counterattack was taking shape.
"Tottenham are recovering well, especially around Ling. They still haven't let him breathe for even a second."
"If that's the case, United may have to recycle this attack. Bruno Fernandes might be better off reorganizing for a second wave while Ling searches for space."
Yet reality went in the completely opposite direction.
Manchester United did not halt their advance. In the blink of an eye, they had already reached the edge of the penalty area.
On the screen, Ling was surrounded.
One defender to the right.
One to the left.
One behind him.
One in front.
"Vertonghen, you press him," Alderweireld said in a low voice from the right. "We'll lock him down."
Davinson Sánchez, stationed to the left, stared intently at Ling's left foot.
He was afraid Ling would pull the same trick again — another chip, turn, and overhead kick.
Winks, chasing back from behind, was also closing in quickly, aiming to cut off Mahrez's passing lane back.
As Mahrez approached the byline, the King of Dribbling gradually slowed down.
He was observing.
Even though Ling was wrapped up like a dumpling, was there any passing lane left?
The answer was yes.
Less than half a body's width.
Under such circumstances, Mahrez decisively passed the ball, strictly executing the only tactic that truly mattered.
Give the damn ball to Ling!
Even if it looked impossible.
He still held blind confidence in him.
Because match after match had proven one thing again and again.
Impossible was only the word people used before Ling touched the ball.
Smack!
Winter Mahrez was strong af, even with his weaker foot, his accuracy was still impeccable.
The ball brushed past Alderweireld's toes.
As the crisp sound of a touch echoed in the cramped penalty area, the nerves of the four Tottenham players surrounding Ling tightened at the same time.
Mourinho leaned forward.
Pochettino widened his eyes.
Everyone watched the trapped Ling, and the same scene flashed through their minds.
A chip and overhead kick?
Davinson had even raised his foot, ready to clear the ball the instant it lifted into the air.
But what happened next was beyond imagination.
Ling did not chip the ball.
Instead, he trapped it behind him.
'A mistake?'
And it was precisely this seemingly mistaken touch that evaded Winks, who was chasing from behind.
But how could he shoot from there?
This was Alderweireld's confusion, and also the confusion of countless fans watching the match.
Unless Ling could twist his body into a pretzel, there was simply no way to take a shot.
Position, angle, and body shape all dictated that this ball should be intercepted by Tottenham.
Ling understood that too.
But he did not need to twist into a pretzel.
He only needed to bend his left knee slightly and wrap his right foot around his left.
Under the astonished gazes of the Tottenham players, Manchester United's number 7 seemed to dance inside the penalty area.
The tip of his right foot struck the ball.
The Tottenham goal was breached once again, ruthlessly trampled under the feet of the Red Devils.
For half a second, nobody seemed to understand what they had just seen.
Then Peter Drury's voice detonated through the broadcast.
"OH, STOP IT! STOP IT, JEREMY LING!"
"A RABONA! SURROUNDED BY FOUR! NO SPACE, NO ANGLE, NO RIGHT TO EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!"
"And still he finds a way — with a flick of audacity, with a twist of genius, with a piece of footballing sorcery that belongs in a gallery!"
"Wembley is no longer a stadium tonight. It is his stage, his canvas, his kingdom!"
"Tottenham gave him a cage, and he turned it into a dance floor!"
Jim Beglin was almost laughing in disbelief.
"That's outrageous, Peter. You can't coach that. You can't prepare for that. Four defenders are around him, and somehow he still produces a finish. It's ridiculous."
Even the picky Tottenham fans could not help rising to their feet and applauding this artistic goal.
It was simply too beautiful!
Even if they were the backdrop, they could not ignore such beauty.
Ling's signature celebration appeared once again as the three roars echoed through the London night sky.
What?
Hold back?
How could that be?
He was aiming to break Messi's 91-goal record. Every goal mattered!
...
Meanwhile, the Manchester United players stood frozen in place for a moment.
It felt like after winning the Ballon d'Or, Ling had become even more terrifying than before.
Then they swarmed toward him, showering him with the warmest praise.
Damn... was there anything better in this world than your star player leveling up?
As for the Tottenham players, they hung their heads, placed their hands on their hips, and sighed.
The lofty ambition they had felt after scoring earlier had vanished without a trace, completely shattered by Ling's rabona.
What happened when you gave someone hope, then crushed it with a devastating blow?
The answer was simple.
Just end it all.
On the sidelines, Pochettino stared blankly ahead, the spark in his eyes fading.
He wanted it all to end too.
If he got sacked, so be it. With his résumé, he would not have trouble finding another job.
But there was one non-negotiable condition.
Not in the Premier League!
He had had enough of Jeremy Ling!
Every time this guy played against him, he unleashed his full potential.
Just look at these two goals.
Either one of them could win the Puskás Award and yet he had pulled off both in the same match.
Besides, the first half was not even over yet. There were still more than fifty minutes remaining.
Could Ling score again?
Pochettino believed he would.
And not just once.
Since he was probably packing his bags anyway, there was no need to make any adjustments.
Let the Tottenham players figure it out themselves.
As for whether Manchester United served them seven or eight... It no longer mattered.