In the immediate wake of Wolfsburg's substitutions, a strange lull settled over the home side—an adjustment period that Hamburg exploited with ruthless efficiency. The visitors suddenly surged forward, their high press snapping like a trap to reclaim possession.
Watching from the touchline, Dieter Hecking couldn't help but admire Bert van Marwijk's cunning. The old fox had timed the surge perfectly, sensing the momentary lack of cohesion in the Wolves' ranks.
Rafael van der Vaart, in particular, looked like a man possessed. He received the ball and executed a sharp V-pull followed by a crisp chop, a flash of the "Golden Boy" of old that left Luiz Gustavo chasing shadows. With no other choice, the Brazilian had to resort to a cynical tactical foul, earning a yellow card to halt the counter-attack.
As the minutes ticked by, Hamburg's rhythm grew white-hot. They were playing with the same "nothing to lose" swagger they had shown against Bayern, and with that flow came an inevitable inflation of desire. Ten minutes ago, they would have been content with a point; now, they were hunting for all three.
Hecking sat bolt upright, a glint of tactical guile shimmering behind his spectacles. He made a subtle, downward gesture to his players. Recede. Draw them in.
"I get the feeling Wolfsburg is playing with fire here," Wolff-Christoph Fuss noted, leaning into the mic. "Or perhaps they're baiting the hook? Notice how Maximilian Arnold has dropped significantly deeper since coming on. They're inviting Hamburg to overextend."
"Van der Vaart is surrounded now! Is he going to try it alone?"
The veteran Dutchman, fueled by his earlier success, felt a surge of misplaced confidence. Once, he could ghost past four defenders without breaking a sweat. Why not now?
Because time is a cruel opponent. Van der Vaart, at 1.75 meters, had never relied on sheer power, and years of cumulative injuries had exacted a toll. As he dug his cleats into the turf to accelerate, a sickening pop echoed from his knee joint. His legs buckled slightly, failing to breach the Wolfsburg perimeter.
Opportunity knocked.
Luiz Gustavo didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, pouncing on the loose ball and brushing aside the collapsing Van der Vaart. With a swivel, he pinged a direct ball forward. In a heartbeat, the Wolves transitioned from a crouch to a sprint. Hamburg's defenders realized too late that their formation had snapped; they were horribly exposed, with only one center-back left to hold the fort.
On the ground, Van der Vaart clutched his knee, his face contorted in agony as he watched the green-and-white jersey of a certain teenager disappear into the distance.
David Qin collected the ball and scanned the field. For a split second, he wavered. The counter-attack had been so sudden that most of his teammates were still in their own half. The only target ahead was Bas Dost—a 90kg titan who wasn't exactly built for a footrace.
Fine. I'll do it myself.
A flash of cold resolve crossed David's eyes. He kicked into another gear, driving straight for the penalty area. Heiko Westermann, the last man standing, dropped his center of gravity and retreated with choppy steps. He knew David was right-footed and gambled on the teenager cutting inside or aiming for the far post.
He was certain his keeper would have the near post covered.
David executed a flashy step-over and cast a deliberate glance toward the far corner. Westermann bit. He committed his weight to the far post, certain he had read the play.
But the trap snapped shut. David made a minute adjustment at the last second and pulled the trigger—a deceptive strike that looked far but went near.
It was clinical. Drobný, the keeper, had no time to process the shift. He dove on pure instinct, but he was met with that familiar, hollow feeling: the ball was out of reach.
Zip! The ball grazed his fingertips and tucked inside the bottom-left corner.
2-1!!!
The Wolfsburg fans erupted in a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the city.
The Turnaround!
At the very moment their opponents seemed to be taking control, the Wolves had struck like a viper on the break.
"He's done it! He's actually done it!" Wolff-Christoph Fuss screamed. "The 81st minute! Gustavo wins it, finds David Qin, and the youngster leaves Westermann for dead! A masterclass in deception!"
The cameras followed David as he sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees and pounding the crest on his chest. He had seen the headlines claiming he was nothing without De Bruyne—that the Wolves were a one-man show. Did it bother him? Of course. But he knew the only way to silence the noise was through cold, hard results. All those grueling hours on the training pitch were for this exact moment.
"You little devil," Perišić laughed, mobbing him. "Even from behind, I would've bet my house you were going for the far post."
"Want to learn?" David teased, wearing a look of mock wisdom. "I can teach you, for a price."
"I don't think that's something you learn, kid," Perišić shook his head. "That's a gift from above."
"I heard they don't do the 'God' thing in China," Gustavo chimed in, showing off his knowledge of the East. "Maybe it's a gift from the Buddha?"
"Who knows?" David glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. Only the heavens knew how he had really ended up here with this second chance.
As they walked back, Van der Vaart was being carried off on a stretcher. The Dutchman looked broken, a man contemplating the end of his road.
After the restart, Hamburg's spirit was in the gutter. They couldn't string two passes together. Hecking wasted no time, subbing David off to a standing ovation and packing the midfield to see out the result.
Peep—Peep—Peep!
The final whistle blew. Hecking looked at the 2-1 scoreboard and then at David on the bench, a whirlwind of emotions in his chest. To be honest, he had resigned himself to a draw. He hadn't expected Van der Vaart to gift them an opening, nor had he expected David to be so clinical in snatching it.
"The midfield issue remains, though," Hecking whispered to himself.
He knew he was asking the impossible—to take a young winger who had never played the Number 10 and expect him to change his entire tactical DNA overnight. For now, he'd have to bypass the middle, relying on the wings to create chaos.
David, too, saw his limitations. How could he improve?
He spent the evening watching tapes of Ronaldinho at Barcelona. The Brazilian had redefined the "Ten." In the traditional sense, the 10 was the playmaker tucked behind the strikers. But Ronaldinho, even when stationed on the left, refused to be boxed in. He drifted, he organized, he dictated.
"It's not about the position on the map," David mused, deep in thought. "It's the awareness. The intent to organize."
That was why coaches rarely decided on a "Ten" early in a player's development. It wasn't about physical traits like a keeper or a striker; it required a profound, almost spiritual understanding of the game's geometry.
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