November 18, 2014.
An autumn rain had cast a chill over Xi'an, but the ancient capital was anything but cold. The city pulsed with life, teeming with travelers and fans who had converged from every corner of the country.
"Good evening, viewers!"
"We are standing just outside the Shaanxi Province Stadium. As you can see, the atmosphere is electric with supporters clad in red. We're going to pull aside a few fans for a quick chat."
The CCTV reporter turned toward a middle-aged man in glasses, sporting a crisp national team jersey. "Sir, do you have a moment for a quick interview?"
"Oh, yes. Of course," the man replied, reflexively straightening his collar while his companion gave him a quick once-over to ensure he looked presentable for the camera.
"Could you tell us your name, and what did you think of the National Team's last performance against New Zealand?" The reporter extended the microphone.
"My name is He Sheng. I'm a structural engineer and, more importantly, a lifelong fan. Regarding the last match, I was beyond satisfied. Whether it was the newcomer, David Qin, or the rest of the squad, there was a different energy on the pitch—a real sense of drive that we haven't seen in a while. I also think Coach Perrin's tactical approach is exactly what this team needs right now." He Sheng, perhaps a bit nervous, found himself rambling with enthusiasm.
"So, did you travel from Nanchang to Xi'an to catch both matches?" The reporter was surprised to have stumbled upon such a dedicated supporter.
"I did. It's near the end of the year, and I had some annual leave left, so I figured there was no better way to spend it than watching the National Team in person." He Sheng smiled.
In truth, he rarely bothered with friendlies, usually saving his energy for World Cup qualifiers. But with David Qin returning to play on home soil, the significance of these matches had shifted. He had been one of David's earliest followers, watching from afar as the youngster began to dazzle the Bundesliga. He wasn't about to miss the chance to see that magic live.
"And your thoughts on tonight's clash?"
"David's technical style fills a massive void in our squad. I think we'll handle Honduras just fine, even if they are ranked higher than us. I just hope the team keeps building this momentum. Maybe they can give us a real surprise at the Asian Cup early next year."
He Sheng's blessing was heartfelt. When the 2002 World Cup came around, he was a fresh university graduate. When China failed to make the knockout rounds, he had been despondent for weeks, believing it was merely the beginning of an era. Little did he know it would be the peak. The years that followed were so dismal they made him want to ask for his ticket money back.
Yet, after a decade of heartbreak, he had never walked away. Now, finally, he saw a glimmer of hope. He wanted more than just an Asian Cup runner-up finish or another failed World Cup cycle.
The autumn rain did nothing to dampen the spirits of the 28,000 fans packed into the stadium. Clad in vibrant red, they sang in a unified, thunderous chorus. However, the action on the pitch started tentatively.
Having learned from New Zealand's mistakes, Honduras deployed a defensive scheme focused entirely on David Qin. Their marking was suffocating. Yet, by committing so many resources to neutralizing one man, they found themselves unable to threaten the Chinese goal.
The minutes ticked by. David remained patient. A football match lasts ninety minutes, yet an individual player might only have the ball at their feet for five. He began to adapt, moving intentionally to drag the defense out of position and playing quick, one-touch layoffs.
Slowly, Honduras let their guard down.
In the 38th minute, David saw his opening. Receiving a pass from Zheng Zhi, he ignited his engines along the touchline. Honduras, still reeling from a recent 6-0 thrashing by Japan, betrayed their greatest weakness in transition: leaden feet.
Chávez, the Honduran defender, scrambled to close him down. But David's dazzling footwork and fluid movement created a haunting sense of déjà vu for the defender. Last year, in a friendly against Brazil, Honduras had been dismantled 5-0, and Chávez had nearly been turned inside out by Neymar.
How does David Qin look more Brazilian than Neymar? he wondered frantically.
Snap! With a violent flick of the ankle, David executed an elastico, the ball tracing an exaggerated, impossible arc.
"What a move! Chávez has been completely bamboozled—he's slipped and hit the deck!" He Wei's commentary roared through the speakers.
"David Qin is driving into the box!"
Facing two defenders closing the angle, David used a sophisticated "no-look" feint. He stared toward the left but slipped a disguised pass to the right. Gao Lin, finally finding his clinical edge, didn't sky the shot. He opened his body and side-footed the ball calmly into the net.
1-0!!!
Breaking the deadlock just before the interval, Gao Lin celebrated with a joyous "airplane" dive across the turf, his arms spread wide like wings.
"No wonder they call him 'The Aircraft,'" David chuckled to himself, covering his mouth as Zheng Zhi joined in the laughter.
On the touchline, Perrin watched the celebrations with a profound sense of relief. If they could topple a higher-ranked side like Honduras and secure results in December's friendlies against Thailand and Paraguay, China's status as a seeded team for the World Cup qualifiers would be guaranteed.
Last year's 5-1 loss to Thailand had been a national humiliation, but Perrin knew Thailand was sending a B-team this time. If he couldn't win that, he might as well resign. He had already decided David wouldn't need to return for those; it was better to let the boy finish the first half of the Bundesliga season and avoid the grueling travel before the Asian Cup in January.
"Corner for China from the right!"
"Zhang Linpeng wins the initial header! It's parried by the keeper—who's there for the rebound?"
"Zheng Zhi!"
Controlling the second ball on the edge of the area, Zheng Zhi didn't hesitate. He spotted David Qin in a pocket of space and laid it off immediately. With the majority of the defense scrambled inside the six-yard box, David was momentarily unmarked.
He set himself and opened his foot for a finessed curler.
Boom! The pitch-side microphones caught the sharp, raspy friction of boot against leather. The ball began to spin so violently it seemed to cut through the damp air.
The Chinese fans, rising as one on their tiptoes, watched the Honduran keeper leap. They saw his hand grasping at thin air as the ball defied physics.
Swish! The crisp sound of the ball hitting the twine sent the aging stadium into a frenzy.
"David Qin! We saw him score a nearly identical curler for Wolfsburg against Hamburg not long ago!" He Wei's voice crackled with excitement. "Beyond his legendary dribbling, he has clearly mastered the art of the finesse shot! Look at that flawless arc—Escober never stood a chance!"
Shortly after the goal, David requested a substitution. He had to think of the long game; Wolfsburg's next league match was in five days, and he needed every ounce of energy to face Schalke 04.
Ultimately, China held firm for a 2-0 victory, successfully parking the bus for the final thirty minutes. His international duty concluded, David enjoyed a hot bowl of Yangrou Paomo—mutton stew with crumbled bread—before boarding his flight back to Europe. The mountain climb was still long and muddy, but he was moving upward.
Oh, and before leaving, he pulled Gao Lin aside and asked for a recommendation for a high-end real estate manager. He was looking to buy a few properties in China's tier-one cities. It was time to start investing.
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