The Brisbane Stadium was still reeling from the sheer audacity of David Qin's footwork when, in a heartbeat, the ball was gone.
Zheng Zhi collected the pass and drove toward the half-space, his eyes darting across the pitch as he feinted a ball to the overlapping Ji Xiang. It was a classic misdirection. Instead, his right boot carved out a disguised diagonal slit through the defense. The spectators' eyes followed the ball's trajectory, only to find that through the maze of legs, it had found its way back to the man of the hour.
The fluttering hem of David's jersey was a testament to his velocity. I might not outrun Ivan Perišić or Karim Bellarabi yet, but you, Al-Muwallad? You're not even in the rearview.
Two steps. That was all it took. With a burst of explosive acceleration that left the turf scorched, David tore past Al-Muwallad. The gap between them didn't just grow; it became a chasm. Five thousand Saudi fans held their breath, placing their final hopes on the shoulders of Waleed Abdullah.
Inside the area, David glanced toward the center, where Yu Hai was poised and waiting. Then, he lashed his right foot through the ball with punishing force.
Misled by David's quick look toward his teammate, Abdullah's dive was a fraction of a second late. It was a fatal delay. He could only watch in despair as the ball rifled into the near corner, nestling into the side-netting with a violent hiss.
3-0!!!
"A brace! It's a brace for David Qin!" He Wei roared into the microphone, his voice crackling with raw emotion. "Against the three-time Asian Cup champions! Against the ghosts of eighteen years of failure! David Qin has arrived!"
"He's scored two and assisted another—he's had a hand in every single goal today! The rising star of the Bundesliga isn't just shining in Europe; he's a supernova on the Asian stage!"
No one had truly expected this. Fans had prepared for a cagey affair, perhaps a gritty draw. No one imagined that David Qin would deliver a debut of such phenomenal proportions. On this pitch, the Green Falcons were utterly powerless to stop him.
On the field, David pumped his fists in time with the stadium's drums, the veins in his neck bulging as he let out a guttural shout of triumph. God, this feels good. No matter how many goals he scored, that crisp, snapping sound of the ball hitting the back of the net was the ultimate high.
As the team celebrated, Alain Perrin didn't miss his chance to twist the knife. He looked down at the shell-shocked Cosmin Olăroiu. "Do you know why Maradona would have lost to you?" Perrin asked, hands on his hips, wearing an expression that was definitely not learned from the reserved Arsène Wenger. "Because Diego is in the stands. Our 'Maradona' is on the pitch."
Olăroiu pulled his head into his shoulders like an ostrich, pretending to be deaf as he frantically gestured to his players. The match was approaching its first critical psychological threshold. If they could just grab one back, a three-goal lead wasn't insurmountable.
As the clock ticked past the hour mark, Perrin's earlier fears began to materialize. The high-tempo pressing of the first half had taken its toll; the Chinese squad were hitting the wall. Stamina was flagging, and with it, the sharpness of their play.
Zhang Linpeng and Zheng Zhi managed a tidy interception, but when the ball reached Mei Fang, he didn't look to build from the back. He simply hoofed it clear. He knew he didn't have the legs to outrun Al-Dawsari anymore, and a heavy touch in that exhaustion would be suicide. But the "safety first" long ball meant the attack died instantly, as the Saudis were already set and waiting.
In the 67th minute, Saudi Arabia's technical superiority finally found a crack. Moving the ball with rapid-fire precision through the middle, Al-Shamrani shrugged off Wu Xi's challenge and poked a through-ball to Naif Hazazi.
Known as the "Saudi Drogba," Hazazi used his massive frame to roll Zhang Linpeng in the box.
"Hazazi with the strike!"
"Wang Dalei parries it, but the danger isn't over! Watch out!" He Wei's heart leapt into his throat.
In the ensuing chaos, the diminutive Al-Shamrani ghosted into the six-yard box, reacting first to the rebound and slotting it into the yawning net. Wang Dalei, still recovering from the initial save, could do nothing.
3-1!
The Saudi contingent went berserk, waving their arms and screaming as if they had just scored a winner. Al-Shamrani fished the ball out of the net and sprinted back to the center circle. As he passed David, he flashed two fingers. Two more to go.
"Moron," David muttered. He was annoyed. The smooth ride had hit a pothole. It was a reminder that while he could dominate his flank, football was an eleven-man game. If the collective defense faltered, he wouldn't even see the ball, let alone score. He couldn't be expected to drop back to his own eighteen-yard box and dribble through the entire team every time.
"Hey! Don't just stand there! Focus!" Perrin screamed, clapping his hands.
He moved immediately, sending Cai Huikang and Jiang Zhipeng to the fourth official's board. Mei Fang and Wu Xi were sacrificed. Perrin was locking the doors, reinforcing the flanks and the defensive pivot to stifle the Saudi interior passing.
"Dig in! Dig in! It's almost over!"
The fresh legs and Perrin's frantic shouting bolstered the team's spirit. In professional sports, victory often goes to the side that can hold their breath the longest.
As the game restarted, David consciously tracked back, doubling up with Jiang Zhipeng. He loved to attack, but in the modern era of total football, an idle winger is a liability that breaks the defensive chain.
"Jiang Zhipeng is playing with a real edge! Fresh legs are making the difference!" Derek Rae noted. "And Cai Huikang in the middle... he's probably the strongest player in the league. He might carry some weight, but his engine is incredible. He's the anchor that's allowing Zheng Zhi to sweep up the loose balls in the channels!"
On the massive LED screens hanging above the stadium, the digits flickered. 70... 75... 80...
The Chinese players were running on fumes, their faces etched with exhaustion, but that singular "breath" of determination kept them moving.
"Jia You!" The fans' voices were hoarse, but they refused to stop.
In the 86th minute, Al-Shamrani grew desperate, snatching at a long-range effort that lacked any real venom. Wang Dalei gathered it easily and promptly "hit the grass" for a tactical six-second breather. As the Saudis fumed at the referee, he rose and launched a massive goal kick.
Wu Lei won the first header, flicking it to the right. David Qin collected it and burned toward the corner flag. This time, there was no cross. No cut-inside.
He stepped on the ball at the corner arc, shielding it with his body and waiting for the challenge. When the defender arrived, David cleverly knocked the ball off the Saudi's shins to win a corner. Then he called Wu Lei over for a short corner, purely to kill the clock.
"Time is running out for Saudi Arabia!" He Wei declared.
The Saudi players were in a state of impotent rage, pleading with the ref to stop the time-wasting, but everything David was doing was within the laws of the game. It was professional. It was savvy. And when they finally got the ball back, they barely had time to look up before the whistle blew.
Peep—Peep—Peep!
"It's over! The final whistle blows!"
"China wins their opening match of the 2015 Asian Cup, defeating Saudi Arabia 3-1! The eighteen-year jinx is broken!"
"This Alain Perrin side looks different—more composed, more veteran, and absolutely brimming with fighting spirit! Earlier, Perrin told the media that some players were left out because they were 'too soft.' Today, we saw the 'hardness' he demanded in every tackle!"
"And David Qin... the Wolfsburg man has announced himself with two goals and an assist. He's not just a talent for the future; he is a superstar for the now. This victory puts us in a fantastic position for the knockouts. Bring on Uzbekistan!"
Brisbane Stadium was a sea of red. Fans were drenched in sweat, their voices gone, but they didn't care. Victory was a rare vintage for the Chinese National Team. This was a statement.
"We won!"
On the pitch, David listened to the roar. It took him back to his days as a pure fan—a Manchester United boy, an Italy supporter. Back then, when Spain won, people said "Spain won." When Argentina won, they said "Argentina won." But when the National Team won, people always said: "We won."
You can have many clubs in a lifetime. But you only have one home.
"We won!" David waved to the stands, a tribute to the fans and to the boy he used to be. He spotted his parents in the crowd, their faces painted with the five-star red flag.
"Look, look! He's waving at us!" Tian Man grabbed her husband's arm, vibrating with excitement.
"Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on," Qin Zhihong said, trying to look cool, though the corners of his mouth were twitching uncontrollably. He was bursting with pride.
"Oh, stop acting! You were the loudest one screaming ten minutes ago!"
Down on the turf, Wu Lei grabbed David's arm. "Qin! Come on, we need to take the team photo. This is going on the front page!"
"Will it make the prime-time news?" David asked, his eyes lighting up.
"The 7 PM News? Not a chance," Wu Lei laughed. "Unless we make the top three in the tournament. Then, maybe."
"Fair enough," David said, a bit disappointed. He knew making the top three would be a mountain to climb. If they played like they did in the first half, they had a prayer. But the second half... the stamina issues were a glaring red flag.
"The gaffer wants you to do the post-match interview," Wu Lei whispered. "Don't forget to mention my name when you talk about that second assist!"
"Say it yourself next time!" David joked as he lined up next to Zheng Zhi.
"Smile, boys!" The camera shutter clicked, the flashes immortalizing the moment.
Minutes later, David stood before the flash interview backdrop.
"Hello, David. I'm Tang Xuan from Xinhua News. It's a pleasure to speak with you."
"The pleasure is mine," David replied politely.
"Let's dive in. First question: Did you expect this result? Did you envision a 3-1 win before kickoff?"
"No. No one can accurately predict a scoreline in football. But we came here with the absolute conviction that we were going to win."
"What is the goal for the group stage?"
"Three wins. Perfect record."
"Perfect record?"
"Perfect record."
David looked directly into the camera lens. His eyes were clear, radiating a level of confidence that was infectious.
As the news of Chelsea's 2-0 win over Newcastle hit the wires, another story was devouring the Chinese internet.
Xinhua News: The last time China beat Saudi Arabia was in 1997. Today, eighteen years later, the curse is broken. China 3, Saudi Arabia 1!
Sina Sports: David Qin's debut is a masterclass! Two goals, one assist. He currently sits atop the golden boot race!
Dongqiudi: A 25% shot conversion rate—ranked first in the tournament. The data proves Perrin has turned the National Team into an efficient fighting machine!
The comments sections were a battlefield of joy:
@DragonFlag88: Absolute scenes! My heart can't take this! Finally something to cheer for!
@BeijingUltra: If you fight until the end, we will never leave you! Qin is a godsend!
@OldGuard97: I remember watching the '97 win with my dad. I was in high school. Today, I watched with my four-year-old daughter. She kept asking why Daddy was crying. My hair is white now, but my heart is twenty again.
@QinTheGoat: I'm not crying, you're crying! What a performance!
@CFA1_Cynic: I thought Perrin was just another stop-gap hire. I apologize. He knows Asian football, and he's found a way to make David Qin the engine.
@WolfsburgWatch: David playing in the Asian Cup is literally a "Dimensional Strike." Bundesliga quality is just too much for these defenders!
@RedDragonBeliever: We've been in the wilderness for so long... finally, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
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If you want to read ahead, head over to: [email protected]/HappyCrow
As always, thank you for the support, the comments, and those precious power stones!