Conceding an own goal in the opening minutes is a hammer blow to any team's morale. As the man at the center of the disaster, Zhang Linpeng was suffering more than anyone; the weight of the mistake threatened to crush him.
"Linpeng! Head up!" Zheng Zhi barked, slapping the defender on the shoulder. "These things happen on a pitch. If you hadn't tried to block it, it might have gone in anyway. No one blames you. We've got plenty of time to pull this back!"
"Exactly," David Qin added, his voice carrying across the grass. "Any decent defender would have made that challenge. Shake it off!"
When the match restarted, Uzbekistan stuck to their blueprint: patient, methodical possession.
"Do you know why Saudi Arabia lost?" Mirjalol Kasimov asked his assistant, arms folded confidently across his chest. "They surrendered the ball. They gave that number 13 the space to run. As long as we keep the ball, he is zero threat."
The assistant nodded, though a seed of doubt remained. No team has 100% possession. He had studied David Qin's clips from the Bundesliga; the kid was a predator who thrived on a single lapse in concentration. Why else would he be so perfectly in sync with Kevin De Bruyne? Looking toward the technical area, he noticed Alain Perrin didn't look panicked at all. He was simply signaling for his players to hold their shape. The deficit hadn't broken them.
In the 32nd minute, the veteran Server Djeparov received the ball and signaled for a surge. Thirty minutes of dominance had inflated his confidence. They'd beaten the Saudis? Big deal. Uzbekistan had done that more times than they could count.
But then came Jiang Zhipeng. The Chinese midfielder closed him down with a sudden, bruising intensity—playing the man rather than the ball. The sheer physical force of the challenge rattled Djeparov, causing a heavy touch.
Snap!
Wu Lei, ever the opportunist, ghosted in from the shadows to pick-pocket the veteran.
"Steal in the midfield! Can China hit them on the break?" Derek Rae's voice rose.
"Uzbekistan are swarming back! They need to move it quickly!" Stewart Robson added.
Hearing the shout, Wu Lei knew he didn't have the space to turn. He played a blind first-time ball back to Zheng Zhi, which was exactly what the captain wanted. Zheng spotted David Qin igniting his engines on the flank and unleashed a raking long ball.
The ball spiraled through the air, dropping perfectly into David's path.
Pure experience, David thought. He had begun his sprint the moment Wu Lei made the tackle, betting that Zheng Zhi would find him.
Anzur Ismailov, the rock of Changchun Yatai's defense, moved out to close him down. Known as "The Fourth Brother-in-law" by Chinese fans, Ismailov was a stalwart who spent his weekends pocketing the CSL's expensive foreign imports. Even though David played in the Bundesliga and was the focal point of the scouting report, Ismailov harbored a sliver of professional disdain. He thought he knew what Chinese players were capable of.
David watched him approach. As the ball dropped, he extended his right foot, softening his ankle at the moment of impact to kill the momentum in one fluid motion. Without breaking stride, he tilted his body and took a sharp second touch.
Clack!
Ismailov didn't just miss the tackle; he was left lunging at shadows as David glided past him.
"Oh no," Ismailov realized, his heart sinking. He reached out for a tactical foul, but the fabric of David's jersey slipped through his fingers. How is he that fast? Accustomed to the slower tempo of the domestic league, he hadn't accounted for the fact that David had almost zero "dwell time" between his movements.
The stadium erupted. Five thousand Chinese fans hammered their drums in a deafening cadence.
"STOMP-STOMP-STOMP-STOMP! CHINA—VICTORY!"
Before the second chant could even finish, David was a runaway horse, driving the ball to the edge of the eighteen-yard box. Shovkat Mulladjanov lowered his center of gravity, his nerves frayed. He had seen the previous move clearly and knew the gap in quality. He narrowed his eyes, staring at David's hips, trying to read the intent.
The next second, under the gaze of thousands, David's right foot circled the ball in a sharp feint. Mulladjanov, wound tight as a spring, instinctively bit. He tried to check his momentum, throwing his body into a desperate block on the other side.
He guessed right! he thought for a split second.
Tap-tap! Two sharp, staccato contacts echoed in the air, and Mulladjanov's heart went cold. He watched, helpless, as David slid the ball from his right foot to his left in a blur. That tiny, centimeter-perfect gap was just enough to bypass his outstretched leg.
La Croqueta! The "Little Fried Roll."
The fans didn't even have time to cheer before David had ghosted past the defender and carved into the box. Ignatiy Nesterov, the Uzbek keeper, stood rooted for a micro-second, stunned by the ease of the breakthrough, before throwing himself into a spread-eagle save.
David didn't hesitate. He put his laces through it.
Boom! A point-blank thunderbolt. Unless it hits the keeper's chest, it's not staying out. Nesterov couldn't react in time; the ball whistled between his hands and nearly tore the roof off the net.
1-1!!!
"AND THEY ARE LEVEL!"
"A devastating counter-attack! From Wu Lei to Zheng Zhi, from Zheng Zhi to David Qin—and the finish! All in the space of thirty seconds!"
"Thirty seconds to erase twenty minutes of frustration! That is pure, ruthless efficiency!" Derek Rae's commentary surged with excitement.
For Chinese fans, Uzbekistan had long been a bogeyman, the source of heartbreak dating back to the '94 Asian Games. But now, David Qin was a sun breaking through a winter fog.
David stood before the cameras, raising three fingers to the stands. Three goals in the tournament. He was mobbed by Zheng Zhi and Wu Lei, their faces radiant with relief.
"How was that for a steal?" Wu Lei laughed, puffing out his chest. "I knew that old-timer would linger on the ball. I was just waiting in the tall grass!"
"Class move, Lei!" David gave him a thumbs up.
The equalizer on the stroke of halftime sent Chinese morale into the stratosphere. They were ready to hunt for the winner, but Perrin gestured for calm. He knew Uzbekistan would try to bait them into overcommitting. The plan remained: disciplined defense, wait for the crack, and transition with speed.
When the second half began, the Uzbeks came out swinging. Kasimov had clearly demanded more steel; they were playing a physical, "clingy" game, sticking to David like industrial-strength glue.
David, sensing a trap, showcased his nerve. He held the ball, inviting the pressure, before poking a pass back to Zheng Zhi. The captain didn't linger; he launched a raking ball over the top. Gao Lin, often the target of fan mockery back home, showed why he was still the nation's premier target man. He bullied Mulladjanov, took the ball on his chest, and laid it off to Ji Xiang.
The attack was fierce, but Denisov, the Lokomotiv Moscow veteran, produced a goal-saving slide tackle. The Chinese offensive stalled, and they reset for a throw-in.
"Djeparov looks rattled," Derek Rae observed. "As the veteran captain, he needs to settle his side, but he's chasing shadows."
"Look at the movement now. David is drifting inside, while Wu Lei is making those vertical runs into the channels. Here we go..."
Zheng Zhi floated a delicate lob toward David. With a defender draped over his back, it looked like a dead end. But David isn't an ordinary player. He feinted to take the ball into his stride, but as Timur Kapadze committed to the shove, David used his back to "cushion-flick" the ball.
It was a piece of pure improvisational magic. The ball dinked into the right channel—exactly where Wu Lei was accelerating.
Wu Lei looked ready to kill the game, but his trailing leg was clipped. He went tumbling, rolling across the turf.
"Damn it!" Kasimov roared from the bench. Djeparov had committed a foul in a dangerous area. While it was a bit far for a direct shot, a set-piece against a shorter Uzbek side was a nightmare scenario. Moreover, Djeparov went into the book.
"Get Rashidov warm! Pull him [Djeparov] off!" Kasimov ordered, struggling to find his composure. "He's lost his head. He shouldn't be on the pitch!"
On the other side, Perrin was pointing frantically at David. "Let him take it! Direct! Don't go for the header—watch for the counter!"
David stood over the ball, whispering to Ji Xiang. He spent hours at the training ground in Wolfsburg practicing his finessed strikes from both moving and stationary positions. His free-kick technique wasn't world-class yet, but it was potent.
Peep!
At the whistle, David played a short layoff to Ji Xiang, baiting the wall into jumping early. Ji Xiang killed the ball, and David swung his leg.
Thwack!
The ball dipped and curled. It wasn't his best effort, and Nesterov managed to punch it clear, but the parry fell into the vacant space on the left.
What is "anticipation"? It's what happened next.
While the Uzbek defenders stood rooted, David was already sprinting toward the rebound. This was a core requirement Dieter Hecking drilled into The Wolves: Shoot, then move.
David reached the ball a split-second before Ismailov. With a shimmy that looked more like a dance, he created half a yard of space. Ismailov bit on the fake.
David seized the opening and whipped a vicious, curling strike toward the far post. Nesterov, scrambled and out of position, could only claw at the air as the ball screamed into the corner.
2-1!!!
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