"Ahhhh!!!"
After scoring, Rafael van der Vaart sprinted toward the corner flag and celebrated wildly.
He had every reason to.
In this match, Miguel Veloso had bullied him relentlessly.
Van der Vaart could guarantee he had more than a few bruises forming on his body.
Three–nil.
Ajax had practically killed the game.
And this was still the first half.
It was only 1999. The Miracle of Istanbul was years away.
Coming back from 3–0 at halftime? Nearly impossible.
Many Sporting CP fans were already devastated.
Even Sir Alex Ferguson switched off the television and told the Manchester United players to head to dinner early.
Some of them were still laughing.
Sir Alex had said before the match that he had no preference—he just wanted to observe young talent.
Well.
Outstanding talent had clearly emerged.
Van der Vaart was sensational.
So why turn off the TV?
Ajax celebrated for a long time. Shortly after kickoff resumed, the referee blew for halftime.
Sporting CP Locker Room
Coach Maxa did not explode in anger.
"Kai, I support every decision you make. Even if we're three goals behind, I trust you completely."
He patted Deng Kai on the shoulder and handed him the tactical board.
Then Maxa sat down and began quietly drafting a statement.
"Yes, all tactical decisions were made by Deng Kai. Every player can confirm that. But as head coach, I take full responsibility for this defeat."
"I will not allow anyone to blame him. If you have criticism, direct it at me. Even if we only reach the Youth Champions League semi-finals this year, I promise to lead this team back stronger next season."
The assistant coach watched him coldly.
He knew exactly what Maxa was really thinking.
The rough translation of that speech?
"If this blows up, it's Deng Kai's fault, not mine."
"And don't forget—I led this team to the semi-finals. I'm a successful coach."
What a damn coward.
Still, Deng Kai didn't care.
Yes, Maxa might be a coward.
But at least he delegated power.
In another club, would a fourteen-year-old be allowed to run halftime tactics?
Even teenage prodigies like Kylian Mbappé had once been forced to play full-back in youth setups without complaint.
"Veloso, you've done well," Deng Kai said seriously. "But van der Vaart is adapting. In the second half, you'll need to work even harder. We'll support you more."
"From now on, we cannot concede another goal."
He turned to the defense, instructing the full-backs to step up their interference on crosses.
Then he called out:
"Marcelino."
Marcelino looked frustrated.
He had received the most chances in the first half.
Because Ronaldo drew the most defensive attention.
Lourenço dropped deeper to link play.
But Marcelino hadn't delivered.
"Others might not see your effort," Deng Kai said, gripping his shoulder, "but I do."
"In the early second half, you are our main attacker. Every ball will come to you."
Marcelino's eyes reddened.
A warrior will die for someone who believes in him.
Maxa shook his head silently.
He understood the hidden meaning.
Deng Kai was asking Marcelino to empty his tank.
Run. Sprint. Fight. Exhaust yourself.
And when the real counterattack came… he would be substituted.
But Marcelino didn't see that.
He only heard trust.
That was the art of leadership.
Second Half – No Retreat
Ajax made no tactical changes.
As leaders, they could afford stability.
Surprisingly, Sporting also made no immediate adjustments.
Were they planning to lose 6–0?
47th minute.
49th minute.
56th minute.
Deng Kai launched three long passes to spark counterattacks.
Marcelino didn't score from any of them, but he ran tirelessly.
By forcing Ajax's back line to stay alert, he reduced pressure on Sporting's defense.
Sometimes, a long ball isn't about scoring.
It's about breathing.
65th minute.
Cristiano Ronaldo, who had been central all game, suddenly drifted back to the left wing.
Deng Kai spotted it.
A spinning low pass from deep.
Ronaldo didn't even stop the ball—he nudged it forward with pace and exploded down the flank.
"Cristiano Ronaldo cuts inside! Stepovers—so fast!"
"He's near the box… long shot… BEAUTIFUL!"
Goal.
3–1.
A superstar's strike.
Pure individual brilliance.
Ajax remained calm.
Such goals were rare.
They didn't reflect systemic collapse.
Still, Ajax's defenders immediately tightened their marking on Ronaldo.
That goal had woken them up.
72nd Minute – Controlled Chaos
Lourenço dropped deep and received a pass from Deng Kai.
But he was quickly dispossessed by Wesley Sneijder.
Sneijder lifted his head—
Boom!
Marcelino slid in recklessly, chopping him down like felling a tree.
He remembered Deng Kai's halftime instruction:
"Besides attacking, help defend the middle. Especially Sneijder. Don't let him launch easy long balls."
He obeyed.
Yellow card.
Immediately, Deng Kai signaled to Maxa.
Substitution.
Marcelino off.
The assistant announced the replacement.
"Marcelino has been substituted."
"Reasonable. He's exhausted and already booked."
"But… wait. That's Wu Xudong? He's a right-back!"
"Is Maxa changing formation?"
"No… Wu Xudong is going up front?"
"His technique isn't great—but his speed is insane. This is a gamble."
74th Minute – Lightning
Ajax attacked from the wing again.
A cross-field switch from left to right.
The right midfielder carried the ball and laid it back to van der Vaart.
Veloso lunged in aggressively.
Hands. Legs. Everything.
He stole the ball—borderline foul.
Van der Vaart fell and threw his arms up.
The referee waved play on.
Van der Vaart had fallen too many times already. The referee assumed exaggeration.
Veloso immediately fed Deng Kai.
No hesitation.
Deng Kai launched a first-time long ball into the right channel.
A stream-of-consciousness pass.
It split open empty space.
The ball traveled fast—almost too fast.
"That's clearly for Wu Xudong! Deng Kai's using his speed!"
"Wait—was that overhit?"
"It's heading toward the baseline!"
"If he can't catch it, it's out!"
Ajax defenders had already relaxed, discussing positioning mistakes.
The ball rolled closer… closer to the line.
And then—
A green-and-white blur.
Like lightning tearing across the pitch.
Wu Xudong accelerated violently, closing the impossible distance between himself and the ball.
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