Although Ajax had created two threatening counterattacks early in the match, their brief spark was quickly extinguished.
As the minutes passed, Real Madrid began to impose themselves, gradually tightening their grip on the game. The gap in raw strength and technical control between the two sides became increasingly evident — especially in midfield, where Madrid's superior ball retention took full effect.
Possession shifted heavily in favor of the home side.
With the Galácticos now dictating the tempo, Ajax were forced deeper into their own half. Each pass from Zidane, each switch of play from Beckham, each vertical run from Robinho or Ronaldo felt like another brick being added to the growing pressure on the Ajax back line.
The first real scare came when Ronaldo dropped into space and slipped a sharp through ball behind Vermaelen. Robinho timed his run perfectly, rose at the near post, and flicked a header just wide. The movement was fluid, but the finish lacked precision.
Moments later, Robinho returned the favor, dribbling past De Jong on the left wing before cutting the ball low toward the edge of the box. Ronaldo latched onto it, opened his body to shoot — but Vermaelen lunged with perfect timing, sliding across to block the attempt before the Brazilian could fire.
Still Madrid came.
Zidane floated wide to the left, found a seam, and whipped in a deep, arching cross toward the far post. Beckham arrived unmarked and rose to meet it, but his header flew just over the bar.
From the 15th minute onward, the game was being played entirely in Ajax's half. Real Madrid were in full control, stringing together wave after wave of attacks. The home crowd sensed the shift and began to rise with every half-chance.
Ajax were under siege.
Ronaldo, though not in peak form, remained a threat through sheer presence and unpredictability. In the 32nd minute, he received the ball just outside the penalty area, turned sharply to create half a yard of space, and unleashed a low-driven shot. But it lacked power and placement — Stekelenburg read it early, dropped low to his right, and held it comfortably.
Ajax finally managed to create a chance of their own, their first since the opening minutes. Wesley Sneijder curled in a teasing cross from the right, and Yang Yang rose between Ramos and Woodgate, angling a header toward the bottom corner — but the timing was slightly off.
He mistimed his leap, unable to generate full lift from his legs. The contact was awkward, and the ball drifted just wide of the post.
Yang Yang let out a small sigh of frustration. He knew it had been a rare opportunity — and that it had slipped by not because of the defenders, but because of his own hesitation. His feet had left the ground half a beat too early, making clean contact almost impossible.
The biggest scare came in the 31st minute, when Heitinga misjudged a simple pass out of the back, slicing the ball into midfield without accuracy or awareness.
Real Madrid pounced instantly.
Ronaldo intercepted and threaded a perfect diagonal ball behind Maicon, where Beckham arrived late from midfield. The Englishman took a touch and fired low toward the near post, but Stekelenburg stayed big, diving to his left and getting both hands to the shot.
The rebound rolled behind for a corner — but Madrid weren't done yet.
From the resulting set piece, Beckham delivered a laser-precise ball toward the penalty spot, where Zidane rose under pressure from Galásek. The two collided in midair, and in the chaos, Galásek's attempted clearance ricocheted off his own thigh, looping dangerously toward the far post.
The entire Ajax defense froze.
The ball struck the outside of the post and rolled harmlessly wide.
Galásek collapsed briefly to one knee, his face pale. The veteran Czech midfielder had nearly scored one of the most agonizing own goals imaginable.
Even from the bench, Koeman could be seen closing his eyes for a moment. It had been far too close.
Real Madrid were not only dominating possession — they were now generating clear chances. Ajax's defense, while still holding, had begun to buckle. Passing errors were becoming more frequent, communication slower, positioning tighter and more desperate.
But despite everything, the score remained 0–0.
And Ajax were still alive.
...
...
In the early hours of the morning in Beijing, an alley outside the university campus remained quiet under dim streetlights. Tucked away inside a small rented apartment, several girls huddled together in front of an old television, fighting off sleep to watch the Champions League match live.
Su Ye and her roommates had quietly snuck out of the dormitory after lights-out and gathered in the off-campus rental of an older student. Blankets and pillows were spread out across the floor, snacks piled up in the corner, and all eyes were glued to the screen.
They didn't know much about football — not really. But they knew this was a big match.
And they all knew Yang Yang.
What they saw on the screen, however, was tough to watch.
"Is Real Madrid just... too strong?" one girl asked, frowning as the white jerseys once again surged toward Ajax's goal.
"Yeah," another nodded. "How do you even win when it looks like this?"
"Poor Yang Yang," someone sighed. "He keeps running up front, but he hasn't had a real chance all half."
"The only time Ajax came close was right after the start," someone else added. "They didn't take their chances. Such a waste."
"Exactly! His teammates were too careless. Those were the only moments they could've scored."
They all watched as another Ajax counterattack fizzled out, with Yang Yang once again chasing a hopeless ball into the corner.
"He's still sprinting on every attack," one girl noted. "Isn't that exhausting?"
"I mean… don't say it, but… he does look good all sweaty like that," another chimed in with a giggle.
"Yes! The way his hair sticks a little, and that look on his face when he's focused… it's kind of perfect."
Their laughter echoed softly through the room, even as the tension on the pitch grew more obvious. Despite their light-hearted comments, all of them were drawn to Yang Yang's effort — his constant running, his refusal to give up, even when his team was under siege.
But one person wasn't laughing.
Su Ye sat closest to the television, knees pulled to her chest, her eyes fixed on the screen with unwavering focus.
She didn't join in the joking. She barely blinked when the others called out. Every time the camera found Yang Yang, her gaze sharpened, locking onto him in an instant.
To her, there was no one else on the field.
"Su, you've been so quiet," one of the girls finally asked. "You okay?"
"I'm waiting," Su Ye replied calmly, without looking away.
"Waiting for what?"
"For him to score."
They blinked at her.
"Who? Yang Yang?"
Su Ye nodded. "He'll score."
The others exchanged glances. "But… do you really think it's possible?"
"Look at the game," one of them added. "Ajax hasn't been able to do anything since the first ten minutes. Real Madrid looks like they're two levels above. And they're playing at home!"
"Yeah, one of the guys in my class said Real Madrid hasn't lost a European game here in over 40 months."
"Forty months?" someone gasped. "That's like… more than three years!"
"They're unbeatable."
Another girl sighed. "Honestly, I don't see how Ajax scores. It looks like they're the ones more likely to concede."
But Su Ye didn't answer right away.
She continued to watch Yang Yang's every move — how he tracked back when needed, how he exploded forward at the right moment, how he looked over his shoulder before making a run.
She didn't need numbers. She didn't care about odds.
Her voice was soft but certain.
"He's going to score," she repeated. "I believe in him."
...
...
Real Madrid were beginning to settle into a rhythm.
Although they still hadn't carved out any clear-cut chances, several long-range efforts had tested Ajax's resolve, forcing Stekelenburg into action more than once. Their midfield still looked disjointed at times, but the width provided by their fullbacks and the individual quality in their front line allowed them to push Ajax deeper into their own half.
With Zidane dictating tempo when he had time on the ball and Ronaldo always looming as a threat, Ajax had little choice but to commit significant numbers behind the ball. Every phase of play felt like a survival drill. Each misplaced clearance or lost second ball meant another wave of white shirts advancing. It was exhausting to watch—let alone endure.
This imbalance dictated the dynamics of the game. The more players Ajax committed to defending, the fewer they could spare for transitions or support in attack. On the other hand, Real Madrid—under little pressure when Ajax regained the ball—could keep their structure and recycle possession with confidence.
Yang Yang, constantly isolated in the final third, understood this more than anyone. He knew that if things continued in this way, if Ajax remained penned in and allowed Real Madrid to push higher and higher, a goal against them was only a matter of time. Something had to change. He remembered Van Basten's words clearly—sometimes the only way to halt a tide is to punch back, disrupt the pattern, and take initiative.
But as a lone forward, pressed by Ramos and shadowed by Woodgate, he had to hold his position up top, waiting for that one opportunity where his teammates might win the ball and trust him with it. That kind of moment demands understanding—belief. It's the belief that a single pass, if well placed, will be met by the right movement, the right control, the right finish.
It was a chain of trust, thin but strong.
So Yang Yang kept running. Every time Ajax had a sniff of possession, he sprang to life, testing the line, looking for gaps between defenders, sprinting with full intensity whether the ball came or not. It was physically draining, but in his mind, there was no other option. You either give yourself a chance by running or have no chance at all.
Then, in the 38th minute, the opportunity arrived.
It began with De Jong sliding in on Beckham near the halfway line. The Englishman tried to flick the ball wide, but De Jong's tackle disrupted his balance and knocked the ball loose. In the scramble that followed, Yaya Touré used his strength to shield Gravesen, leaning into the Dane with his upper body and managing to prod the ball laterally to the right.
Sneijder had already started his movement, calling for the ball with a raised hand. He gathered it quickly near the touchline, took one touch to settle, and immediately looked up.
At the same time, Yang Yang—who had kept drifting between Ramos and Woodgate—noticed the transition and subtly adjusted his position, inching diagonally toward the right side of the Real Madrid back line. He didn't sprint yet. He waited. He watched Sneijder's body orientation, reading his teammate's intentions through small cues: the angle of his foot, the way he shifted his weight forward.
He was like a coiled spring.
Woodgate noticed too. The English defender moved in closer, trying to anticipate a burst. But Sneijder already knew how this would unfold. He and Yang Yang had practiced this exact move countless times at De Toekomst. He didn't hesitate. He drove a long diagonal pass into the space just ahead of the defensive line.
As the ball left his foot, Yang Yang exploded forward.
His acceleration was immediate and violent. One moment he was barely jogging; the next he was flying. Woodgate was caught flat-footed and spun to chase, but he was already too late. Ramos, from the left, began sprinting diagonally to recover, but Yang Yang had the advantage of momentum and positioning.
Sneijder's pass soared through the cool Bernabéu night, traveling roughly 50 meters through the air, curling gently toward the top of the arc. Casillas hesitated, uncertain whether to come out or stay rooted.
Yang Yang didn't wait for the ball to drop. As it descended toward him, he timed his approach, twisted his torso slightly, and controlled it with his chest. The contact was clean—firm, but not stiff. The ball cushioned off his upper body and fell gently into his path, decelerating just enough.
Ramos lunged forward. He had closed some of the distance and now came diving in from Yang Yang's left, attempting to either nick the ball or force a heavy touch. But Yang Yang anticipated it.
Instead of shooting, which would have been rushed and likely blocked, he extended his right leg and nudged the ball subtly past Ramos, threading it into the space behind the defender's lead foot.
It was a deft poke—deliberate, precise, and perfectly weighted.
Ramos, already committed to his tackle, couldn't adjust. His momentum carried him rightward while the ball escaped left. Now off balance, he stumbled as he tried to recover.
Woodgate, meanwhile, had circled around but remained two steps behind. Gravesen tracked back too, but he was further off. Yang Yang had broken through—one-on-one with the keeper, but slightly to the right of the goal.
Without breaking stride, he let the ball roll across his body. Then, as it sat up, Yang Yang swung his left foot, striking it cleanly on the rise.
The shot wasn't a thunderous blast but a pure, clean hit—well-timed and true. The ball flew past Casillas, who had barely set his feet, and into the far side of the net.
For a moment, the Bernabéu fell quiet.
Then came the eruption.
"Goal!"
"Gooooooooooooooal!"
"Yang Yang!"
"In the 38th minute, the Chinese forward opens the scoring for Ajax with a breathtaking solo effort!"
"A long ball from Sneijder, perfect chest control, a touch to beat Ramos, and a volley finish past Casillas!"
"A goal out of nowhere, against the run of play—but one of absolute class!"
Yang Yang didn't celebrate immediately. For a second, he just turned toward the fans, breathing heavily, arms spread wide as he soaked in the shock and silence from the home crowd. Then he ran toward the corner flag, dropped into a knee slide, and raised his fists high. The colorful friendship band tied around his left wrist shimmered under the lights.
His teammates charged in from all directions—Sneijder first, followed by Yaya, De Jong, Heitinga. They smothered him in an avalanche of shouts, hugs, and slaps on the back.
They had been under siege for most of the half, pinned back and clinging on.
But now, thanks to one pass and one flash of brilliance, they were ahead.
Because they believed in Yang Yang.
And Yang Yang never let them down.
...
...
The moment Yang Yang's left-footed volley struck the back of the net, the scene cut sharply to the Ajax celebrations erupting in front of the Santiago Bernabéu corner flag. And almost instantly, halfway across the world, the same scene flickered onto television screens in homes, shops, and student dormitories across China.
Broadcast live on China National Television, the feed captured Yang Yang sprinting across the pitch, arms raised, teammates rushing in from all directions to embrace him in an emotional pile-on of joy and disbelief. The commentary team's excitement crackled over the airwaves, mixing with the roars of stunned Ajax fans and the murmurs of a silenced Madridista crowd.
At that very moment, in a student dormitory at the China National Academy of Traditional Opera, the goal appeared in full colour before Su Ye and her roommates.
They had just been murmuring to each other moments earlier, puzzled and skeptical.
"How can they win?" one of them had said. "They're getting completely dominated…"
"They can't even keep the ball," another added. "It's just a matter of time before they concede."
But before their doubts could settle, Yang Yang gave them an answer — the only way he knew how.
With action.
Now, staring at the screen, they watched in silence as he and his teammates celebrated wildly, every expression etched with passion and release. The room fell into stunned awe. No one said anything for several seconds.
And then came the voice of the CCTV commentator, his tone filled with growing emotion and admiration:
"This... this is truly a magnificent goal!"
"From the start of the counterattack, Ajax's coordination was seamless."
"Yaya Touré showed composure in midfield, shielding the ball and slipping it out to the right. Sneijder picked it up, raised his head, and spotted Yang Yang already on the move."
"There was no hesitation. Sneijder launched a long pass behind Real Madrid's defensive line—perfect timing, perfect weight."
"Yang Yang's acceleration… it was explosive. He left Woodgate behind like he wasn't even there."
"But what truly took the breath away was what came next. He didn't panic. He didn't rush."
"First, he brought it down with his chest while sprinting at full speed. Then, instead of shooting, he used his right foot to nudge the ball delicately past Ramos, who had come charging in. And finally—without breaking rhythm—he struck it with his left foot."
"It wasn't just a finish. It was a statement."
"The ball curled away from Casillas and into the far corner. The goalkeeper was caught slightly out of position, but even if he had been centered, I doubt he could have reacted in time. The timing, the angle, the vision… it was all too precise."
"The entire sequence—from chest control, to the touch past Ramos, to the strike—was seamless. Clean. Artistic. A classic. One of those goals you never forget."
Then, as the replay rolled again in slow motion, the commentator added, his voice thick with pride, "This is the kind of goal... that will represent Chinese football for the next ten years."
The students watching the match in Su Ye's dormitory didn't say a word. They didn't need to. Their widened eyes and silent astonishment said everything. Even those who had never cared for football before were now watching intently, as if trying to memorize every detail of the play they had just witnessed.
Yang Yang, to them, had been just a name — Su Ye's 'acquaintance,' a player chasing dreams in Europe.
Now, in front of their eyes, he was something more.
Of course, the girls at the opera school were no strangers to beautiful people. Their campus was full of elegant men and women, carefully groomed, theatrically trained. Yang Yang's appearance didn't necessarily stand out to them — there were others with sharper features, more refined looks.
But what set him apart was something different.
There was a light about him, something intangible that radiated beyond the screen. A sense of purpose. Of courage. Of being alive in a moment of truth.
And when the camera zoomed in on him, catching a glimpse of the multi-colored friendship rope tied around his left wrist, Su Ye's breath caught.
She knew what that was. She had made it herself.
It wasn't flashy. Just a simple woven string. But on the biggest stage in Europe, under the glare of Bernabéu's lights, Yang Yang was still wearing it.
That small gesture struck her more deeply than any goal could.
She hadn't cared about football before meeting him. She hadn't even known the rules. But over time, slowly, almost unknowingly, she had started learning — about teams, about players, about strategies and rivalries. Just enough to keep up with conversations. Just enough to understand his world.
Now, as she watched him score a goal against Real Madrid — the mighty Real Madrid.
...
...
The Santiago Bernabéu fell into a stunned hush.
For a brief moment, after Yang Yang's stunning volley rippled the back of the net, the roar of the Ajax bench and the distant cheers from their scattered away supporters stood in stark contrast to the silence that blanketed the rest of the stadium.
The home crowd—proud, seasoned, and accustomed to glory—was momentarily paralyzed.
They had watched, helpless, as a 19-year-old Chinese forward dissected their defense with surgical precision.
High in the VIP box, Florentino Pérez sat motionless, his expression rigid. He hadn't moved since the ball struck the net. Though composed on the surface, there was a visible tightness in his jaw, a quiet fury simmering just beneath his presidential calm.
One goal.
It was just one goal.
But that single moment had laid bare so much more. Yang Yang's poise, his chest control in full stride, his ability to deceive Ramos, and the clean, unhesitating finish with his weaker foot — it all reflected a level of quality that even Real Madrid, for all its superstars, had failed to show that evening.
And most concerning of all: the match was beginning to spiral beyond Florentino's control.
Beside him, club director Emilio Butragueño let out a long, troubled breath.
"Same story, same problem," he muttered.
It was a familiar frustration.
Only weeks earlier, Real Madrid had suffered a humbling 3–0 loss at home to Barcelona, with Ronaldinho scoring twice — both goals coming from blistering transitions that left Madrid's backline stranded. Neither of those sequences had taken more than 20 seconds from start to finish.
And tonight, Yang Yang's goal?
Less than ten.
From De Jong's tackle in midfield to Sneijder's pass to the final volley, the sequence had unfolded with frightening simplicity and devastating speed.
This was no isolated mistake. No freak moment.
This was a pattern.
In the Copa del Rey, they had been humiliated 6–1 by Zaragoza — again undone by fast breaks.
In La Liga, they had fallen to the same type of goals from Barcelona, Valencia, Osasuna, Celta Vigo, Deportivo La Coruña, Racing Santander…
Even in the Champions League group stage, they'd been exposed by Lyon the same way.
Everyone had figured it out.
Across Europe, coaches had drawn the same conclusion: if you want to beat Real Madrid, don't fight them toe-to-toe. Don't press high. Don't chase the ball.
Sit deep, stay compact, and wait for the chance to strike on the counter.
Let their own structure collapse under the weight of its attacking brilliance.
Even Barcelona had done it.
"Top-heavy," Butragueño said under his breath. "No defensive coverage. Same old problems—only worse now."
The glamour of Madrid's attacking stars had long masked structural weaknesses. The midfield was often overwhelmed. The backline left too exposed.
"We lose the ball too easily in midfield," he added, more loudly now, speaking to no one in particular but loud enough that Florentino might hear.
"In this setup, Guti and Zidane are supposed to control the rhythm. But they're getting smothered."
He tapped his finger lightly against the railing. "Look at Ajax—Yaya Touré's athleticism, Sneijder's creativity, De Jong's work rate, and Garasek doing the dirty work… it's making a mess of our build-up. And when Gravesen tries to help, he just adds more confusion."
It was true. On paper, Madrid had possession dominance. But in reality, they lacked control. Their moves were disjointed, improvisational. Only after Beckham abandoned the right flank and drifted inside did the midfield show signs of stability. But it was fleeting.
The real issue lay in their shape.
"Our fullbacks are too advanced. They don't recover in time. And the center backs are constantly stepping up without coverage," Butragueño continued. "The entire back line is pushed high. It leaves so much space behind."
And against players like Yang Yang, space is fatal.
Madrid's tactical setup resembled a gamble—a high-risk chase for goals with little regard for consequence. When it worked, it dazzled. But when it didn't, it left them bleeding.
Worse still was the atmosphere in the dressing room.
Despite his résumé, head coach Vanderlei Luxemburgo had failed to assert control. The stars, many of whom were global icons with egos to match, barely listened to his instructions. Training sessions were often fractured. Tactical meetings were tolerated, not absorbed.
"He never really had the room," Butragueño said quietly. "And now they don't even pretend to follow him."
It wasn't entirely Luxemburgo's fault. He had been handed a squad shaped not by need, but by vision—Florentino's vision.
A vision built on marketing appeal, not positional balance.
Galácticos were signed for their shirts, not their roles. Beckham for his global draw, Owen because he was available. Robinho was promised as the next Pelé. None were brought in to patch the glaring holes behind Zidane or to anchor the team when possession was lost.
Florentino believed in the idea: beautiful football, global branding, attacking flair.
But what looked good in boardrooms and sponsorship reports didn't always survive the pitch.
Real football, Butragueño thought grimly, still needed grit.
And tonight, for all the fireworks in their lineup, the player lighting up the Bernabéu wasn't wearing white.
He was a 19-year-old wearing red and white, with a colored rope on his wrist, and no fear in his eyes.
...
...
Inside the away dressing room of the Santiago Bernabéu, the atmosphere was electric.
Ajax had just completed a stunning first half, taking a 1–0 lead over Real Madrid thanks to a moment of brilliance from Yang Yang. The players came off the pitch buzzing with adrenaline. Smiles were exchanged, a few fist bumps, pats on the back—satisfaction lingered in every movement. For a young team, leading in one of Europe's most intimidating venues felt like a small miracle.
But just as the murmurs began to rise—talk of how Real Madrid were shaken, how the game was going their way—Yang Yang stood up.
He hadn't taken his seat since entering. Sweat still clung to his forehead. He was still catching his breath, but the look on his face made the room fall silent.
"There's nothing to celebrate," he said flatly, voice cutting through the noise.
The shift in tone was immediate.
Even Nicklas Bendtner, who had once challenged Yang Yang's authority in training, looked up and said nothing. Everyone who had trained and played alongside Yang knew his temperament—kind, focused, disciplined. He wasn't one for theatrics or outbursts.
But this version of him? This was their captain speaking. And it wasn't kindness on his face now—it was steel.
"We're only up 1–0," he continued, voice calm but commanding. "This match is far from over. There's an entire second half waiting, and if anyone here thinks we've already done enough—think again."
His words hung in the air.
Heitinga, Sneijder, De Jong, Garasek—all players who had lived through that painful night two years ago—exchanged glances. They knew exactly where he was going.
"That first leg in 2004," Yang Yang said, pacing slightly. "We were up 1–0 at halftime too. We thought we were in control. We thought we were ready to beat them."
He turned, eyes scanning the room, his voice sharpening.
"Then they scored four. Four goals. In less than half an hour. We didn't even know what hit us. Ronaldo, Zidane, Figo, Guti—they tore us apart."
He clenched his fist unconsciously. The memory still burned.
"I don't want to see that again. Not from us. Not tonight."
Players who hadn't been part of that defeat—Yaya Touré, Vermaelen, even young Maduro—listened closely. None of them moved. The silence wasn't out of fear; it was out of respect. Yang Yang was speaking truth, and it hit home.
"Real Madrid is like a sleeping tiger," he said. "We caught them off guard. But they're waking up. And if we think this first half was the whole fight, we're going to get eaten alive."
He paused.
"But if we stay sharp… if we stay humble and organized… we can finish what we started."
At that moment, head coach Ronald Koeman stepped into the dressing room. He had heard most of it from the door.
"And that," he said, "is the attitude I want from every single one of you."
The players turned their attention to their manager, now energized by the captain's wake-up call.
"The first half was a great result—but only that. A result. It's not a win yet."
He moved toward the tactics board and gestured at the midfield zone.
"Real Madrid adjusted during the first half. Beckham started drifting inside to help with build-up, and they were finding space on both flanks. They're going to push harder in the second half. We need to be ready."
He pointed to Yang Yang on the board.
"Yang, you'll have to drop deeper when needed. Give us that first outlet on the counter. Your movement has been exceptional—we need more of it."
Yang Yang nodded.
"To the rest of you—compact shape. Keep our lines tight. The midfield battle is still ours if we stay aggressive. Keep pressing Guti and Zidane. They're the key. If we let them breathe, they'll punish us."
Koeman glanced at De Jong and Sneijder.
"Keep up the dual pressure. De Jong closes space, Sneijder blocks passing lanes. And if Ronaldo starts dropping deep like he did before the break, someone follows him—don't let him dictate play."
He walked to the board again.
"One more thing. Real Madrid's fullbacks—Salgado and Roberto Carlos—they push high. That leaves space behind them. When we win the ball, our counters must be immediate."
He looked up at the squad. "Be decisive. No second guesses. If you see a line-breaking pass, play it."
Then he turned toward Yang Yang again, softer this time.
"Yang, those two early chances you created—perfectly weighted passes. Could've been goals. Keep doing what you're doing. Don't stop."
Yaya Touré and Pienaar both lowered their heads slightly, their faces tight with regret. They knew they had missed their moments.
Koeman didn't dwell on it.
"This is your half now," he said, locking eyes with his captain. "Lead them."