After a turbulent and controversial 2005, Real Madrid stepped into 2006 with only one man truly shining above the rest — Zinedine Zidane.
Since the winter break, he had rediscovered his scoring touch, already netting five goals across all competitions. But for those who understood Zidane's mentality and rhythms, this was more than just a domestic surge. It was clear that the French maestro was preparing for one last dance — not just for Real Madrid, but for the World Cup in Germany later that year. Every match now felt like a tune-up for the grand finale in his career.
Under López Caro, one of the most significant tactical shifts from the Luxemburgo era was repositioning Zidane higher up the pitch, closer to the opponent's penalty area. It was a logical adjustment. Zidane at the edge of the box, unmarked, was a menace — capable of unlocking defenses with the elegance of a conductor leading a symphony.
But Ajax had denied him that space in the first half.
Guti, nominally sitting deeper to support build-up, had been stifled almost entirely by Yaya Touré's relentless presence. Zidane himself found every attempt to push forward met with resistance. Galásek tracked him doggedly, while Sneijder and De Jong folded in to block passing lanes and deny him freedom. Ajax didn't press recklessly — they compressed space methodically, creating a compact, suffocating central zone.
That forced Zidane to retreat into deeper territory to collect the ball — not by design, but by necessity.
But in that congested midfield swamp, nothing flowed. Not from him, not from Guti. When both creators stalled, the responsibility awkwardly shifted to Gravesen, who lacked the vision and calm to control the tempo. In desperation, David Beckham abandoned his position on the right flank and drifted centrally to help with distribution — but that only worsened the issue.
Now the midfield was flooded with white shirts — a logjam of Real Madrid talent stuck in neutral.
Ajax, by contrast, thrived on the chaos they had created. Their youth, speed, and tactical discipline kept them light on their feet. They didn't press aimlessly. They chose their moments, snapping into tackles, swarming outlets, and forcing errors. Real Madrid were left bruised and unsure.
Even after Caro's halftime adjustments — tweaks in positioning, calls for quicker ball movement — the same structural issues remained. The squad was simply not built to play like Ajax. Zidane and Guti could not chase and harass like Yaya Touré and Sneijder. Robinho and Beckham weren't granted the time or room to operate along the flanks. And Ronaldo, isolated up top, began dropping deeper in frustration.
But there was no room to breathe.
Every time he touched the ball, an Ajax shirt was already pressing. Ronaldo tried to create from midfield, but Ajax had constructed a trap. Their "strangulation net" — that's what Dutch journalists would later call it — collapsed on every touch and halted every spark.
By the second half, Ajax had clearly doubled down. Ronaldo no longer found even the scraps of space he had briefly enjoyed in the first half.
In the 52nd minute, Real Madrid earned a throw-in near the right touchline, about 30 meters from goal. The second half had so far been slow, tight, and frustrating. Seven full minutes had passed with barely a sniff at either goal, and tension was building. The home crowd — always demanding — began to stir restlessly, booing in scattered waves.
Then, a glimmer of hope: Raul began warming up on the sideline.
The mood shifted instantly. The applause and cheers for the veteran striker rippled across the Bernabéu. For all the marquee names in white, it was Raul whom the fans trusted with their hearts. He was Real Madrid's warrior — not a marketing symbol, not a brand ambassador, but a fighter who had bled for the crest.
His career had become a lesson in sacrifice. In order to accommodate wave after wave of Galácticos, he had given up his preferred position, drifted into new roles, and accepted diminishing returns. Forward, attacking midfielder, left wing, deep playmaker — Raul had done it all, and without complaint. Even when benched, he never sulked. He trained, waited, and gave everything when called upon.
And tonight, the Bernabéu needed a fighter, not a figurehead.
But just as the cameras panned to Raul stretching near the fourth official, Real Madrid's possession took a dangerous turn.
Roberto Carlos, ever the enterprising left-back, pushed high into midfield and tried to force a pass into Ronaldo, who had again drifted back in search of involvement. But the pass was telegraphed and slightly heavy.
Galásek pounced — reading it before Ronaldo could even react — and swept the ball cleanly away.
Immediately, Sneijder stepped into the loose ball, and without hesitation, pinged it forward first-time to Yang Yang.
The Ajax counter had begun.
...
...
Yang Yang had been moving with clear intent, not just aimlessly covering ground. Every stride was calculated. When Sneijder's quick pass came through, Yang received the ball just a few steps inside the centre circle—just ahead of Guti, who was slightly out of position. Gravesen had stepped forward earlier to press, leaving a temporary pocket of space open in midfield.
There was no immediate pressure around him. One fluid turn, then a controlled first touch forward—Yang Yang was already facing goal.
His acceleration was measured, not explosive at first. He drove the ball forward with careful control, keeping it close to his feet as he scanned the defensive line. Guti was recovering, trailing him on the left, while Ramos had already started dropping back, trying to angle his retreat to cut off the route to the box. It was clear the two Madrid players were attempting a pincer: Guti from behind, Ramos ahead.
Yang sensed it instantly.
He knew that if he allowed the distance to close without acting, they'd collapse on him—clip his heel, body check him, drag him down. A foul, perhaps. Or worse: a turnover.
So, just as he entered Real Madrid's final third—about thirty metres from goal—he made his move.
Ramos, recognizing he couldn't keep backing off, stepped forward with sudden aggression, body leaning into the challenge. He anticipated Yang would try to shift onto his left and was ready to smother that angle.
But Yang had already anticipated that.
A sharp, low poke of his right foot sent the ball two strides ahead, and in the same breath, he dipped his shoulder, brushed off Ramos's contact, and surged forward.
Ramos, a fierce and physical defender barely 20 years old, had built a reputation in La Liga for being fearless and dominant in duels. Most attackers—especially lean, technically gifted ones—would bounce off his frame or wilt under pressure.
But this time, the physical clash didn't go his way.
Yang Yang, lean but wiry and unusually strong in the upper body, held his ground. He absorbed the contact, rode it, and was already exploding past Ramos before the Madrid defender could plant his feet.
Guti, arriving a split-second later, lunged to poke the ball away, but Yang skipped just outside his reach.
Now he was through the second line.
Only Woodgate stood between him and Casillas.
Yang carried the ball diagonally into the left channel of the penalty area. He didn't try to burn Woodgate with raw pace; instead, he slowed just slightly as the English defender approached, waiting for him to commit.
Woodgate came in close, trying to shepherd him wide, leaning heavily on his right side, and bracing to intercept any attempt at a left-footed shot. His positioning was textbook: body low, center of gravity balanced, right leg hovering to stab or slide if necessary.
Yang dipped slightly, feinted to shoot—but it was just enough to freeze Woodgate.
And then, he stopped.
A dead stop.
Woodgate's weight had already shifted forward; he was halfway into a challenge. By the time he managed to halt his momentum, Yang Yang had already restarted. A quick stutter step, a flick of the shoulder, and a second wind—he burst forward again into the half-space Woodgate had left behind.
It was a tiny window—half a metre at most.
But it was enough.
With his left foot, Yang Yang swung through cleanly and struck the ball low and hard toward the far post. Casillas had been bracing to dive right but was caught off guard by the sudden change in tempo. He flung himself across the line, but the ball whistled past his gloves, just inches beyond his reach, and kissed the inside of the far side netting.
Perfectly placed.
"Goooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaal!"
"Fifty-three minutes!"
"Yang Yang again! He's scored a second at the Santiago Bernabéu!"
As the ball rippled into the far side netting, Yang Yang exploded in celebration.
With a roar, he tore away from the penalty area, sprinting toward the corner flag with arms stretched wide, laughter bursting from his chest. The stadium lights caught the expression on his face—one of unfiltered joy, adrenaline, and something more: defiance.
He dropped to his knees by the corner, sliding on the turf before leaning back, chest heaving as he raised his head to the sky. At that moment, he wasn't just a player celebrating a brace—he was a 20-year-old carving his name into the heart of Europe's most intimidating arena.
Tonight, he felt invincible.
He had always dreamed of these stages. Now, under the white glare of the Bernabéu, he wasn't just participating—he was dominating.
"What a night he's having! A brace at the Bernabéu! Yang Yang is absolutely electric!"
"Ajax have built their counterattacking blueprint around him, and he hasn't missed a beat."
"That second goal was all him—broke away from the press, held off two defenders, and beat another one-on-one before burying it."
"Real Madrid simply can't deal with him tonight!"
As Yang caught his breath by the corner flag, he heard the growing turbulence in the stands behind him. Real Madrid fans were in disarray. Some jeered. Others shouted abuse. A few stood in stunned silence. Yet, scattered amidst the anger were faint pockets of applause—acknowledgment, however reluctant, of a world-class goal.
He turned to jog back toward the halfway line, chest still rising with exertion, only to see something unusual behind him.
Woodgate was still down inside the penalty area.
Casillas had already turned to the referee, gesturing urgently toward the bench. Moments later, the referee, Pierluigi Collina's compatriot Stefano Farina, waved toward the sideline, calling on the medical staff.
The commentary team resumed:
"We're seeing some concern for Jonathan Woodgate here."
"That's right, he went to ground after trying to stop Yang Yang's surge. It looks like the injury occurred during the recovery attempt—he lunged late, possibly overstretching after Yang Yang's sudden stop."
"It's worth noting—Woodgate has struggled with injuries since arriving in Madrid. He's only featured in a handful of games this season."
"And now, with the World Cup approaching and Real Madrid needing depth in defense, this could be another devastating setback."
"Interestingly, two years ago, it was Raul Bravo who injured himself at this very stadium trying to stop Yang Yang. And now, it's Woodgate."
"Makes you wonder—does Yang Yang carry a hidden aura of misfortune for defenders?"
Yang Yang, having noticed the delay, jogged over to where several Madrid players stood near the downed Woodgate. He raised a hand in quiet concern.
"I didn't touch him," he explained sincerely to Ramos and Beckham, trying to clear any misunderstanding. "Only his shoulder. No contact with his leg."
Woodgate, grimacing on the turf, managed a slight nod to confirm it. "I overextended," he muttered, voice strained.
The stretcher team arrived moments later and gently lifted the English defender, who winced but remained composed. Yang Yang followed them toward the sideline and offered a final respectful gesture before Woodgate was carried away.
Though he had only shared a few months alongside him at Ajax, there was mutual respect—two professionals, once teammates, now rivals on the grandest stage.
Back on the touchline, Real Madrid prepared their substitution.
Julien Escudé, former Ajax defender now with Los Blancos, was readied to replace the injured Woodgate.
Two years ago, he had worn red and white. Now he stepped into white to face the club he once represented.
Yang Yang caught Escudé's eye. The Frenchman gave him a brief nod—respectful, distant. There was no warmth. Not tonight.
Escudé crossed into the pitch.
The referee signaled.
Play resumed.
And as the ball began rolling again, the scoreboard told the story so far: Real Madrid 0, Ajax 2.
A brace from Yang Yang, and the Bernabéu was stunned into silence.
...
...
From the moment Yang Yang netted his second goal in the 53rd minute, Real Madrid responded with urgency. López Caro made a swift tactical adjustment, sending on club legend Raúl González to replace the young Brazilian Robinho on the left wing.
Raúl's entry onto the pitch brought more than just tactical balance—it reignited the soul of the team. Even with the scoreboard against them, his presence immediately had a stabilizing effect. He barked instructions, rallied the players around him, and reminded everyone what it meant to wear the white shirt of Madrid at the Bernabéu.
Buoyed by the change, Real Madrid began to regain some control of the game. Their attacks grew more purposeful.
The first moment of real threat came when Ronaldo dropped deep to receive the ball and was promptly fouled just outside the center circle. The referee awarded a free kick in a promising area. David Beckham stood over it, a hush settling across the stadium.
Yang Yang stood nearby, watching intently.
Beckham struck the ball cleanly, sending it curling toward goal with precision and venom. The shot dipped late and scraped just over the bar, grazing the top netting on its way out. Yang Yang was visibly stunned.
Despite training for years with the system's skill [Beckham's Technique], the sheer mastery on display reminded him how far he still had to go. Talent alone wasn't enough. He needed to keep evolving.
Minutes later, Beckham again created danger from the right flank. He delivered a pinpoint cross into the box, where Raúl rose to meet it. The header was clean but glanced just wide of the post, sending a collective sigh through the home crowd. Real Madrid was coming closer.
The game settled into a tense rhythm. Madrid pushed, and Ajax resisted. For the visitors, it was a battle of structure and timing, not possession.
"The Bernabéu is growing restless," the commentator observed. "Trailing 2–0 at home in a Champions League knockout match is not a position this club—or these fans—are used to."
"If Real Madrid can't turn this around tonight, the return leg in Amsterdam will be a mountain."
"And should they fail to reach the semifinals this year, it would mark the second consecutive season exiting at the round of 16 stage. And curiously enough, it was Ajax who eliminated them back in the 2003–04 campaign."
Frustration spread through the stands. The fans' irritation wasn't merely at the scoreline—it was at the style. Real Madrid controlled the ball but lacked cutting edge. Their play felt cautious, hesitant, too methodical for the urgency of the situation.
Caro, still visibly agitated on the touchline, burned his second substitution in the 75th minute, withdrawing Thomas Gravesen for Julio Baptista. The Brazilian midfielder's entrance was symbolic: all-out attack.
Real Madrid had committed to risk. There was no way back now but forward.
With Raúl and Baptista now on the pitch, Madrid increased their press. Ajax, meanwhile, began to feel the pressure. Two Madrid attacks followed in quick succession, one resulting in Maxwell picking up a yellow card for a tactical foul.
Yet just as the momentum threatened to tilt, Ajax struck again.
In the 80th minute, Real Madrid's midfield once more failed to recycle possession efficiently. Ajax seized the moment. A quick sequence saw the ball move swiftly through the middle before finding its way to Yang Yang.
The Chinese forward had dropped deep into the space just ahead of Madrid's back line, precisely where Gravesen would have been had he still been on the pitch. With Baptista pushed higher and Guti and Zidane focused on distribution rather than marking, the midfield was left exposed.
Yang Yang received the pass with his back to goal. Sergio Ramos was immediately tight to him, and Julien Escudé hovered nearby, guarding against the inevitable turn.
Escudé knew his former Ajax teammate well—knew how explosive he could be if allowed to face forward. The Frenchman's plan was simple: keep him facing away. Deny the turn. Smother him with support.
But that defensive commitment came at a cost. With both central defenders pulled upfield to press Yang Yang, the space behind them was unguarded.
Yang Yang couldn't turn, so he laid the ball off to Sneijder. The Dutch midfielder tried to return it, but Real Madrid quickly closed the lane. Ajax reset through the back.
The ball cycled between Maxwell, Vermaelen, Maicon, and Heitinga, moving laterally across the pitch. Madrid's forwards pressed, but they were beginning to fatigue.
Vermaelen stepped forward with the ball, moving just inside the halfway line. He raised his hand and saw Yang Yang drifting between Ramos and Escudé, seemingly disinterested.
But Vermaelen knew better.
They'd worked together long enough to recognize the signal. Yang Yang wasn't loafing—he was luring.
Without hesitation, Vermaelen swung his left foot through the ball, launching a lofted diagonal pass that dropped behind the Madrid defense.
The timing was immaculate.
As the ball soared, Yang Yang exploded into motion.
He sprinted into the gap with terrifying acceleration, slicing cleanly between Ramos and Escudé, both caught flat-footed.
The ball bounced once, then twice near the top of the arc.
Yang Yang didn't take control immediately. He let the ball run, timing the bounce perfectly. Casillas, recognizing the danger, had no choice but to come off his line.
The Spanish keeper rushed to meet him.
Yang Yang reached the penalty spot just as the ball reached him. He slowed for a split second, then clipped a deft right-footed chip over Casillas' outstretched arms.
The ball arced cleanly and dropped—softly, almost mockingly—into the center of the net.
The Bernabéu fell silent for a heartbeat.
Then: "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL!!!"
The commentator's voice cracked with disbelief.
Yang Yang didn't stop. He sprinted straight to the touchline, roaring as he went. He dropped to his knees in front of the nearest camera, raising three fingers to the lens.
"Three! Count them—three!"
A hat trick.
At the Santiago Bernabéu.
Against Real Madrid.
In a Champions League knockout tie.
The stadium erupted—not in celebration, but in shock. For the home fans, it was humiliation. For the visitors, it was history.
"In the eighty-first minute, Yang Yang completes his hat trick!"
"The unbreakable Bernabéu has fallen—Yang Yang has brought it down single-handedly!"
"Three stunning counterattacks. Three devastating finishes. Real Madrid is being dismantled at home."
On the pitch, Ajax players swarmed their talisman. Vermaelen leapt onto his back, roaring with joy. Sneijder, Pienaar, and Charisteas surrounded him in celebration.
3–0. Ajax were cruising.
On the other side, Real Madrid's stars looked hollowed out—defeated in spirit as much as on the scoreboard. Not a single goal scored. Three conceded. Their famed Galáctico front line had been silent. Their defense exposed.
But amid the collapse, something remarkable happened.
From the upper tiers to the edge of the pitch, the Bernabéu began to applaud.
It started with scattered claps, hesitant at first. Then more joined. Within moments, tens of thousands were on their feet.
The applause became a standing ovation—not for their own, but for the young man who had conquered them.
Yang Yang, the Ajax number eleven, had done what few dared even to dream.
Only once before this season had the Bernabéu offered such reverence—to Ronaldinho, after the Century Derby.
Now, they stood for Yang Yang.
Applauding not as rivals, but as admirers.
A legend was being born, right there on Spanish soil.
...
"Real Madrid's core issue remains unchanged."
"From the very beginning, Caro's formation has raised eyebrows."
"It's one thing to play on the front foot at home and try to dominate possession—that's the Real Madrid way. But this is Ajax. This isn't a fragile underdog playing for survival. This is a side that thrives on high pressing, quick recovery, and lethal counterattacks. If you give them space, they'll rip through you—and that's exactly what's happened tonight."
"There's also the matter of personnel."
"Yes, Real Madrid is blessed with superstars who can change a game in an instant. But football isn't just about stars—it's about balance. It's about players who do the dirty work, who cover ground, track back, press intelligently, and make the system function. Raúl and Baptista are precisely those kinds of players—hard-running, tactically aware, and willing to sacrifice for the team."
"And yet, when Caro decided to make changes, his choices were telling."
"He removed Robinho, who had actually been one of the brighter attacking lights in the first half, rather than resting one of the Galácticos who were underperforming. And when he brought on Baptista, he took off Gravesen—his only true defensive midfielder."
"There's a lack of courage in these decisions."
"Robinho wasn't the problem. Gravesen wasn't the problem. The problem is that Real Madrid's midfield was wide open, and Caro's substitutions only made it worse."
"The applause echoing around the Bernabéu isn't just admiration for Yang Yang's extraordinary hat trick tonight—though he undoubtedly deserves it. It's also a statement."
"It's a message from the fans, a subtle but cutting indictment of the club's leadership and tactical direction."
"They're applauding a performance, yes—but also mourning a philosophy."
"Football cannot be won on names alone. Without structure, without fight, without balance, even the most star-studded side can be made to look ordinary."
"And unless something changes—tactically, strategically, perhaps even higher up—what lies ahead for Real Madrid is not redemption, but failure."