"We're into the sixtieth minute here at Anfield," the commentator announced, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd.
"Liverpool still lead three–nil — Yang Yang with two goals and one assist — a dream performance on his return!"
Down on the touchline, Rafael Benítez stood beside the fourth official. The substitution board was raised high, its red and green digits glowing under the floodlights.
And in that instant, Anfield erupted again.
More than fifty thousand fans rose to their feet, applauding wildly. The chant began almost at once, swelling louder and louder until it became a wall of sound:
"Yang Yang! Yang Yang! Yang Yang!"
The young forward froze for a second, eyes flicking toward the sideline. His number was on the board.
He was being substituted.
For a heartbeat, disbelief crossed his face. He still felt fresh — his legs light, his breathing steady. Every fibre of his body told him he could go on, that there was one more goal in him tonight. The rhythm of the game was his, and a hat trick felt almost inevitable.
But then he caught sight of Benítez, gesturing from the technical area. The Spaniard's expression was calm, measured, but his eyes were firm.
It wasn't a tactical change — it was protection.
Yang Yang understood. He had only just returned from injury. The manager couldn't risk another setback, not after the days of recovery and careful buildup.
Still, a flicker of frustration tugged at him. To leave now, when everything felt perfect — it was hard to accept.
He took a slow breath, glanced once more at the scoreboard — 3–0, Liverpool cruising — and nodded.
The crowd's applause intensified as he began walking toward the sideline, teammates clapping him on the back as he passed. Every step he took, the noise seemed to grow.
...
"It's true," the commentator said as the camera followed Yang Yang walking off to a standing ovation. "He's only been on the pitch for an hour, but you can already feel the difference he's brought to Liverpool."
"Both goals were exceptional — the first a brilliant one-on-one after a long pass during a counterattack, and the second a composed volley inside the penalty area."
"And let's not forget his assist — a perfectly timed cross for Crouch's header. Two goals and one assist in your Premier League debut… that's a near-perfect performance."
The co-commentator nodded with admiration.
"Yes, and beyond the statistics, look at his impact on Liverpool's entire approach tonight. For sixty minutes, he led a kind of sharp, fluid attack we haven't seen from this team in years. His pace, his movement, and his decisiveness gave the side a completely new dimension."
"I think it's safe to say," the main commentator added, "that all the pre-match doubts about Yang Yang can finally be put to rest — at least for now."
The broadcast cut to Benítez, who applauded lightly as Yang Yang reached the sideline. The Spaniard's face remained calm, but his expression betrayed satisfaction.
"If he can maintain this level of form," the voice continued over the image, "there's every reason to believe Yang Yang will become one of Liverpool's most vital players — perhaps even the cornerstone of their attack for years to come."
...
When Yang Yang walked off the field, he was greeted with warmth and respect from every direction.
Crouch, Aurelio, Gerrard, and Xabi Alonso all stepped forward to high-five and embrace him, offering words of praise as he passed. Even though he had played just over an hour, the message was clear — every player on that pitch recognized his quality.
In only sixty minutes, he had changed the rhythm of Liverpool's attack. If the team were to push further this season — in the Premier League, the Champions League, or any competition ahead — they knew they would need Yang Yang at the heart of it.
At the sideline, Yang Yang reached Luis García, the substitute coming on in his place. The two shook hands and shared a quick hug. Despite being younger, Yang Yang smiled and offered encouragement.
"Play well out there," he said sincerely.
Luis García grinned and patted him on the shoulder before sprinting onto the pitch.
As Yang Yang turned toward the bench, he caught sight of Rafael Benítez standing by the touchline. The Spaniard's face was calm, almost expressionless, but for a fleeting moment, Yang Yang thought he saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips.
"You played great," Benítez said in his usual even tone. "Keep working hard."
It was brief, restrained — typical Benítez.
The young forward nodded politely, but before he could say anything, Pako Ayestarán, the assistant coach, approached with his familiar easy smile.
"Don't take it the wrong way," Pako said quickly, lowering his voice with a friendly chuckle. "He's not angry. When you scored earlier, he was actually going crazy — just in his own quiet way."
Yang Yang laughed softly.
"I know. I saw it."
Pako nodded.
"He took you off because he knows you. You're still buzzing — maybe too eager to chase that hat-trick. If you stayed on, you'd keep pushing, and that could invite trouble. The opponents would get frustrated, start kicking harder. He's protecting you. You've just come back from injury, remember? The season's long — you need to last."
Yang Yang smiled in understanding. The explanation eased the small sting of being substituted when he still felt full of energy.
"Thank you, Pako," he said sincerely.
It was only now that he understood why Gerrard had once told him that Ayestarán was the bridge between the players and Benítez.
Benítez's tactical understanding was exceptional — his instructions detailed and precise, his match strategies brilliantly structured. But his personality was cold, distant, almost mechanical. He spoke little, smiled even less, and rarely explained his decisions. Without someone like Pako — warm, patient, and articulate — misunderstandings could easily arise.
Footballers weren't machines. They needed to feel the human side of the game too.
As the match entered the seventy-ninth minute, Anfield witnessed something extraordinary.
Xabi Alonso, standing just inside the centre circle, intercepted a loose ball and lifted his head. Noticing Steve Harper a few steps off his line, he decided, almost on instinct, to try the impossible.
He struck the ball cleanly — a perfect, arching drive that rose high into the night air, spinning with precision and pace.
"Xabi Alonso… from distance — my God, he's gone for it!"
The crowd gasped as the ball soared more than sixty metres through the air, then dipped violently. Harper stumbled backward, slipping as he tried to retreat, but it was too late.
The ball dropped just under the crossbar and into the net.
Goal! 4–0!
The stadium erupted once more.
"That's unbelievable!"
"A long-range strike even further out than Beckham's at Selhurst Park in 1996!"
Alonso was immediately mobbed by teammates, laughter and disbelief written on every face. Even Benítez clapped his hands in rare delight.
It was a goal that would be replayed for years — the perfect exclamation mark on an unforgettable night.
When the referee finally blew the whistle for full time, Anfield exploded into a carnival of song and celebration.
The players embraced one another, smiling and shouting, while Gerrard, ever the captain, gathered them together and led the team toward the Kop. They applauded the fans who had sung from the first minute to the last.
"You'll Never Walk Alone" echoed again through the evening air, thousands of voices blending into one.
Yang Yang stood near the bench, gazing around the stadium, soaking in the moment. The chants, the flags, the sea of red — it was overwhelming.
For the first time, he truly felt the full force of Anfield — that unique, electric, almost frightening passion that could crush visiting teams before the ball was even kicked.
A chill ran down his spine as he smiled to himself.
He was grateful.
Grateful that this power — this fire — was on his side.
Because if it weren't, he thought with a quiet laugh, he'd be terrifying to play here.
......
......
When the second round of the Premier League came to an end, Yang Yang couldn't help but marvel once again at the sheer difficulty of English football.
Ten matches. Only two away victories. Three draws. Five defeats.
For visiting sides, it was brutal — just as the league's reputation promised.
The two rare away wins belonged to Manchester United, who beat Charlton 3–0, and Arsenal, who scraped past Wigan Athletic 1–0 thanks to Adebayor's 88th-minute strike. Elsewhere, Chelsea suffered a shock defeat at Middlesbrough — despite Shevchenko opening the scoring in the 16th minute, the Blues conceded twice in the final ten minutes. Mark Viduka, the Australian striker, delivered the killer blow in stoppage time.
After two rounds, Liverpool had climbed to fourth place, level on points with Portsmouth, West Ham, Bolton, Everton, Arsenal, and Aston Villa, all trailing Manchester United, who had won both of their matches.
What surprised Yang Yang most wasn't Liverpool's own rise — it was the reaction to Chelsea's defeat. The British media didn't treat it like an upset. There was no outrage, no sensationalism, just a calm acceptance that Middlesbrough had gone toe-to-toe with Chelsea as equals.
"If this were the Eredivisie," Yang Yang thought with a wry smile, "Ajax losing to a mid-table team would've caused an uproar."
In England, though, the margins were thinner, the competition relentless. The gap between teams simply wasn't the same.
In the scoring charts, West Ham's Bobby Zamora led with three goals. Behind him were Louis Saha and Wayne Rooney of Manchester United, Kanu of Portsmouth, and Yang Yang himself — all on two goals.
With two goals and one assist on his Premier League debut, Yang Yang was voted Man of the Match. The award — a traditional bottle of champagne — now sat on his apartment shelf, unopened but gleaming under the light. It wasn't worth much money, but to him, it meant everything.
The media reaction was overwhelming.
Papers across Britain — from Liverpool-based outlets to national publications — splashed headlines praising his performance and the new dynamism he brought to Liverpool's attack.
Even typically reserved outlets like The Times and The Telegraph ran features titled:
"The Yang Yang Effect: A New Spark in Liverpool's Attack."
But it was Alan Hansen's column that captured the heart of the story.
"On the night of the match," Hansen wrote, "I was at Anfield. Watching live is very different from watching on television. The camera can't capture what happens off the ball — the movement, the anticipation."
"And I can say, without hesitation, that if nothing goes wrong, Yang Yang could be Liverpool's most significant signing in years. He left me genuinely astonished."
Hansen revealed he had watched the game alongside Kenny Dalglish, and both were struck by Yang Yang's intelligence.
"He always looks for the gaps, even when they don't exist. His runs are purposeful, timed perfectly, and he's relentless in exploiting defensive weaknesses. His teammates only need to find his feet."
"Take his counterattack goal as the perfect example. On television, fans only see Gerrard's long pass and Yang Yang's diagonal run from the left. But what the cameras missed was what came before — he drifted centrally first, dragging Stephen Carr inward, then darted back into the left channel just as Gerrard looked up. That movement created the gap."
"Under Yang Yang's repeated assaults, Carr couldn't contain him. Newcastle's defensive structure broke down completely. When Gerrard played the ball, the space was already there — Yang Yang had made it himself."
Hansen's conclusion was emphatic.
"To Liverpool fans, I say this: Yang Yang is a special player. There is no reason to doubt him. If he stays fit, he will be Liverpool's sharpest weapon."
"Forty million euros? After that performance — it looks like a bargain."
"It was, quite simply, an almost perfect debut."
Other newspapers — even those with loyalties to rival clubs, like The Independent and The Daily Mail — gave Yang Yang glowing ratings, naming him among the best players of the Premier League's second round.
In Benítez's post-match press conference, the Spaniard's words were replayed across every sports channel in Britain:
"I'm not surprised by Yang Yang's performance," he said calmly. "Because this isn't his peak yet. He's still far from his best condition — he's only just returned from injury. Once he's fully fit, he'll be even better."
Then, almost as an afterthought, Benítez added with a rare smile:
"He won't even turn twenty until the end of October."
That line — he's not even twenty yet — spread through headlines like wildfire.
In the span of one match, public opinion across England had flipped completely.
The doubts, the mockery, the skepticism — all silenced.
Now, the press, the fans, and even the pundits were united in their new refrain:
"Liverpool's future has arrived — and his name is Yang Yang."
...
...
At noon, the day after the second round of the Premier League, London Heathrow Airport was bustling as usual — a steady hum of rolling suitcases, muffled announcements, and hurried footsteps echoing through the terminal.
In the waiting hall, Yang Yang stood quietly by the glass wall, dressed in a long dark coat and a hat pulled low, a pair of sunglasses hiding most of his face. Despite the disguise, there was no hiding the weight in his expression as he watched Su Ye walk toward the departure gate.
For a brief second, under the pale midday light, he saw it — the shimmer of tears welling in her eyes. They trembled but didn't fall. She turned away quickly, stubborn as always, her back straight and unflinching.
Yet Yang Yang could see her shoulders trembling slightly as she walked away, step by step, the distance between them growing. He knew her too well — that was her way of crying, quietly, refusing to let him see it.
Partings were always like this — heavy, silent, and unavoidable.
For the past two months, Su Ye had been by his side. Except for the few weeks when Liverpool had travelled to Austria and Germany for pre-season friendlies, they had shared nearly every day together. Morning coffees, training breaks, quiet walks near the docks — simple routines that had become a kind of comfort.
They had grown used to each other's presence, to the rhythm of shared time.
And now, it was ending again.
September was approaching fast, which meant the start of a new academic year for Su Ye. The two film crews she had auditioned for before summer had also contacted her — both inviting her for second-round auditions in the coming weeks. She had been hesitant to leave, but after seeing Yang Yang fully recovered, and after his triumphant brace against Newcastle in his Premier League debut, she finally felt at peace enough to go.
Before coming to the airport, Yang Yang had insisted on buying gifts for her to take home — small souvenirs for her family, friends, and classmates. At the duty-free shop, he'd even picked up two bottles of fine wine for her to deliver to Su Wenhong, despite her protests that it was unnecessary.
She had to check in an extra suitcase just to fit everything.
Normally, Su Ye would have argued, rolling her eyes and calling him wasteful. But today, she said nothing. She simply nodded, quietly accepting everything he handed her, her obedience speaking more than words ever could.
...
"Let's go."
It wasn't until Su Ye had fully disappeared through the gate that Winston Bogarde gently patted Yang Yang on the shoulder, his calm voice breaking the silence.
Yang Yang blinked, drew a deep breath, and nodded. It was time to leave. He had slipped away from Melwood during a short training break just to see her off, and he needed to rush back to Liverpool by the afternoon.
The two walked side by side toward the exit, the sounds of the airport fading behind them.
In recent weeks, Bogarde had decided to remain in Liverpool for a while — largely at Yang Yang's request. But he had made three clear conditions: he would only stay until the club found a proper long-term fitness coach, he would maintain daily contact with his team back in China, and he wouldn't abandon his responsibilities at his own gym there.
Even so, news that the former Dutch international was in Liverpool to help Yang Yang recover had already spread back home. Chinese fans who had long known of Bogarde's reputation now spoke of him with even greater respect. Being sought after by Liverpool Football Club was no small endorsement — it was proof of his professionalism and expertise.
Yang Yang had laughed when he persuaded him.
"Come on, Winston. Think of it as free advertising for your gym."
Bogarde had shaken his head, amused, but he came all the same.
Originally, UEFA had invited Yang Yang to Monaco for the Champions League group stage draw, where the UEFA Club Awards would also be presented. He had been shortlisted for Best Forward of the Season, and given that he had finished as both European Golden Boot and Champions League Golden Boot winner, the media widely tipped him as the favourite.
But according to information Mino Raiola had gathered from contacts in Monaco, the award was destined for Samuel Eto'o of Barcelona.
It was understandable — Eto'o had not scored as many goals, but he had led his team to the Champions League title. That, ultimately, carried the most weight.
Yang Yang could only sigh when he heard the news.
He had given everything the previous season with Ajax, only to fall short in the semifinals. Titles, after all, were what swayed UEFA's hand.
And what was he supposed to do — fly to Monaco just to applaud someone else lifting the trophy that might have been his?
No, better to decline politely.
He informed UEFA that his right foot had not yet fully recovered and that he needed to continue his rehabilitation in Liverpool to prepare for upcoming matches. The reason was entirely believable, and UEFA accepted it without question.
Still, as their car pulled away from the airport, Yang Yang found himself glancing absently toward the sky, where planes streaked above in the direction of southern Europe. He couldn't stop the small pang of regret.
"All those goals," he muttered under his breath, "and still no trophy to show for it."
Bogarde, sitting beside him, gave a low chuckle.
"You're still thinking about that Champions League award, aren't you?"
Yang Yang smiled faintly, eyes still on the passing clouds.
"Maybe a little. It stings, you know?"
The older man nodded knowingly.
"Then look at it another way," he said kindly. "Do you know how many professional players dream of scoring even one goal in the Champions League? You've scored plenty already. Be proud of that."
Yang Yang turned to him, the corners of his mouth lifting. He appreciated the sentiment, but his gaze carried a quiet fire.
"Don't worry, Winston. I'm not discouraged. I'll win that award — sooner or later."
Bogarde studied him for a moment, then smiled and nodded.
He knew Yang Yang well enough by now.
This was a young man who set goals — and never stopped until he reached them.
…
Even though he wasn't in Monaco, Yang Yang still followed the UEFA Champions League draw with great interest.
At 6 p.m., after the team's afternoon training session, he and his teammates gathered in the players' lounge at Melwood, the big screen tuned to the live broadcast of the ceremony.
The atmosphere was relaxed at first — laughter, small talk, and the rustling of snack wrappers — but as the awards portion began, everyone gradually quieted down.
"The UEFA Goalkeeper of the Year — Jens Lehmann, Arsenal."
Polite applause rippled through the room.
"Defender of the Year — Carles Puyol, Barcelona."
"Midfielder of the Year — Deco, Barcelona."
"Forward of the Year — Samuel Eto'o, Barcelona."
By the time the final award was announced — Best Player of the Season: Ronaldinho — no one in the room looked surprised.
Barcelona had swept everything.
Even the runner-up, Arsenal, had only managed a token consolation — Lehmann's goalkeeper award, arguably helped by Barcelona's own weakness in goal. Everyone knew Víctor Valdés had been their one shaky link.
Yang Yang leaned back on the sofa, half-smiling.
"Purely based on results," he said quietly.
It was hard to argue. UEFA's awards had always been driven by achievement. And Barcelona, as champions, had conquered Europe.
He himself had been shortlisted for Best Forward, along with Thierry Henry and Eto'o, thanks to his Champions League Golden Boot run with Ajax. But ultimately, both he and Henry had lost out to the Cameroonian.
As for the Best Player award — there was never any suspense. Everyone knew it would be Ronaldinho.
Yang Yang accepted it with calm detachment, but a part of him couldn't help imagining what it would have felt like to stand on that stage.
When the focus of the broadcast shifted to the Champions League group-stage draw, the players leaned forward again.
As 2005 Champions League winners, Liverpool were back among the top-seeded teams, joining Arsenal and Manchester United in Pot 1. Chelsea, despite their domestic dominance, were still placed as a second seed due to their limited European pedigree.
The names began to roll.
"From Pot 2 — PSV Eindhoven."
"From Pot 3 — Bordeaux."
"From Pot 4 — Galatasaray."
The groups appeared on the screen.
Liverpool: PSV Eindhoven, Bordeaux, Galatasaray.
At first glance, it looked favourable — no European giants, no immediate powerhouse. But the players knew better.
Gerrard crossed his arms, frowning slightly.
"On paper, we're lucky," he said, "but that doesn't make it easy. None of these teams are weak. There's no guaranteed win."
Xabi Alonso nodded.
"The strength is balanced across the group. In some ways, that's harder. At least in other groups, the gap between the top and bottom teams is big — you can plan around it. Here, every match will be a fight. And going to Turkey in December… that's dangerous."
Everyone knew what he meant.
Travel in the Champions League always carried its own challenges — long flights to Eastern Europe in winter, icy pitches in Ukraine or Russia, or hostile atmospheres in Turkey and the Balkans.
According to the schedule, Liverpool's final group match would be away to Galatasaray, in December — one of the toughest venues in Europe.
"If we don't secure qualification before then," Alonso continued, "that trip could be a nightmare."
Kuyt, familiar with PSV from his time in the Eredivisie, added his thoughts.
"Don't underestimate Eindhoven either. Last season they drew and beat AC Milan in the group stage. They're disciplined, well-organised — even without Hiddink, they're dangerous."
"And Bordeaux," said Fabio Aurelio, "are one of the most defensive teams in France. Breaking them down won't be easy."
Yang Yang listened carefully, nodding at each point. Everything they said made sense. The group might look moderate, but it demanded consistency — every slip could prove costly.
"Then it's simple," he said finally. "We have to take control of the first five matches. If we do our job early, the last game in Turkey won't matter. But if we leave it to the end, it'll be a disaster."
The room fell into collective agreement. Heads nodded. The challenge was clear.
Later that night, bookmaker odds were released, painting a similar picture.
Barcelona were overwhelming favourites to defend their title, followed by Chelsea, Real Madrid, Manchester United, AC Milan, and Inter Milan. Liverpool sat eighth, just behind Arsenal.
Even more telling — all three of Liverpool's group opponents ranked within the top twenty of the odds table, with PSV as high as fifteenth.
The numbers weren't everything, but they spoke to reality: this would not be an easy campaign.
Yang Yang leaned back, thoughtful.
Liverpool weren't underdogs — but they weren't favourites either.
They were somewhere in between: strong, dangerous, but fragile if careless.
And that, he knew, was what made the Champions League so unforgiving.
......
......
At noon on August 26, Anfield once again filled to capacity as Liverpool hosted West Ham United for the third round of the Premier League.
Despite Liverpool's recent resurgence, Alan Pardew's side arrived with confidence. West Ham were surprisingly above Liverpool in the standings and were determined to prove they belonged there. Yet, from the opening whistle, it was clear who controlled the pitch.
For the first ten minutes, West Ham could barely escape their own half. Liverpool dominated possession completely — crisp passing, relentless pressing, and wave after wave of attacks.
At the heart of it all was Yang Yang.
Operating once again from the left flank, the young winger was everywhere — dropping deep to link play, cutting inside to create passing angles, and threading clever through balls into dangerous spaces. Every time he touched the ball, the Anfield crowd buzzed with anticipation.
But football, cruel as ever, turned against Liverpool in the twelfth minute.
A rare counterattack from West Ham saw Bobby Zamora break forward. Surrounded by defenders and seemingly out of options, he swung his foot almost in frustration — a speculative shot rather than a clear attempt on goal.
Yet the ball skidded awkwardly across the grass, catching Pepe Reina by surprise. The Spaniard hesitated for a fraction of a second, and before he could react, the ball slipped past him and into the net.
0–1.
The stadium fell silent for a heartbeat.
Then came the collective groan.
Reina crouched down, clenching his gloves in disbelief. Zamora, equally shocked, ran off celebrating, his teammates piling on him near the corner flag.
Liverpool's response was furious.
From that moment on, the match became a siege. Yang Yang spearheaded attack after attack down the left flank, constantly tormenting West Ham's defense. He exchanged quick one-twos with Gerrard and Aurelio, driving toward the box and forcing defenders into hurried clearances.
By the 40th minute, Liverpool's possession had risen to 63%, and they had already registered over a dozen shots. But despite the dominance, the equalizer refused to come.
Then, just before halftime, the breakthrough arrived.
After a spell of sustained pressure, Daniel Agger picked up a loose ball outside the box. The Danish defender glanced up once and unleashed a thunderous left-footed strike.
The ball swerved past a wall of bodies, dipping sharply before crashing into the top corner.
1–1!
Anfield erupted. Agger raised his arms, roaring toward the Kop as teammates rushed to embrace him.
The goal reignited Liverpool's momentum. Barely minutes later, Yang Yang picked up the ball near the left edge of the penalty area. Seeing Peter Crouch peel away from his marker, Yang Yang slid a perfectly weighted pass across the box.
Crouch stretched out his long leg and tapped it in from close range.
2–1!
Two goals in quick succession — Liverpool had completely turned the game around before the break.
In the second half, Liverpool tightened control. They continued to attack, but without reckless risk. Yang Yang remained lively, constantly tracking back to press West Ham's full-backs while still creating danger on the counter.
By the final whistle, Liverpool 2, West Ham 1.
Yang Yang didn't find the net this time, but his fingerprints were on everything good Liverpool produced — one assist, numerous chances created, and constant involvement in the build-up.
He left the pitch to another warm round of applause from the home crowd.
Elsewhere, the Premier League scoring chart had begun to take shape.
Kanu's brace for Portsmouth and Bobby Zamora's continued scoring streak put both men tied at the top with four goals each. Darren Bent followed closely with three, while Yang Yang, Didier Drogba, Frank Lampard, and Wayne Rooney sat together on two goals apiece.
As for Cristiano Ronaldo, the Portuguese winger was still searching for his first of the season.
Yang Yang, meanwhile, had now registered two goals and two assists in his first three league matches — and more importantly, had helped Liverpool climb steadily up the table.