The Dutch players wore heavy expressions. They had poured everything into attacking for forty-five minutes, only to be the ones conceding first. It was a blow they struggled to swallow.
And deep down, they knew exactly why it happened.
In those frantic final minutes of the first half, under immense pressure to score, they gambled. They pushed forward with reckless urgency—and China punished them immediately.
A single moment, a single mistake, and China struck. They were celebrating wildly now, players piling onto each other in pure joy, while the Dutch stood there helpless, stewing in frustration.
"We're rushing too much!" Van Persie muttered as he jogged over to Sneijder. "Slow it down. Our attacks are still dangerous—we just need to be smarter."
Sneijder's face was tight with irritation, but he kept his voice steady. "I know. We just—"
Before he could finish, an explosion came from behind them.
"Are you kidding me!? How do you concede that? What are we even doing!?"
Robben was raging at the defenders, his temper boiling over.
He didn't go after Vlaar this time. Instead, he turned his fury toward the younger De Vrij. De Vrij wasn't the main culprit for the goal, not by a long shot, but Robben didn't care. Someone had to take the fire, and the newcomer was the easiest target.
Sneijder and Van Persie exchanged a glance—this couldn't continue. They stepped in immediately, blocking Robben's path.
The last thing they needed was a locker-room implosion.
De Vrij stood stiffly, face pale with resentment. He knew the truth. Vlaar was the one who missed the mark, not him. He had some responsibility, sure—but not enough to justify Robben's eruption.
Frustration can get the better of top players.
Meanwhile, China finished celebrating, and the first half drew to a close. The Dutch pushed for an equalizer, but China's defense held firm.
Halftime whistle.
China 1, Netherlands 0.
The stadium erupted. Chinese fans were ecstatic. Even the Brazilian neutrals were buzzing—everyone loves a potential upset.
If the Netherlands actually lost this match, Group B might turn into absolute chaos.
...
Inside the Netherlands Locker Room
Van Gaal gathered the players, trying to restore order. The conceded goal had shaken them—not just the scoreboard, but the unity of the team.
Even Robben, still fuming minutes ago, lowered his head and muttered that he had gotten carried away. De Vrij didn't say anything, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
Once the air cleared, Van Gaal began outlining adjustments.
"Our system is working," he said firmly. "But we cannot lose our composure. You've seen what they're capable of. We underestimated them—admit it. Their efficiency is high, and any mistake you make can become fatal."
The players' expressions hardened. They understood.
One more error and their World Cup might spiral out of control.
"Calm down and stop taking unnecessary risks. Some risks are acceptable if you can handle the consequences—but think before you act."
He clapped once, sharply. "Rest up. Second half starts soon."
...
Inside the China Locker Room
Liu Hongbo's mood was the complete opposite.
He rolled up his sleeves, shouting praise from goalkeeper to striker.
Tong Lei? Excellent.
Fernando Kairui? Solid at the back.
Guo Liang? Tireless.
Kai and Wang Yi? Outstanding.
He kept it simple:
Same plan. Same discipline.
Lock the back door and counter when possible.
But once the players stepped aside, assistant coach Zhang Chen leaned in.
"Why not give a detailed second-half plan? Spell it out for them."
Liu Hongbo let out an awkward laugh.
"What am I supposed to say? Even I didn't expect this."
Before the match, he thought they'd be lucky to survive the first half without conceding. A draw would've been a dream.
Leading the Netherlands?
This wasn't in any script.
What do you tell your team when they're ahead against giants?
"Let's go score another one?"
But were they confident enough?
No.
So all they could do was repeat the first-half strategy—defend, survive, endure.
If they held on, qualification hopes would brighten.
If not… well, losing to the Netherlands was expected anyway.
...
Second Half Begins
The stadium shook with chants:
"China!"
"Go China!"
Even many local Brazilian fans joined in. After all, nothing spices up a World Cup like a massive upset.
But the moment the whistle blew, China was hit by a fresh storm.
Robben got the ball from Sneijder, cut inside, slipped between Che Jingdao and another midfielder, and fired a low shot toward the near post. The ball swerved inward with venom.
Tong Lei threw himself across the goal.
"What a close call!" Huang Jianxiang gasped. "Tong Lei had to make that save—if he hesitated even half a second, that was going in!"
Corner for the Netherlands.
Players gathered in the box. Kai marked Van Persie, but his eyes stayed glued to the other Dutch players lining up at the edge of the box.
Their movement patterns were chaotic, unpredictable—a "scatter and attack" routine.
Kai despised this kind of corner setup. It made marking nearly impossible.
Sneijder raised his arm.
Kai braced himself.
The ball swung in—Kai with Foresight instantly shouted:
"Near post!"
De Jong burst forward and flicked a header.
The ball smacked the post and ricocheted back into a sea of bodies.
Chaos erupted—pushing, scrambling, limbs everywhere.
Kai was shoved hard, but he roared, twisted his waist, and tore himself free.
"Mine!!"
The moment he saw the ball at his feet, he stabbed it out of the box with his toe.
Guo Liang picked it up and immediately hoofed it long, not caring where—just away.
But China barely had room to breathe.
The Netherlands had stopped being reckless. Their attacks were now disciplined, layered, and well-supported. For Kai, threading passes forward became nearly impossible.
He briefly considered something ridiculous:
Forget defending deep—let's go full bunker mode.
Ten men in the box. Zero up front. Build a damn Wall Of China.
A 10-0-0 formation. Why not?
He sighed.
Just a thought.
..
"It's making me anxious! Why aren't they pushing forward? Why keep messing around in our own box?"
Up in the stands, Wang Peipei stared at the pitch with her heart in her throat. Every time she saw her son crash into those tall, broad European players, she winced.
"Isn't that a foul? Why do they keep knocking into my son?"
Her voice trembled with frustration.
Standing beside her, Le Jianguo rubbed his temples. "That's a legal challenge. And if we're being honest, your son started half of those collisions."
"He's still your son, isn't he? Don't you feel anything?" she shot back. "There's still forty minutes left—time's moving like a snail—just take him off the pitch already!"
"They can't just sub out whoever they feel like!" Le Jianguo snapped, though his eyes stayed glued to the field. "There's a real gap in quality between China and the Netherlands. For them to hold out this long is already incredible."
And he could see it clearly—the Dutch pressure was wearing the Chinese defense thin.
Bang!
Guo Liang crashed into Robben, who shifted the ball aside and tried to cut inward.
Guo Liang couldn't keep up. He had no choice but to lean in hard, bumping Robben off balance.
Both men went down.
Beep!
The whistle pierced the air.
The referee flashed Guo Liang a yellow card and awarded the Netherlands a free kick.
Kai hurried over and pulled Guo Liang back onto his feet.
Guo Liang's chest rose and fell like a pair of bellows, each breath harsher than the last, with faint retching between gasps.
Kai knew immediately—Guo Liang was nearly spent.
"How long can you keep going?" Kai asked.
Guo Liang swallowed and shook his head. "Ten minutes… maybe. After that, my legs won't move."
Kai nodded and glanced across the defensive line at Guan Zhe.
Guan Zhe had conserved energy earlier in the match thanks to Kai's coverage, but now even he was drenched in sweat, breathing heavily.
Nobody had much left.
Kai pressed his lips together.
He jogged toward Chen Man, who had dropped deeper to help.
"Still got legs?"
Chen Man froze for half a second—then his eyes brightened instantly. "Yeah, of course!"
He thought Kai was about to tell him to break forward on the counter.
Instead, Kai went straight to the point. "I need you running more. Both ways. Offense and defense."
Chen blinked. "A full vertical shift? Up and back?"
Kai nodded. "You trained defensive pressing at Porto, right?"
Chen scratched his head but nodded. "Under Villas-Boas, yeah. We weren't great at stealing the ball, but shadowing? Tracking? We can manage that."
"Can you keep pace with Robben?" Kai asked again.
Chen let out a short laugh. "Come on. With these legs? I might not match his technique, but running? I can do that all day. Have a little faith in me, will you?"
Kai let the corner of his mouth lift. "Good. Drop back, help Guo Liang and Jin Fucheng lock down the middle. I'll cover Guan Zhe's side."
Chen nodded firmly.
He wasn't one to shy away from responsibility—he knew survival depended on everyone pulling their weight.
The Dutch free kick was about to be taken. Orange shirts gathered menacingly outside the Chinese penalty area like a wave preparing to crash.
Sneijder stood over the ball, capable of shooting directly.
Kai didn't waste time worrying about that—he just locked onto his mark.
The whistle blew.
Players surged into the box.
Sneijder whipped the ball in instead of shooting.
Van Persie and Fernando Kairui both leaped for the header—
—but Kai soared higher than both.
He smashed the ball clear with a thundering header.
The danger wasn't over.
Robben recovered the loose ball and darted toward the byline.
Fernando sprinted toward him—not diving in recklessly, just shadowing him tightly.
As Robben wound up for the cross, Fernando timed his challenge perfectly, stretching out a foot to block it out of bounds.
Another Dutch attack—neutralized.
Robben clutched his head in pure frustration.
He was fed up.
They gave him no space. No angle. No clean dribble. No passing lane.
Van Persie wasn't any better off.
As soon as Sneijder's deliveries entered the box, they disappeared into a swarm of red shirts.
Still, the Dutch pressed on.
Corner kick.
Kai barked out orders, voice cracking from overuse.
"Back post! Watch Van Persie!"
"Robben's drifting—stay on him!"
"Someone mark the back post!"
"Fernando! Don't let anyone slip behind you!"
"Eyes up! Stay sharp!"
Referee Djamel Haimoudi from Algeria signaled.
Sneijder curled the ball in dangerously close.
Tong Lei launched upward and punched it clear.
Some of the Chinese players instinctively tried to rush forward—
—but Kai yelled again:
"Don't step out! Hold your line! Back, back!"
They stopped instantly, anchoring themselves at the edge of the box.
De Guzman swung his arms in frustration.
Why won't they push out?
Why won't these guys give us space?
But China refused to open even the smallest gap.
The low block wasn't glamorous, but tonight it was heroic.
Underdogs don't win by playing pretty.
They win by dragging their opponents in a slugfest and surviving.
And the Chinese team was surviving magnificently—united, disciplined, throwing themselves at every shot, every cross, every run.
Fatigue was written all over their faces. Sweat dripped like rain. Their white shirts were smeared with grass and dirt.
But none of them backed down.
Up in the commentary box, Huang Jianxiang's voice trembled with emotion.
"These boys are incredible tonight. This isn't just defending—this is heart. This is grit. Against one of the strongest attacks in world football, they've held firm."
"For sixty-five minutes, they've kept out Van Persie, kept out Sneijder, kept out Robben. No one expected this, but they're proving that football always has room for miracles."
"They've become a Great Wall on the pitch! No one can deny their courage now!"
A sudden bang cut through his words.
Sneijder's long-range strike slammed into Gao Leiliang's face.
Blood burst from his nose instantly.
Stunned, he still managed to clear the ball before collapsing.
Kai and Fernando sprinted to him.
"How bad is it?" Kai asked urgently.
Gao Leiliang cupped his nose, face twisted in pain. "Hurts like hell!"
Kai exhaled, then gently tilted his chin to check. After a moment, he grinned. "Not broken."
Gao Leiliang let out a shaky breath of relief. He wiped his nose on his jersey and jogged toward the goal.
The team doctor was already there. A quick check, a fresh jersey—and he was back on the pitch.
Bleeding or not, exhausted or not—
None of them was giving up tonight.
...
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