The Emirates Stadium, 73rd Minute.
The atmosphere at the Emirates had turned toxic.
Manchester United was pinned back, their defense creaking under wave after wave of Arsenal attacks.
The pressure was suffocating. And then, the fuse was lit.
Granit Xhaka, the Arsenal midfielder, executed a neat feint, shielding the ball.
Paul Pogba, already frustrated by the lack of service and the intense marking, lost his cool.
He lunged.
It wasn't a malicious intent to injure, but it was reckless.
His studs were high.
He missed the ball completely and landed squarely on the back of Xhaka's calf.
Xhaka instantly collapsed, howling in genuine pain.
Being stepped on by metal studs with the full weight of a 6'3" athlete is an indescribable agony.
It was a clear stamping foul.
Emotions exploded.
Arsenal players swarmed Pogba, shoving him.
United players rushed in to protect their talisman.
Jeremy Ling, despite being exhausted, sprinted forty yards to join the fray.
On the pitch, no matter the situation, you always back up your teammates first.
He pushed Hector Bellerin away from Pogba.
The referee blew his whistle frantically, separating the brawl.
He reached into his pocket.
"Given the situation, it's at least a yellow card," Gary Neville muttered on commentary. "But looking at the replay... oh, that's nasty."
The referee didn't hesitate.
He pulled out the Red Card.
Pogba stared in disbelief.
He clapped his hands sarcastically, a gesture that would likely earn him an extended ban, and walked off the pitch, head bowed.
Martin Tyler: "IT'S RED! POGBA IS OFF! He's walked! Manchester United are down to ten men!"
Gary Neville: "This is terrible news for United! They were already hanging on by a thread! Now, facing an Arsenal side that's on a rampage, being a man down for the remaining 20 minutes... it's going to be brutal out there. Holding on to this 2-1 lead seems impossible now."
In the dressing room tunnel, Pogba kicked a water bottle against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
He knew his recklessness might have just cost Manchester United the three points.
...
Arsène Wenger smelled blood.
He immediately signaled the fourth official.
"Wenger makes a double substitution," Tyler announced. "Replacing the injured Xhaka with Danny Welbeck, and Kolašinac with Olivier Giroud."
"That is aggressive," Neville noted. "He's taking off a midfielder and a defender for two strikers. Arsenal is adding a focal point in the penalty area. They are going to bombard the box."
The camera panned to the United bench.
"Huh? Mourinho isn't strengthening the defense?" Neville sounded surprised. "He's leaving Ling and Lingard up top? What is he waiting for? Where is Herrera? Where is Blind?"
Mourinho stood on the touchline, hands deep in his pockets, his face unreadable.
He knew that rashly bringing on defensive players now would just invite more pressure.
If they camped in their own box for 20 minutes against Giroud, they would lose.
The aerial threat was too great.
So he was gambling.
He was gambling that Manchester United could score one more goal on the break.
...
After the chaos subsided, the match resumed.
Arsenal continued their relentless offensive onslaught.
Quick passes and interchanges! Positional rotations! Overloads in the channels!
Even Ling, usually indefatigable, felt his lungs burning.
He dropped deeper, acting as a makeshift midfielder, chasing shadows.
The pressure on United's back three—Rojo, Smalling, Lindelof—was immense.
They were too tired to speak, communicating only in grunts and points.
They felt like small boats drifting in a vast ocean, battered by towering waves that threatened to capsize them at any moment.
In the 76th minute. Alexis Sánchez, operating with manic energy, overpowered Antonio Valencia on the wing.
He whipped in a vicious, inswinging cross.
Olivier Giroud, fresh and strong, peeled off Marcos Rojo.
He met the ball with a powerful, downward header.
Thump!
The ball flew toward the bottom corner.
But David De Gea produced another miracle. He dove to his right, his wrist strong, tipping the ball away.
The rebound fell to Danny Welbeck.
The former United striker smashed it goalward from six yards.
De Gea, still on the ground, threw a leg up.
Block!
"A BRILLIANT DOUBLE SAVE! DE GEA IS NOT HUMAN!"
The tension was unbearable.
"Arsenal wins a corner... Sánchez delivers... Rojo heads it clear! Manchester United are hanging on for dear life!"
In the 83rd minute. Arsenal switched tactics.
They abandoned the intricate passing and went for the jugular: a frantic crossing mode.
Bellerin, Monreal, Ozil—everyone was lofting the ball into the mixer for Giroud and Welbeck.
But they began to sense something amiss... Although they dominated possession (75% in the last 10 minutes), from a psychological standpoint, it was Manchester United's defense holding firm.
The Red Wall was bending, but it wasn't breaking.
Arsenal's mentality started to waver. Frustration crept in.
They began to rush.
Despite being a man down, Manchester United held on for ten agonizing minutes.
They adapted to the rhythm.
Marcos Rojo, playing on one leg after a knock, blocked another Bellerín cross.
The ball ricocheted toward the left channel, into no-man's-land.
Aaron Ramsey raced to control it.
He was tired. His touch was heavy.
Suddenly, a face appeared in his vision.
A fierce blur of determination!
It was Jeremy Ling.
He was pushed to his absolute limit.
His chest was heaving, his face pale with exhaustion. But his eyes were burning.
Gasping for breath, his swinging arms conveyed not excitement, but a terrifying, primal ferocity.
Ramsey, never the strongest at evading physical pressure, was caught off guard.
Ling slammed into him, shoulder-to-shoulder.
It was a legal charge, but it felt like a car crash.
Ramsey was shoved aside, losing his balance.
Martin Tyler: "Ling! A brilliant steal! He must have covered 12 kilometers tonight, and he's still going! He wins it back in midfield!"
Gary Neville: "LOOK AT THE SPACE! Arsenal have committed everyone forward! It's a three-on-two!"
"Manchester United's counterattack!!!"
Arsenal players immediately pressed to regain the ball.
But having substituted Xhaka and Kolašinac, they lacked the midfielders to form a pressing trap.
The center of the pitch was empty.
Facing intense pressure from Nacho Monreal, Ling spotted a teammate.
He didn't pass; he stabbed the ball forward with his instep to Jesse Lingard.
Smack!
The ball shot out like an arrow, piercing through Arsenal's porous defensive line.
"PASS IT BACK!" Ling's hoarse cry echoed through the Emirates Stadium.
He didn't stop running. He sprinted past Monreal.
Lingard heard him.
He took one touch to draw Koscielny out, and then delivered the simplest, most perfect return pass into the space behind the defense.
It was a footrace. Ling exhausted the last ounce of strength in his body.
His studs dug fiercely into the turf, tearing up clods of earth.
Thud, thud, thud!
With each step, he didn't slow down; he erupted.
The advertising boards in his peripheral vision blurred into obscurity.
The noise of the crowd faded into a white hum.
No more tricks were needed. No Bergkamp flicks. No feints.
Just raw, unadulterated speed.
A hurricane seemed to sweep through the Emirates Stadium!
Laurent Koscielny turned. He was haunted by the recklessness of his earlier challenge that led to the first goal.
He hesitated for a split second, opting for a conservative angle.
But he never expected Ling to be so unreasonable, To be so fast in the 85th minute.
In the blink of an eye, Ling had already surged past him.
Koscielny spun around and sprinted desperately, his legs pumping, aiming to intercept him inside the penalty area.
Koscielny was fast—one of the fastest center-backs in the league, clocking 35 km/h.
But Ling was faster.
Tens of thousands of fans held their breath.
They stood up. Their eyes were fixed intently on the sprinting young man in the black shirt.
Older fans seemed to recall another Manchester United No. 7—a young Portuguese winger in 2009 against Arsenal in the Champions League semi-final—who had once torn through this very pitch with similarly blistering speed.
After forcefully bypassing his marker, Ling drove into the box.
His face was taut, teeth gritted, head lowered.
His breathing was ragged, painful gasps.
As the distance closed... Romelu Lukaku was screaming for the ball at the back post.
"LING! SQUARE IT!"
Petr Cech came out, spreading himself big.
Ling didn't square it.
He didn't look at Lukaku. He looked at the bottom corner. He planted his left foot.
He swung his right.
Bang!
The sound was explosive.
It reverberated across the pitch, making everyone's heart skip a beat.
The ball grazed Koscielny's desperate sliding toes. It brushed past Cech's fingertips.
It rocketed like a cannonball into the bottom right corner of the net.
1-3!!!
Mourinho's jaw dropped as he stood frozen on the touchline.
Wenger's face was etched with astonishment and resignation.
The Emirates Stadium fell into a deathly silence... save for the eruption from the away end.
The entire world roared in celebration!
Ling didn't run. He didn't dance. He collapsed.
He lay powerless on the ground, his chest heaving violently, staring up at the London night sky.
He squinted slightly under the countless floodlights descending from the sky.
His sweat-drenched, slightly long black hair dripped onto the emerald-green turf.
'Opportunities aren't just waited for,' he thought, his vision blurring.
'They're seized.'
After a long moment. The Red Devils fans, trembling with excitement as they gazed at the Manchester United No. 7 lying on the ground like a fallen soldier, erupted in deafening cheers.
"HAT-TRICK! HAT-TRICK! HAT-TRICK!"
This was a goal worth its weight in gold.
It was the dagger.
A radiant, exhausted smile spread across Ling's face.
He instinctively spread his arms wide, lying on his back, greedily soaking in the cheers ringing out for him.
His Manchester United teammates rushed over in a frenzy, piling on top of him.
"A HAT-TRICK! YOU MADMAN!" Lukaku screamed, grabbing him.
"I've never scored three in a single match against the Top 6 in my entire career! It's maddening how some people just have it all!"
"Ling, you did it! You really did it!" Pogba, watching from the tunnel entrance, punched the wall in delight.