Lauded as the "German Messi," Max Meyer lofted the ball with a delicate chip to open the scoring for the hosts.
And the man dubbed the "German Ronaldinho," Mark Lane, refused to be outdone!
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Minutes later, Wolfsburg took control and pushed forward.
Midfielder Arnold fed the ball to Hunt in the final third; Hunt spun with it, then heard a shout from the left: "Aaron (Hunt)!"
Hunt frowned. Reluctant as he was, he still instantly slipped the ball to the unmarked Mark on the left.
He was bitter about his lack of starts and minutes.
But Hunt knew very well that Mark's status in the squad was even higher than De Bruyne's.
If he didn't get the ball to Mark fast, the gaffer would sub him off before Mark even had to complain.
Receiving the pass, Mark faced up to Schalke's earnest right-back, Atsuto Uchida.
Having studied Mark's dribbling habits, Uchida stood half-sided to protect the inside, muttering, "Bring it on! Sakai says you're scary good."
"But you're not getting past me!"
Mark grinned—amused by the chuunibyou act or by the sheer bravado.
The "Sakai" Uchida mentioned was, of course, Gotoku Sakai at Stuttgart.
Both Japanese internationals plying their trade in Germany, they often exchanged notes.
Mark just hadn't expected to become one of their private talking points.
Maybe they even swapped tips on how to stop him.
At that thought, Mark merely curled a corner of his mouth: "Then let's try it."
A standout among the Japanese expat legion, Atsuto Uchida had earned a starting spot at Bundesliga powerhouse Schalke—proof enough of his quality.
But against Mark, he was out of his depth.
Mark took the ball in stride, feinted right as if to cut inside.
"No you don't!"
The instant Uchida stepped across to block, Mark froze, then nudged the ball forward between the defender's legs.
The ball sprang to life, threading neatly through Uchida's thighs.
"What?!"
Feeling the nutmeg, Uchida's groin went cold; he flailed an arm to grab.
Too late!
With explosive acceleration Mark floored the gas and burst past Uchida's back.
Uchida's clutching hand swiped only air and loneliness.
With every physical attribute upgraded and elite burst Speed, Mark inched ever closer to prime Ronaldinho.
Skipping past a little Japanese full-back?
Child's play.
Having rounded Uchida on the outside, Mark swept the ball forward with his left and tore down the flank.
These days Mark's left-wing playbook offered just two choices:
Cut inside to curl a far-corner strike, or drive to the by-line and whip in a left-foot cross.
Though off-foot, daily extra training meant his left could now deliver quality balls.
"Mark's past… down the line…"
"Cross!"
With no defender in sight, Mark even checked his teammates' runs before rolling a low, precise cross.
Veteran instincts told Olić to sprint into the box the moment Mark surged past Uchida.
He arrived right on cue.
A sliding stab steered the ball into the net.
"Goal!"
"Olić has pulled Wolfsburg level away from home!"
"The Bundesliga veteran, with tireless running and sharp predatory instinct, proves old soldiers never die!"
At thirty-five, "Uncle Cookie" Olić remains a trusty weapon in Wolfsburg's attack.
Six goals this season—second only to Dost in the squad charts.
But age is age.
This year he's still sharp.
Who can say a thirty-six-year-old Olić will be the same next season?
So the club bosses debate: stick with the aging yet effective vet, or promote Dost outright.
Rumour has it they'll reinforce in the winter window—starting up top.
Wolfsburg have only three strikers.
Olić, Dost and Bendtner.
Olić and Dost rotate; Bendtner gets the odd cameo.
In the twin-engine system, Mark and De Bruyne monopolise possession as the chief creators.
The centre-forward, starved of service, needn't hold up play—just find space and finish.
A brutal ask for a fading veteran whose legs no longer obey.
With every stride slower, he can't keep up when De Bruyne threads a scalpel pass or Mark fires a low cross.
Even if De Bruyne delivers a surgical through-ball or Mark whips in a first-time cross, Olić can't match the tempo.
If Olić leaves in January, whether Dost nails down the shirt or battles Bendtner for it, two strikers won't cut it.
Hence whispers that Wolfsburg have short-listed and approached several targets.
To Mark, Olić's role is irreplaceable.
His physical tools are average, his age advanced.
Yet the moment he steps on the grass he runs himself into the ground.
In attack he drags defenders out of shape;
In defence he tracks back so hard he shames many midfielders.
More importantly, the man simply never quits.
Even when hope looks gone, Olić hurls himself at every ball with fire in his veins.
You won't get silky football with him leading the line.
But his sheer presence injects the squad with steel.
If it were up to Mark, Uncle Cookie would stay as the backup striker.
This season they have a real shot at the Bundesliga title.
Likely his last ever chance to lift silverware.
Win the League this year, then ride into the sunset—what better finale for Olić and Wolfsburg.
After the goal Olić sprinted to Mark for a high-five and hug.
"Mate, perfect delivery! Your left-foot crosses keep getting better."
"Ha! Your timing's unreal—ball arrives, you arrive!"
Back on level terms, both sides pushed forward again.
Bundesliga matches are brisk; few teams park the bus.
Full-backs who can overlap are gold dust.
Schalke's full-backs, Fuchs and Atsuto Uchida, are both attack-minded defenders who love to surge forward.
This means that when the team pushes up, the full-backs often overlap, leaving huge gaps behind them.
Mark had spotted this and, at the next dead ball, quickly told Arnold in midfield: "If either full-back bombs on, just hit me straight!"
"Got it!"
In the 37th minute Schalke put together a slick move.
Höger in midfield slipped the ball out to Kevin-Prince Boateng on the right wing; Boateng shaped to drive past his marker but instead slipped it into the overlapping right-back, Uchida.
Uchida took it in his stride, tore into the final third and whipped in a first-time cross from 45 degrees.
The cross picked out Klaas-Jan Huntelaar in the box.
Under pressure from Knoche, though, the Dutchman couldn't get proper purchase on his header; it flew straight at Benaglio and the keeper smothered it.
Benaglio immediately launched a quick throw to Ricardo Rodríguez on the left.
Ricardo played it into central midfielder Arnold, and Wolfsburg surged over the halfway line.
With De Bruyne rested for this game the side's transition play was a notch slower, but Mark was on the pitch.
And in the switch from defence to attack there was only one instruction for the Wolves' midfield.
Give the ball to Mark.
So Arnold, without a second thought, threaded a diagonal pass down the left.
"Wolfsburg are breaking!"
Uchida was still upfield and hadn't tracked back.
The left flank was a vast, empty prairie.
Mark exploded into top gear, killed the pass with one touch and tore into Schalke's half.
With Olić and Caligiuri sprinting through the middle and right, Wolfsburg suddenly had a three-on-two.
"Three-on-two!"
"It's a huge chance for Wolfsburg!"
Only Benedikt Höwedes and Roman Neustädter were left at the back for Schalke.
Mark cut inside and went straight at captain Höwedes.
Sensing the danger, Olić darted across to the left in a clever decoy run.
Höwedes, caught between closing Mark and blocking the pass, hesitated for a heartbeat—and the moment was gone.
He could only watch as Mark shifted the ball onto his right foot, glided past him and smashed a rising shot toward the far corner.
Another inswinging curler to the far post!
"Wolfsburg's number ten loves that inside-out curler—start moving early!"
Even though the coach's words echoed in his ears, keeper Ralf Fährmann had already taken a half-step to his left and launched himself full stretch.
But the angle was razor-thin; his fingertips barely brushed the ball, yet he could only watch it whip past the far post and ripple the net.
As the white mesh billowed, the away end erupted inside the Veltins-Arena.
"GOAL!!!"
"Wolfsburg have turned it around!"
"The scorer—Mark Lane!"
"That's his 15th of the season, eight clear of second-placed Meyer at the top of the Bundesliga scoring chart!"
"Still early days for the golden-boot race, but this 19-year-old is on absolute fire!"
Mark jogged to the touchline camera, grinning, and unveiled his brand-new celebration: a sharp, theatrical snap of his fingers.
"Snap!" The Wolves' number ten cracked his fingers at the lens.
On countless sofas, teenage fans squealed: "Ahhh, he's so hot!"
"That finger-snap just stole my heart!"
"The Wolfsburg magician—gorgeous and lethal!"
While the Wolves beamed, Schalke's players could only shrug in frustration.
Watching Mark strike again, Meyer clenched his fists, then slowly relaxed them.
"You're good… but I'm not giving up."
Forced to chase the game, Schalke pushed higher up the pitch.
Wolfsburg repeatedly hit them on the break, firing raids into Schalke territory.
Both sides carved out half-chances, yet neither could convert.
Soon the referee's whistle brought the first half to a close.
In the away dressing-room the mood was buoyant.
Leading by a goal on the road meant they could dictate the tempo after the restart.
But within five minutes of the second half that advantage evaporated.
Late in the first period holding midfielder Junior Malanda had already been cautioned.
Early in the second, Meyer nimbly slipped past him with a cute touch.
Malanda, seeing red, tugged the German back by the shirt.
Meyer yelped and hit the turf right in front of the referee.
The tactical foul, and a second yellow, left Wolfsburg down to ten men.
"Oh no, Malanda's in serious trouble!"
"Already on a yellow, and the referee pulls out another—red card!"
"Wolfsburg will play the last forty minutes a man short!"
"The game is far from over!"
Despite Wolfsburg's protests, the decision stood; Malanda trudged off.
On the touchline Dieter Hecking waved his arms, ordering the side to drop deep and defend.
A man down and a goal up—protecting the lead was all that mattered now.
Spurred on by the crowd, Schalke threw everything forward.
Their attack was blunt, yet the extra man kept the pressure mounting.
Wolfsburg simply parked the bus and dared Schalke to break them down.
They held firm all the way to the 85th minute.
With Mark exhausted from constant defensive work, Hecking used his second change: Perišić on, Mark off.
Seeing the board, the spent striker ambled toward the sideline.
The time-wasting brought a chorus of boos from the home fans—and a yellow card from the referee.
....
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