Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams.
On a balmy European night, the stadium was a fortress of red, packed to the rafters.
It was a living, breathing entity, pulsating with noise.
Countless flags waved in the floodlights, and the cheers echoed to the skies, a defiant roar welcoming the Champions League anthem back to its rightful ho.
The match had just reached the 35th minute.
Manchester United, in total control, had won a corner on the left flank.
Ashley Young, a picture of veteran hustle, trotted over and delivered a fast, inswinging ball toward the penalty spot.
From outside the area, an unmistakable, towering figure made his charge.
Marouane Fellaini, with his iconic afro, stord into the box, his timing perfect.
He leaped high, a human battering ram rising above a sea of Basel players, and powered a header forward with unstoppable montum.
The goalkeeper, caught flat-footed, could only flail.
The ball slipped through his hands and bulged the back of the net.
1:0!
The stadium erupted.
On the sidelines, however, José Mourinho remained as composed as ever, his face a mask of professional calm.
He gave a single, curt clap and took a sip of water.
Although Basel was the most successful football club in Switzerland—a famous talent factory that had produced the likes of Rakitić, Somr, Xhaka, and even Mo Salah—they were, by Premier League standards, a lower-tier team.
They posed little threat to a Manchester United squad this focused.
At this mont, Ling was sitting on the bench with a padded substitute's jacket pulled over his training kit.
Was he disappointed about not making the starting lineup? Of course.
He was a competitor.
But he was also a professional, and he fully understood the manager's reasoning.
It had been only three days since their draining away match at Leicester.
His body was still recovering.
Forcing himself into the ga, even for a few minutes, was a gamble.
An ill-tid muscle strain now could risk his place for weeks.
Instead, he watched the match with the intense focus of a student.
His eyes were locked on Basel's right-back, noting his defensive habits, his footwork, how he reacted to a feint, how he positioned himself on crosses.
After all, they would eventually have to visit Basel's ho ground.
It never, ever hurt to prepare in advance.
After the restart, Basel, to their credit, seed to find their rhythm.
They launched frequent, if hopeful, attacks from both wings.
Within a span of minutes, both Ashley Young and Daley Blind, caught by the sudden shift in tempo, were booked with yellow cards.
Fortunately, after a few stern words and tactical adjustnts from Mourinho during halfti, Manchester United regained absolute control.
In the 58th minute, Blind, making up for his yellow, overlapped down the flank and drilled a perfect low cross.
Rolu Lukaku, a master of the "near-post," t it with a deft, instinctive finish.
2-0.
In the 84th minute, Marcus Rashford, on as a sub, scored the goal that sealed the victory, a tidy finish that put the ga to bed. 3-0.
A perfect start to the Champions League campaign.
But then, an unexpected, sickening scene unfolded.
With no one around him, Paul Pogba suddenly collapsed to the ground, clutching the back of his left leg.
The ga stopped.
The entire stadium, in the middle of a celebration, fell into a hush.
A few minutes later, the diagnosis was in.
The team doctor, after a quick pitch-side test, signalled to the bench.
A hamstring strain.
He was imdiately helped off the pitch, grimacing, and sent straight to the hospital for scans.
The initial prognosis: out for two to three weeks, at minimum.
The Manchester United fans in the stands, who had been singing monts before, grew anxious.
A cold dread settled over them.
Everyone knew how crucial Pogba was.
He was not just a player; he was the system.
He was the one who orchestrated almost every single attacking play, the man who linked defence to attack, the team's engine and its conductor.
Hearing the bad news, Mourinho's brow furrowed tightly.
This was not a simple problem.
Although he had several alternatives within the squad—he could push Rashford further up, deploy dual wingers, or, heaven forbid, adopt a grinding three-defensive-midfielder setup—these were all just patches.
They were ugly compromises.
These solutions would lead to severe physical exhaustion for the other players, who would have to pick up Pogba's slack.
It was the perfect trigger for a wave of injuries, a domino effect that could disrupt preparations for the hectic, season-defining Christmas schedule and the entire second half of the campaign.
Mourinho, standing alone in his technical area, suddenly felt bone-weary.
It seed that in the second year of his tenure at every single club, these unexpected setbacks always piled up. It was a curse.
Was it too much to ask for just a few trophies? For one season to go according to plan?
....
After the match, the mood was bizarre.
Ling returned to the Carrington Training Ground with his teammates on the bus.
No one was celebrating their first European victory.
The 3-0 scoreline felt hollow.
Instead, the atmosphere was somber, as if they had lost.
During training the next day, the players were extra cautious, almost timid.
They were spooked.
They pulled out of 50/50 challenges, they took extra ti with their warm-ups, afraid of suffering a similar, non-contact fate.
After all, not everyone was a generational prodigy like Pogba, who could walk back into the team after an injury.
For most of them, an early-season setback could easily relegate them to the bench for the rest of the campaign.
...
Soon, it was September 16th, the day before Manchester United's crucial match against Everton.
The first round of Champions League group stage matches had concluded.
The dia scrambled to report, with the mouthpieces of various clubs rolling up their sleeves, engaging in a war without smoke, each trying to spin their club's narrative.
Barcelona 3-0 Juventus: ssi Descends Like a God!
Liverpool 2-2 Sevilla: Reds Unable to Conceal Their Defensive Decline!
Real Madrid 3-0 APOEL: Ronaldo Scores a Brace, Asks 'Who Else?'
Tottenham Hotspur 3-1 Borussia Dortmund: Asian Football King Son Heung-min Nets His Seventh Champions League Goal!
Fans were also passionately discussing the week's events on online platforms.
The Goal and RedCafe forums were alight.
[Thread: Champions League Week 1 & Pogba Injury]
[User: RedDevil88] Such a sha Ling didn't get to play. Wanted to see him on the CL stage.
[User: StretfordEnd_7] Don't worry, mate. Pogba's out. Ling will get his chances. Trust .
[User: GlobalGooner] Speaking of which, the Ballon d'Or voting is about to start. Who do you think will win this year?
[User: RealTalkFC] Looking at the stats AND the trophies, Ronaldo should be a lock. La Liga, Champions League, Spanish Super Cup, UEFA Super Cup, PLUS the Champions League Golden Boot. It's not even a debate.
[User: BarcaFan10] That would tie Ronaldo with ssi's record. A joke. ssi is the system, Ronaldo is the system.
[User: UnitedFan_CHN] It's a pity. I don't even dare to hope for Jeremy Ling to win the Ballon d'Or one day, but just making the top 30 shortlist would be exciting enough for us.
[User: Kopite_Slayer] Woah, slow down. Those spots usually go to key players or stars from top-four teams in the top five leagues. Ling is still far from that level—he should focus on catching up to Son Heung-min first. Son is on fire again.
[User: ScouserInDoubt] Let's not talk about Son. What's going on with Liverpool lately? We just beat Arsenal 4-0 in the third round and looked like title-winners, then lost 0-5 to Manchester City in the fourth. I'm getting whiplash.
[User: Cityzen1] Pep Guardiola's Manchester City is just too strong. I feel they have the best shot at winning the Premier League this season. Unstoppable.
[User: TheSpecialOne] Looking forward to the day of the "Guardiola vs. Mourinho" clash. That'll be the real test. If we're still in one piece by then...
...
anwhile, back at Carrington, Ling had just finished his daily training when a staffer told him the manager wanted to see him.
He was called into Mourinho's famously spartan office.
"Sit," Mourinho said, gesturing to a chair. He didn't bother with small talk.
"I'll cut to the chase. Among our current midfield and attacking players, only two are adept at creating space for teammates through pure movent and organization. Juan Mata... and Paul Pogba."
"As you know, the latter got injured in the last match."
Mourinho got straight to the point.
In truth, Ling could see the manager was deeply conflicted.
He didn't want to alter the basic 4-2-3-1 tactical frawork that had just finally taken shape.
He didn't want to sacrifice the efficiency they had built in positional play and on the counter-attack.
But this tactical system was a finely tuned machine.
It required players to complent each other perfectly, fulfilling specific roles to maintain superiority in each area.
Pogba's injury had broken the machine.
It had left Manchester United's midfield as a weak, gaping link.
Mourinho stood up and walked to the large tactics board, picking up a red marker.
He began sketching formations, his movents sharp and deliberate.
"So," he continued, not looking at Ling, "I need you to change your ga for tomorrow. I need you to reduce the number of tis you dribble past defenders and play through balls."
Ling's eyebrows rose.
This was the opposite of what he'd been told so far.
"Instead," Mourinho said, drawing a circle in the left half-space, "I want you to stay more in this pocket. Be a magnet. I want you to draw Everton's defensive focus. Pull the right-back and the central midfielder to you. Create space for your teammates in the central areas."
"As for the remaining organizing duties... we will leave them to Fellaini."
Ling looked at the formation on the tactics board.
He looked at the arrows pointing to his position, and the new arrows showing the space others would run into.
He quickly understood Mourinho's intentions.
On the surface, it didn't seem too difficult.
It was similar, in theory, to what he had done in the second half against Leicester.
It was about making his dribbling more... curved.
More patient.
But it required a profound shift in mindset.
He had to go from being the man who exploits space to the man who creates it.
From the dagger to the decoy.
"Everton's wide defense isn't particularly strong," Mourinho said, his expression softening slightly. He could see the teenager processing the complex request.
"With your ability, you can definitely handle this. If it doesn't work out, I will adjust quickly, so don't feel too much pressure."
He knew he was being a bit too impatient.
He was asking an 18-year-old, in his third league ga, to change his entire style to compensate for the loss of a £90 million superstar.
As for the reason? Perhaps it was because of all the recent chaos that had left him overwheld.
Or perhaps... perhaps it was because of Jeremy Ling's rapid growth and flawless performances, which had sparked an inexplicable, almost paternal, trust in him.
But he had to rember, the young man before him was only eighteen.
He shouldn't place the weight of the world on him.
"Coach, I understand," Ling said, his voice clear and even. "I'm confident I can do this well."
Mourinho looked up, slightly surprised by the imdiate, unwavering certainty.
He saw a young man with clear, bright eyes and a radiant, calm smile.
It suddenly struck him that Jeremy Ling, in his own quiet way, seed to share his own fundantal nature—soone who inherently craved challenges, who didn't shy from responsibility, and who would always, always choose the most difficult path if it led to victory.
He wanted to say sothing heartfelt, sothing encouraging.
But the words caught in his throat. Such sentint was not his way.
Instead, he simply nodded gently, his face reverting to its usual impassive mask.
"Mm."
Ling inquired about a few more tactical details, bid farewell to Mourinho, and returned to the dormitory.
He didn't relax, he didn't play FIFA.
He opened his laptop to continue studying the opponents, his new, complex role fresh in his mind.
....
As ti passed, days turned into nights.
The fifth round of the Premier League was here.
Tens of thousands of fans, a river of red, entered Old Trafford, awaiting the start of the match.
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