Jin remembered learning about the Ruhr region in geography class. Industrial heartland. Coal and steel. The engine of Germany's twentieth-century rise.
Gelsenkirchen and Dortmund—twin cities built on mining, on factories, on the sweat of generations. They'd competed for resources, for investment, for pride. The rivalry ran deep, woven into the fabric of daily life.
Football was just the arena where that rivalry exploded.
Schalke 04 and Borussia Dortmund. The Miners vs. BVB. Two clubs born from the same working-class roots, now locked in one of the most intense derbies in world football.
Jin had watched derbies on television before. He'd seen the passion, the fireworks, the occasional pitch invasion. It had seemed... distant. Exaggerated, even.
Then derby week arrived.
>>>
The night before the match, Jin was packing his kit at the Heinrich house. Boots. Shin pads. The black gloves Anna had given him, still carefully folded, still carrying her crooked Good Luck message.
In the living room, Hans and Maria were on the floor, surrounded by markers and cardboard, arguing about font sizes.
"No, no—what you wrote isn't aggressive enough. Let me."
"That's why I married you. Here, a kiss."
"Eww." Anna didn't look up from her fashion magazine. "You're both over fifty. Get a room."
Hans ignored her. "Jin! Come look. Is this insulting enough?"
Jin wandered over, curious.
Maria's sign read: "We Can Still Hear You Crying About Losing The Title!"
It was a specific dig. Two seasons ago, Schalke had come within touching distance of their first Bundesliga title in nearly fifty years. On the final day, they needed to beat Dortmund to claim the championship. Dortmund, with nothing to play for but pride, had won 2-0. Schalke's wait continued.
Hans's sign was simpler: *"Dortmund 10-1 Schalke (If We Feel Like It)."*
Jin smiled. It was childish, petty, perfect.
Anna watched him over the top of her magazine, noticing how carefully he placed the gloves in his bag. How his fingers lingered on the fabric for just a moment. She hid her smile behind the pages.
"Jin," Hans called, "we heard you might start. Is it true?"
"Not confirmed yet. We'll know tomorrow."
Maria and Hans exchanged a glance. Then Maria grinned. "Then we need to make a new sign."
"What for?"
Hans winked. "You'll see."
>>>
Match day.
The Westfalenstadion was unrecognisable.
Jin had played here before, felt the famous Yellow Wall, heard the noise. But this—this was different. The moment he stepped into the player tunnel, the sound hit him like a physical force. Eighty thousand voices, unified, singing as one. Not just loud—frenzied. The kind of noise that vibrated in your chest, that made the air itself feel alive.
The Schalke players stood rigid, faces pale. Even their most experienced veterans looked uncomfortable. The away end was a tiny island of blue in a sea of yellow and black, and the home fans were making sure they felt every second of it.
For Dortmund's players, the noise was fuel. Kehl was bouncing on his toes. Degen kept cracking his neck. Even the usually calm Weidenfeller looked ready to run through a wall.
Nuri Şahin stood beside Jin, bouncing slightly. "You nervous? First start, derby, eighty thousand people—it's normal if you are."
Jin's hands were clenched at his sides. But not from fear.
"I'm not nervous."
Nuri glanced at him. His eyes were bright, focused, hungry.
"I'm excited."
Nuri blinked. Then shook his head. "You're insane. You know that?"
"Probably."
The referee, Wolfgang Stark, checked his watch and nodded. "Alright. Let's go."
Jin walked out holding the hand of a young ball boy—maybe eight years old, eyes wide, overwhelmed by the noise. The tunnel opened onto the pitch, and the sound doubled.
The stadium DJ, Gerd Fischer, knew his craft. He let the noise build, then cut in with that familiar, theatrical voice:
"Ladies and gentlemen—welcome to the Ruhr Derby!"
The roar shook the sky.
"First, the visitors."
He paused for effect.
"Schalke 04 goalkeeper, number one—MANUEL NEUER!"
Eighty thousand voices, perfectly synchronised: "ASSHOLE!"
Jin watched the young goalkeeper's jaw tighten. He looked about twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Standing in goal, facing down a wall of hatred, and not flinching.
Tough kid, Jin thought.
"Defender, number two—HEIKO WESTERMANN!"
"ASSHOLE!"
Every Schalke player got the same treatment. Every coach. Every substitute. No exceptions.
Then it was Dortmund's turn.
"Now—OUR WARRIORS!"
The shift was instantaneous. From hostility to adoration.
"Goalkeeper, number one—ROMAN WEIDENFELLER!"
The stadium erupted—genuine cheers, not insults. Flags waved. Scarves spun.
"Defender, number twenty-three—PHILIPPE DEGEN!"
More cheers. More noise.
One by one, the names were called. Each greeted with love.
Then:
"Midfielder, number twenty-four—JIN HAYES!"
The sound changed. Deepened. Became something more than noise.
"JIN! JIN! JIN! JIN!"
Eighty thousand voices, chanting his name. Not because of some mystical connection. Not because he was exotic or different. Because he'd earned it. Because that night against Bayern, when the team needed magic, he'd delivered.
Jin looked up at the South Stand. And there, right in the front row, he saw them.
Hans and Maria, standing with their neighbours, holding up a massive banner. Newly made, just for tonight.
"OUR NUMBER 24 — LEAD US TO VICTORY!"
Simple. Direct. Perfect.
Beside them, Anna stood still, hands clasped, watching him. She didn't wave. Didn't cheer. Just looked at him with those clear blue eyes, and nodded once.