Beep.
The world spun. Jin found himself on his back, staring up at the sky over Dortmund—layers of clouds stained orange and pink by the setting sun.
Pretty, actually.
He'd have to remember this.
"Jin! You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You Arschloch! That's a foul!"
"He's diving! He went down like he'd been shot!"
"Say that again!"
"ENOUGH. You want a card?"
The shouting ruined the view. Nuri appeared above him, smirking, offering a hand.
"Taken down again. Rookie."
Jin grabbed the hand and stood. "It's called being the main man. You're just my assistant."
"Piss off."
But Nuri's relief was visible. Fabian Ernst's tackle had been hard—the kind that made you hold your breath. Jin had gone down awkwardly, and for a moment, the bench had tensed.
Referee Wolfgang Stark separated the arguing players, inwardly exhausted. Four minutes in, and they were already at each other's throats. He couldn't start handing out cards this early, but he needed control.
He checked on Jin. "You alright, son?"
"I'm fine. Thank you."
Stark nodded, impressed by the fluent German. The kid had clearly been working.
The Schalke players were still muttering—diver, softie, typical —loud enough to be heard.
Jin turned to them. "This is football, not a fight club. If you can't win the ball, just say so."
Fabian Ernst lunged forward. His captain, Marcelo Bordon, grabbed his arm. "Leave it. He's trying to wind you up."
Bordon watched Jin jog back into position, unease settling in his stomach.
Before the match, they'd seen the Dortmund lineup and laughed. Two teenagers in midfield. One of them fifteen. Kids. This would be easy.
Four minutes later, they weren't laughing.
>>>
In the commentary gantry, Scholl was struggling to contain his excitement.
"Let's look at that replay again—what a piece of skill from Jin Hayes!"
The screen showed Nuri's pass, overhit, heading out of play. Jin, running at full pace, stretched out his right foot and, with the outside of his boot, flicked the ball up and over the defender's head. In the same motion, he stepped around the defender—literally running out of bounds to bypass him—and collected the ball on the other side.
The Georgian winger, Levan, was left staring at empty space, utterly bewildered.
"Extraordinary awareness," Scholl continued. "Most players let that ball go. Throw-in, reset. But Jin saw the opportunity, trusted his technique, and created something from nothing."
On the pitch, Jin had cut inside from the byline, feinted a shot, dragged the ball back, turned, feinted again—sending two defenders the wrong way—then accelerated into the box. His cutback found Frei arriving at the far post, but a desperate deflection from a Schalke defender blocked the pass.
No goal. But a statement.
"Four minutes on the pitch," Scholl said, "and Jin Hayes has already completed two similar dribbles. He's been the most dangerous player on either side. It's no coincidence Schalke are targeting him with fouls."
>>>
On the sideline, Thomas Doll watched in silence. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable.
Beside him, Dick Fuhren couldn't help himself. "He's different when he starts. More confident. More... alive."
Doll said nothing.
Fuhren pressed gently. "The fouls—they're already targeting him. We need to protect him. Maybe move him inside, let him find space between the lines."
Still nothing.
Fuhren sighed and turned back to the pitch.
>>>
The free kick was taken quickly. Kehl to Şahin, Şahin looking up, spotting Jin making a run. The pass was early, crisp—hit with enough pace to bypass the defender but enough weight for Jin to control.
Jin took it in stride, one touch to settle, another to shift it onto his right foot. A Schalke midfielder closed him down, body low, arms wide. Jin dropped his shoulder, feinted left, went right. The defender stumbled, reaching out, grabbing a handful of yellow shirt.
Beep.
Another foul. Another free kick. Another warning from Stark.
Jin stood up, brushed grass from his knee, and placed the ball for the restart. He could feel the frustration radiating from the Schalke players. They were bigger, stronger, more experienced. And they couldn't get near him.
Not legally, anyway.
...
Jin felt the pressure. Real pressure. The kind that made your lungs burn and your legs heavy after fifteen minutes.
Before, he'd always come off the bench. Sixty minutes of watching, studying, learning the opponent's habits before stepping onto the pitch. Today was different. First start. Fresh opponents. No time to ease in.
The pre-match analysis had been thorough—each player's tendencies, their weak foot, the runs they liked to make. But theory was theory. Out here, in the noise and fury of the derby, everything moved faster.
Fifteen minutes in, and he was already breathing hard.
But the harder it got, the more he wanted it.
Every time he received the ball, two Schalke players closed him down instantly. They were physical, aggressive, relentless. They wanted to intimidate him. Remind him he was fifteen, playing in a man's game.
Fine.
He'd show them what a fifteen-year-old could do.
The ball came again. Jin collected it on the right wing, back to goal, Levan pressing from behind. Fabian Ernst sprinted across to double-team, ready to crash into him, use his body to win the ball.
Jin took one touch back, as if preparing to pass to the full-back. Ernst shifted his weight forward, committed to the tackle.
Jin's heel flicked the ball the other way.
It slipped between Levan's legs—a nutmeg—and rolled cleanly past Ernst's outstretched foot. In one movement, Jin turned and accelerated down the line, leaving both defenders grasping at air.
"Cruyff turn on the touchline! What a moment of magic from Jin Hayes!"
The stadium roared.
Ernst, off balance, stumbled over the sideline and kept going, carried by momentum. Jin had space.
Left-back Pandèr scrambled to block. He'd been tormented all game, unable to handle the teenager's dribbling. Now here he was again, isolated, terrified.
Jin slowed, dropped a shoulder, started step-overs. Pandèr's eyes locked on the ball, waiting for the moment to strike.
Now.
Jin feinted left. Pandèr bit. His leg stretched, his weight shifted—and Jin was already gone, cutting right, leaving the defender on the turf, legs split, humiliation complete.
"OHHHH—HE'S DONE HIM!"
The penalty area opened up. And with it came the feeling—the warmth in his right foot, the clarity, the certainty.
Perfect pass incoming.
Westermann, the German international centre-back, slid across to cover. He expected a shot, a cross, maybe a cutback. What he didn't expect was Jin, without looking, without hesitating, to flick a backheel in the opposite direction. A reverse pass, threaded perfectly into the space Westermann had just left.
"Reverse triangle! How did he even see that?!"
Nuri Şahin arrived at full sprint, meeting the ball first time. The keeper had no chance.
1-0.
The stadium erupted. Lava. Volcano. Eighty thousand voices merging into one primal scream.
Nuri sprinted towards Jin, grabbed him, lifted him off the ground. "You saw me! You knew I was there!"
"I told you—I'm the main man."
"YOU ARE! YOU ARE!"
Hummels appeared from nowhere—centre-back, forty metres from his own goal—and launched himself into the celebration. "Get in! Get in!"
Nuri spotted a photographer on the sideline, snatched the camera from his hands, and pulled Jin and Hummels close.
"Smile!"
Click.
Three teenagers, faces flushed, arms around each other, frozen in a moment of pure joy. Yellow shirts, sweat-soaked hair, grins that couldn't be contained.
Spring 2008. Another photo for the archives.
>>>
In the stands, the noise was deafening. Hans was hugging strangers. Maria was crying. Old Fritz was on his feet, fist raised, shouting something unintelligible.
In the front row, a slender blonde teenager stood motionless amidst the chaos. Marco Reus. Watching the celebration on the pitch. Watching the three young players mob each other, surrounded by adoring fans.
He was nineteen. Still waiting for his chance. Still watching from the outside.
His eyes followed Jin Hayes as he jogged back to his position, still smiling, still buzzing.
Someday, Marco thought. Someday that'll be me.