"Good evening, viewers! Welcome to the second round of the 2014-15 Bundesliga season. Tonight, we are live from the Volkswagen Arena as Wolfsburg hosts Eintracht Frankfurt!"
In the commentary booth, Liu Jiayuan's voice was filled with a familiar warmth. "For Chinese fans, Frankfurt isn't just another German club. It's the home of a legend. Yang Chen, our 'China Rocket,' became a hero in this very shirt. Interestingly, Yang Chen's journey started much like Qin Ming's—he wasn't even a permanent starter at Beijing Guoan before he moved to Germany. Yet, he conquered the Rhine, scoring eight goals in his debut season and saving the team from relegation."
Liu Jiayuan paused, his eyes drifting to the touchline where the young No. 13 sat. "I hope Qin Ming can follow in those footsteps. That sense of pride... it's something no foreign superstar can provide."
Beep!
With the sharp blast of the referee's whistle, the game ignited. Dieter Hecking had opted for his trusted 4-2-3-1 formation. The backline featured the newly arrived Sebastian Jung, alongside the towering Naldo, Knoche, and the explosive Ricardo Rodríguez. In the engine room, Luiz Gustavo and Guilavogui provided the muscle, while Kevin De Bruyne finally occupied his throne as the central attacking midfielder, flanked by Vieirinha and Maximilian Arnold. Up top sat the 36-year-old Croatian warhorse, Ivica Olić.
From the first minute, the tactical battle lines were drawn. Wolfsburg looked to build from the back, searching for the marauding runs of Ricardo Rodríguez. The Swiss left-back was a sharp blade, but without the injured Perišić ahead of him to draw defenders away, he found himself isolated.
Bang! A dull thud of colliding bodies echoed near the sideline. As Rodríguez tried to change his rhythm, a white-shirted figure intercepted with surgical precision. Makoto Hasebe.
"A masterclass in defensive positioning!" Liu Jiayuan exclaimed. "Wolfsburg is trying to force the wings, but without Perišić's overlapping runs, Arnold simply can't provide the same vertical threat. Hasebe and the Frankfurt defense are reading them like a book!"
Hasebe didn't waste a second. Having secured the ball, he looked up and gestured for his teammates to push. With Rodríguez caught high up the pitch, a gaping hole had appeared in the Wolfsburg defense. Hasebe's pass was a laser—a 40-yard diagonal that found Nelson in stride.
"Frankfurt! Frankfurt!" the away fans roared.
Nelson reached the baseline and whipped a high, hanging cross into the box. Haris Seferović, the Swiss powerhouse, shrugged off Naldo and met the ball with a thunderous header. The stadium held its breath as the ball whistled inches over the crossbar.
"What a risk!" Liu Jiayuan gasped. "If Naldo hadn't gotten a tiny piece of that, the Wolves would be trailing already. Hecking needs to pull Rodríguez back; the 'Knife' is leaving the back door wide open."
Hecking was already ahead of him, gesturing frantically for Rodríguez to hold his position. The game settled into a grinding stalemate. Frankfurt lacked the raw power to breach the center, while Wolfsburg struggled to find their rhythm.
In the 26th minute, the deadlock finally cracked. Luiz Gustavo won a fierce aerial duel against Piazon, nodding the ball forward. De Bruyne brought it down with his chest, but he immediately felt a mountain of pressure against his back.
It was Hasebe again. The Japanese veteran was playing like a piece of wet taffy, refusing to give De Bruyne an inch of space. They wrestled like two bulls, muscles straining, but De Bruyne's god-given physique eventually won out. He shrugged Hasebe off and, without looking, unleashed a signature long ball.
"Precise footwork! He's found Olić!"
The veteran striker took the ball in stride and fired a stinging shot toward the near post. Frankfurt keeper Kevin Trapp pulled off a spectacular reflexive save, parrying the ball out for a corner.
De Bruyne stepped up to the corner flag. He pointed his index finger toward the turf—a coded signal—and swung his right leg. The ball traveled in a vicious, dipping arc toward the penalty spot. Robin Knoche created the screen, and Naldo, arriving like a runaway freight train from outside the box, met it with a crushing header.
1-0!
The Volkswagen Arena erupted. Naldo, his bald head gleaming under the lights, waved his hands to the crowd. The Brazilian defender was a unique weapon—a man who loved to attack as much as he loved to defend, possessing the aerial dominance of a giant and the free-kick technique of a playmaker.
But the joy was short-lived. Just eight minutes later, Frankfurt countered with a tactical shift. Hasebe, sensing a lapse in Wolfsburg's concentration, delivered a sublime cross-field ball. Piazon collected it and combined with Seferović in a quick one-two. As Piazon reached the left edge of the penalty area, he let fly with an opportunistic, low shot.
Bang!
Sebastian Jung, desperate to make a sliding block in his home debut, stretched out his foot. The contact was clean, but the result was a nightmare. The ball struck his boot and changed trajectory entirely, looping over the stranded Max Grün and nestling into the far corner.
1-1. Own Goal.
"A low-level disaster!" Liu Jiayuan wailed. "Sebastian Jung has handed Frankfurt a gift on a silver platter. The clean sheet bonus has vanished into thin air."
On the bench, Qin Ming felt the tension in the air thicken. The "stability" Hecking had craved was crumbling. The veteran defense had made a rookie mistake, and the "Asian Wall" of Hasebe was growing taller with every minute.
As the referee blew for halftime, the score remained tied. The Wolfsburg players trudged toward the tunnel, heads down. De Bruyne was already arguing with Arnold about positioning. Hecking stood by the dugout, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the pitch.
He looked toward the bench. His eyes lingered on the green-and-white No. 13. He saw Qin Ming standing there, not looking at the scoreboard, but staring directly at Makoto Hasebe.
The veteran had controlled the first half. He had neutralized the wingers and harassed the maestro. But Hasebe was thirty years old, and the sun was still scorching. The "Samba Elf" was fresh, hungry, and possessed a rhythm that no tactical briefing could prepare for.
The fans in China were already typing their "I told you so" comments, but the game was only half over. The baptism of fire had begun, and the Wolves were about to unleash a Maverick.