"Liverpool midfielder once again succeeded!"
The voice of the commentator cut through the roar.
"Mohamed Sissoko wins it with a strong tackle... and immediately finds Xabi Alonso!"
Alonso took the ball in stride, head up, scanning the pitch in an instant.
"Xabi Alonso drives forward—Liverpool break quickly! He looks up... long ball over the top!"
The pass soared from deep, arcing behind Barcelona's high line.
"Yang Yang!"
Anfield erupted. The Kop rose as one, a wall of sound crashing forward.
Yang Yang had already started his run the moment Alonso shaped to play it. He timed it perfectly, peeling away from Puyol's shadow and sprinting into the channel between the centre-backs.
The ball dropped just right—still bouncing a little as it kissed the turf inside Barcelona's half. Yang Yang met it on the half-volley with his instep, killing the pace in one clean touch.
The first touch was immaculate; the ball settled instantly under his right foot as he carried momentum forward.
Fifteen minutes gone, and Yang Yang had already been Liverpool's sharpest threat in the final third—always drifting, always finding half-a-yard, always dangerous.
Now he dropped a fraction deeper to link, drawing Carles Puyol out a step before the explosive spin. The sudden turn sent him slanting diagonally toward the penalty area, cutting inside from the left channel like a knife through paper.
Lilian Thuram reacted at once.
The French veteran sprinted across, closing the angle fast. He got tight, shoulder barged against shoulder, trying to slow the young forward's surge.
As Yang Yang burst clear on the turn, Thuram's right hand flicked out—a brief, instinctive tug at the sleeve, just enough to feel resistance. But he let go almost immediately.
The yellow card from earlier still loomed large. One more foul here and he would walk out the pitch.
Thuram adjusted smartly.
Arms down now, he used his body width instead—long legs and broad frame forming a moving barrier. He angled his run to push Yang Yang toward the byline, buying time for Oleguer Presas to scramble across from the right side of the box.
Yang Yang felt every bit of the contact. After more than half a season in the Premier League's unforgiving physical battles, his body had changed—stronger in the duels, better at riding challenges.
Thuram's shoulder hit hard, but Yang Yang leaned back into it, refusing to be shifted off the ball. The two stayed locked together as they crossed into the penalty area.
Inside the box the rules shifted. Yang Yang sensed Thuram's sudden caution—the way the veteran kept his arms lower, the way his feet no longer chopped aggressively. This was dangerous ground.
One mistimed lunge and the referee would point to the spot.
Yang Yang's God Vision swept the entire area in a heartbeat: every position, every gap, every running line. He fixed on Oleguer.
The Barcelona right-back was still a couple of strides behind, tangled up with Peter Crouch, who had peeled toward the near post to drag him away. The distance was just enough. Yang Yang knew he had the sliver of time he needed.
The ball sat perfectly under his right foot now. With a subtle nudge of the outside, he pushed it forward a metre, setting his body. Thuram read the shape immediately—the dip of the shoulder, the planted left foot.
Thuram threw caution aside. He lunged in low and hard, sliding desperately, legs extended to block the line with his body.
But Yang Yang was already ahead of him.
Quicker than the tackle could land, he transferred his weight to his left leg and swung his right through the ball.
Clean, crisp contact—a rising drive arrowing toward the bottom right corner. Thuram's outstretched boot met only air as the shot flashed past him, heading straight for Víctor Valdés' goal.
...
"Yang Yang dribbles the ball into the penalty area..."
The commentator's voice rose sharply, riding the swell of noise from the stands.
"He advances... and then shoooooooooot!"
"GOAL!!!!"
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL !!!!!!"
"In the sixteenth minute, in the sixteenth minute, Liverpool have broken through Barcelona's goal!"
The shot had flown low and hard, skimming just inside the far post. Víctor Valdés dived full stretch, fingertips brushing the ball but unable to turn it away. It nestled into the bottom right corner, the net rippling violently.
Anfield exploded. The roar was instantaneous and deafening, a tidal wave of sound that seemed to lift the stands themselves. Red scarves twirled overhead, fists punched the air, mouths open in pure, unrestrained joy.
The commentator continued, breathless.
"It is Yang Yang again with that diagonal run into the penalty zone. Xabi Alonso's pass was perfectly weighted—right into the channel. Yang Yang took it down cleanly, carried it forward, and Thuram was helpless to stop him!"
"Oleguer was dragged out wide by Crouch and couldn't get back in time to close the angle."
"The shot went straight in—clinical, unstoppable!"
"1-0!"
"Liverpool take the lead!"
The entire stadium descended into carnival. Flags waved furiously in the Kop, the anthem-like chants of "Yang Yang" echoing off every concrete tier.
No one had expected the breakthrough to arrive so swiftly, so cleanly against a Barcelona side that usually suffocated opponents with possession.
Yet this was not Liverpool's first sight of goal.
Barely three minutes in, Yang Yang had unleashed a thunderous long-range drive from twenty-five yards. The ball crashed against the crossbar with a metallic clang that rang around the ground, leaving Valdés rooted and the Barcelona bench flinching. The rebound had fallen kindly, but the warning was clear.
Then Dirk Kuyt had headed narrowly over from a Steven Gerrard cross. Peter Crouch had forced a sharp save from Valdés after outmuscling Puyol at the back post. And in the eleventh minute, Yang Yang struck again—another powerful effort from distance that curled inches past the far post, the ball spinning out for a goal kick as the crowd groaned in collective frustration.
"Yang Yang has been everywhere in these opening exchanges," the commentator pressed on. "His form is electric tonight. Two long-range efforts of real quality—both forced Barcelona onto the back foot. Thuram couldn't afford to give him any space, so he stuck tight... and that left the door open for this one."
"Oleguer's recovery run was delayed—he was pinned by Crouch's clever movement toward the near post. But credit where it's due: Liverpool's front three have such distinct, complementary threats. Kuyt's work rate, Crouch's aerial presence, Yang Yang's pace and finishing. Any defence feels the pressure."
Yang Yang sprinted away from the goal, arms spread wide like wings. He glided along the touchline in front of the Kop, soaking in the wall of noise. Faces blurred past—scarves, banners, open mouths screaming his name. He veered toward the corner flag, then slowed, turning back as teammates poured forward.
Gerrard reached him first, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a fierce embrace. Alonso arrived next, slapping his back, a wide grin breaking through his usual calm. Crouch loomed in, pulling him into a bear hug that lifted him briefly off the turf. The huddle formed quickly—red shirts clustering, laughter mixing with shouts, hands ruffling hair.
The goal felt seismic. Barcelona had needed three goals in this game without conceding to win in aggregate since their last meeting but now Liverpool had struck first in this one.
Across the pitch, the Barcelona players stood momentarily still. Puyol barked instructions, hands on hips. Thuram shook his head, frustration etched into his features.
Oleguer jogged back, glancing toward the bench where Frank Rijkaard watched impassively. Ronaldinho stood with hands on knees, breathing hard, while Eto'o stared at the turf.
The commentator's voice carried on over the din.
"Barcelona's back line has rarely been their strongest suit. Last season they won it all through sheer control and attacking brilliance, which masked the defensive frailties. But this campaign, with form dipping for key players—Ronaldinho not quite at his peak, Eto'o struggling to find rhythm—the cracks are showing more often. Tonight feels like a snapshot of that."
"And Liverpool? Since December they've grown into something formidable. Yang Yang has been at the heart of it. Twenty-three Premier League goals already—exactly the twenty-goal striker Rafael Benítez always wanted in his side. And seventeen assists on top of that. In the Champions League alone, eight goals and four assists."
"Remember last summer? Liverpool broke their transfer record—forty million euros for the young Chinese forward straight from Ajax. Plenty of voices called it reckless, overpriced, a gamble on unproven talent in the Premier League's intensity."
"But look at him now. That fee already looks like one of the bargains of the decade. Yang Yang has filled the final missing piece in this Liverpool squad. The attack has another dimension—pace, goals, creativity. The team is elevated because of him."
…
Benítez stood motionless on the touchline, arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes fixed on the pitch. He had recognised Yang Yang's performance from the very first whistle.
In the Champions League especially, the young forward had shown a clear edge—more adaptable, more clinical in front of goal. His finishing carried a steadier rhythm here, away from the relentless grind of Premier League weekends. It was no exaggeration to say Liverpool's progress deep into this competition owed everything to him.
Of course, his domestic form remained excellent, yet even now Benítez sensed Yang Yang had not yet reached his absolute peak. The boy was still climbing, still refining details that would make him even more dangerous.
"We've found a gem," Ayesteran murmured with a quiet chuckle, leaning slightly toward his manager.
Benítez kept his face impassive—stone-cold as always, except for that fleeting instant when the ball hit the net. Only then had the mask slipped, just enough for the corners of his mouth to twitch upward. Ayesteran, who had worked alongside him for years, recognised the tell immediately: inside, Benítez was quietly delighted.
"If Crouch would commit fully to playing off him—pulling markers, creating space—Yang Yang would look even better than he already does," Benítez said flatly, gaze never leaving the field.
Ayesteran gave a small nod. The topic had surfaced more than once in coaching staff meetings. The potential was obvious, but the timing had to be right.
"Next season, as Yang Yang keeps improving, the others will have no choice but to accept it—even if they're reluctant," Ayesteran replied. "And Crouch himself stands to gain. He's already picked up plenty of assists from Yang Yang this year, same as Kuyt. If the partnership sharpens and Yang Yang becomes an even bigger threat, everyone benefits."
Benítez let a beat pass before asking, almost casually, "He must be worth more than forty million now, no?"
Ayesteran paused, then grinned. "Euros or pounds?"
The exchange rate sat roughly at two pounds to three euros—either way, the figure looked small.
"Doesn't matter," Benítez said.
Ayesteran laughed softly, the sound lost beneath the ongoing roar from the Kop.
Exactly. Forty million—no matter the currency—wouldn't come close anymore.
"I have a strong feeling, Pako," Benítez continued. He lifted his head, eyes tracing the floodlit stands above them, the sea of red scarves still swaying. "This season we have to prioritise the Champions League."
Ayesteran nodded in agreement.
In the Premier League, Liverpool sat level on points with Manchester United, but everyone knew how Ferguson operated late in the campaign—relentless, rotating smartly, drawing on deeper squad resources. Liverpool's bench, while improving, still lacked that same proven depth.
Yet after the first-leg win over Barcelona, confidence had surged through the squad. The players moved with sharper purpose, heads higher.
"If we can actually lift the Champions League... two in three years..."
Ayesteran left the sentence hanging, but the implication was unmistakable.
Two European Cups in three seasons would place Benítez among the elite, laying the foundation for a modern Liverpool dynasty.
Benítez said nothing in reply. His expression remained unchanged, but inside a quiet hunger burned. His gaze drifted back to the pitch, settling once more on the number eleven in red.
Yang Yang, twenty years old, Chinese, tireless, lethal.
He was the source of that confidence, the living proof of what this team could become.
…
Yang Yang remained restless on the pitch even after the restart.
He kept probing, always drifting toward the right flank where Lilian Thuram patrolled. Using his pace, quick changes of direction, and the full width of his movement range, he pulled the French veteran this way and that—dragging him out of position, forcing him to cover extra ground, creating half-yards for Liverpool's midfield runners.
At thirty-five, Thuram's legs still carried the experience of a World Cup winner, but the relentless pressure showed. Sweat glistened on his brow under the floodlights; his breaths came shorter. He gritted his teeth and pushed on, refusing to yield an inch, yet the fatigue was creeping in.
Barcelona tried to respond. After Liverpool lost possession high up the pitch, they launched a swift counter. Xavi fed Ronaldinho, who looked to thread Eto'o through the channel. But Mohamed Sissoko slid in hard to intercept, earning a yellow card for the challenge.
Moments later, Álvaro Arbeloa clipped Deco's heels as the Brazilian tried to break clear—another booking. The two cautions bought Liverpool just enough time to reorganise and snuff out the danger.
By the twenty-sixth minute, the pattern shifted again.
Steven Gerrard anticipated a loose pass in midfield, intercepted cleanly, and surged forward. He carried the ball twenty yards before lifting his head. Yang Yang had already made his run—diagonal again, arrowing into the penalty area from the left channel.
Gerrard played it perfectly: firm, low, right into Yang Yang's stride.
Yang Yang took it in his stride, first touch bringing the ball under immediate control. He drove toward the box, then slammed on the brakes—sharp, sudden.
Oleguer Presas, caught on his heels, lunged to recover. Yang Yang feinted right with his shoulder, then exploded left, flicking the ball past the young defender's outstretched leg.
Víctor Valdés read the danger and rushed off his line, narrowing the angle. Yang Yang glanced up once—saw the goalkeeper advancing, saw the space opening at the near post—and made the decision in an instant. Instead of shooting, he rolled a precise left-footed pass across the six-yard box.
The ball skimmed between Valdés and Oleguer. The goalkeeper twisted desperately, arms flailing; the defender scrambled back, sliding in vain. Both were a fraction too late.
Peter Crouch rose highest at the far post. He had peeled away from Puyol's shadow and timed his run to perfection. The tall Englishman met the ball with a deft flick of his right boot—almost casual, yet deadly accurate. The contact sent it looping gently over the line and into the net.
2-0.
Anfield detonated once more. The Kop roared as one, a wall of red noise that seemed to shake the stands.
Crouch, off balance from the finish, tumbled backward onto the turf. He sprang up immediately, pumping his fists, face split in a wide grin. Yang Yang sprinted across the pitch and launched himself onto the striker's back.
Crouch caught him easily, hoisting the lighter forward like a trophy as they charged toward the touchline.
The two celebrated together—Yang Yang still clinging on, Crouch striding along the advertising boards with arms raised. When he finally set Yang Yang down, he broke into a quick, mechanical dance—arms pumping in robotic rhythm.
The crowd loved it; chants of his name rolled louder.
Across the pitch, the Barcelona players stood frozen for a beat. Puyol stared at the ground, hands on hips. Thuram shook his head slowly, frustration etched deep. Ronaldinho walked back with shoulders slumped, eyes distant. Eto'o kicked at the turf in quiet anger. Even the usually unflappable Xavi looked rattled.
Their supporters in the away end—usually so vocal—had fallen strangely quiet. Heads lowered, scarves held limp. When the draw for the round of sixteen had paired them with Liverpool, optimism had run high. They had beaten the English side before; they believed they would do it again, home and away.
Now, the reality stung. Embarrassed on their own patch in the first leg, and now trailing heavily at Anfield. This was not the script anyone in blue and red had imagined.
None of them could accept it.
...
When Greek referee Kyros Vassaras blew the final whistle, Anfield transformed instantly into a sea of pure celebration. More than fifty thousand Liverpool supporters erupted as one, the noise crashing down onto the pitch like a physical wave.
The stands became a living, breathing mass of red. Scarves twirled overhead, arms pumped in unison, mouths open wide as the familiar strains of "You'll Never Walk Alone" rolled out—slow at first, then building, majestic and deafening.
The melody swelled through every tier, every concrete step, wrapping the entire stadium in warmth and unbreakable solidarity. The scene carried an almost tangible intensity, unforgettable in its scale and emotion.
It was a sound that could make any opponent feel small.
Up in the directors' box, the two new American owners—Tom Hicks and George Gillett—stood side by side, absorbing the full force of it. They had seen big crowds before, but nothing quite like this.
"Our opponents tonight were the strongest club team on the planet right now," Rick Parry said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. He gestured toward the red scoreboard that dominated the far end. The numbers glowed brightly.
2-0.
Aggregate: 5-1.
That was the final verdict of the tie.
"Even though we don't pretend to understand the finer points of football," Gillett said quietly, his voice carrying genuine awe, "we can feel the respect, the victory, the sheer passion. This is an incredible team."
Hicks nodded repeatedly, eyes still wide. "It's overwhelming. The first leg at Camp Nou already stunned us. But tonight... this is something else. The players on the pitch, the fans in the stands—it's impossible to forget."
Parry inclined his head, pride evident in every line of his posture. He knew the two owners had been properly convinced. In the space of two matches, they had watched Liverpool dismantle first the Premier League's strongest side and then Europe's—and arguably the world's—most feared club. Both times, the result had gone decisively Liverpool's way.
No introduction to the club could have been more perfect.
On the pitch, Steven Gerrard and Jamie Carragher moved among their teammates, arms around shoulders, broad grins breaking through exhaustion. Knocking Barcelona out and securing a quarter-final place represented a massive psychological lift for the entire squad.
Moments later, the two Liverpool captains glanced up toward the directors' box. Spotting Hicks and Gillett standing there, they raised thumbs in unison. The gesture drew immediate smiles and applause from the owners, who returned the salute with enthusiastic clapping.
The fans nearest the touchline caught the exchange and reacted instantly. Cheers swelled again, louder, more fervent. Everyone sensed the same thing: with new American investment behind the club, a fresh era felt within reach—bigger names, a modern stadium on the horizon, and, above all, the Premier League title that had eluded them for so long.
The singing intensified, the atmosphere growing warmer still.
Yang Yang collected another Man of the Match award after the game. In the first leg at Camp Nou he had scored a hat-trick and claimed the honour. Tonight, at Anfield, he earned it again with one goal and one precise assist.
Of Liverpool's five goals across the tie, he had directly contributed to four—four of his own making. His Champions League tally now stood at eight goals, still leading the competition's scoring charts, with five assists to go with them.
He had carried Liverpool's attack almost single-handedly through both legs.
Yang Yang could feel it in his bones: his condition had peaked at exactly the right moment. Steady, disciplined training combined with a structured off-field routine and clear, ambitious targets had unlocked this level of sharpness. It was not just personal—it lifted the whole team.
Gerrard had declared early in the season that Liverpool would win the Champions League. Xabi Alonso and Jamie Carragher shared that hunger openly. Now, having eliminated Barcelona with a commanding 5-1 aggregate and staying neck-and-neck with Manchester United in the Premier League, belief had taken root.
Sometimes that was how a professional player's form arrived—through preparation, momentum, and shared conviction.
"Hey, Ronaldinho."
Yang Yang walked across the pitch toward the Brazilian. He extended his hand first, offering a firm handshake followed by a brief, respectful hug—the quiet courtesy of a winner.
"You're playing at another level right now," Ronaldinho said with a small shrug, his smile rueful but gracious. "And your team's defence shut us down too well."
Yang Yang returned a gentle smile. "We had more time to prepare. Back in Portugal we drilled ways to limit you almost every day. But you still created real danger several times."
The words were chosen carefully—acknowledging Barcelona's quality while softening the sting of defeat. Liverpool's preparation had indeed been thorough, but everyone knew the deeper issues in the Catalan camp ran far beyond tactics.
Ronaldinho gave a short nod of appreciation. "Anyway, congratulations. You've got a real shot this year."
"Thank you," Yang Yang replied.
"Watch out for Kaka," Ronaldinho added, his tone light but pointed. "He told me he's feeling sharp lately."
Yang Yang did not pay much attention to Ronaldinho's warning about Milan.
In recent years, AC Milan had established themselves firmly as a Champions League force. They won the competition in 2003, beating Juventus on penalties in the final.
In the 2004-2005 season they reached the final again, only to suffer the legendary Istanbul miracle—leading 3-0 at half-time before collapsing and losing to Liverpool on penalties.
Last season the Rossoneri had fallen in the quarter-finals to Ajax, a side that still featured Yang Yang at the time, though Milan's overall quality remained beyond question.
This campaign had been disrupted by the Calciopoli scandal—the infamous telephone-tapping affair that rocked Serie A. Milan suffered a points deduction in the league, effectively ending any realistic hope of the Scudetto. The Champions League had become their sole priority.
Their group-stage performance reflected the turbulence. Drawn alongside Anderlecht, Lille, and AEK Athens, Milan managed only three wins, one draw, and two defeats—a record that fell well short of expectations for a club of their pedigree.
In the round of sixteen they had faced Celtic a day before Liverpool's tie. The first leg in Glasgow ended 0-0. In the return at San Siro, the deadlock held until extra time, when Kaká finally broke through with the decisive goal.
Ronaldinho's assessment of Kaká's current form rang true. Yang Yang believed it.
When assessing Milan's overall strength, Yang Yang did not believe they posed an overwhelming threat. Liverpool were in excellent form, and he had confidence in the team's ability to compete.
That said, Milan were still Milan. Even a weakened giant remained dangerous. The Rossoneri retained a core of exceptional talent: Andrea Pirlo dictating the tempo from deep, Gennaro Gattuso providing relentless energy, Clarence Seedorf offering vision and technique, Kaká surging forward with explosive pace, Filippo Inzaghi lurking in the box, and Alessandro Nesta anchoring the defence with calm authority.
Liverpool's current form was excellent—there was no denying that—but caution was still necessary. Complacency had no place. Staying grounded and maintaining focus had always been Yang Yang's approach.
Lionel Messi, by contrast, showed far less enthusiasm than Ronaldinho during the post-match exchanges.
The defeat stung, but so did his own contribution—or lack of it. Across both legs he had been thoroughly neutralised by Álvaro Arbeloa.
The Spanish right-back was not a world-beater in any single department, yet his balance made him exceptionally difficult to beat. No glaring weaknesses: solid in the tackle, disciplined in positioning, relentless in work rate, utterly concentrated for every minute on the pitch. Messi had tried every trick—quick feet, changes of direction, feints—but shaking Arbeloa free proved consistently elusive.
The Argentine had returned from injuries carrying the weight of expectation as the club's potential saviour. Supporters and media alike hoped he would drag them out of their slump.
Yet against Valencia and Sevilla in La Liga, and now against Liverpool over two legs, his impact had fallen short. The results spoke for themselves: Barcelona had surrendered top spot in the league and crashed out of the Champions League round of sixteen—the same fate that had befallen Real Madrid.
The Galácticos had taken a 3-2 lead over Bayern Munich in the Bernabéu first leg, only to lose 2-1 in Munich. Bayern progressed on away goals. For the third consecutive season, Real Madrid's European campaign had ended at this stage.
Yang Yang, meanwhile, had produced five goals across the tie—four of them directly by his own hand—and single-handedly dismantled Barcelona. For Messi, who had long viewed Yang Yang as a direct rival, the outcome carried a sharp edge of frustration.
Still, when they met on the pitch, Messi managed a small smile. He congratulated Yang Yang sincerely, praised his performance, and kept the exchange gracious.
Yang Yang was not one to twist the knife. He responded immediately that Messi had created constant pressure on Liverpool's defence.
The statement held truth. In both legs, Messi had been Barcelona's most dangerous outlet—always looking to receive between the lines, always threatening to turn and run at the back four. Arbeloa had simply done his job better.
As the winner, Yang Yang moved on to greet Deco, Xavi, Andrés Iniesta, and Carles Puyol in turn. The Barcelona players, stung by the heavy defeat, offered brief handshakes and nods before filing quickly toward the tunnel.
Yang Yang made his way to the visitors' technical area to find Frank Rijkaard.
Both men shared Ajax roots. When Barcelona had shown serious interest in Yang Yang earlier in his career, Rijkaard had met him personally on several occasions and kept in regular telephone contact. The connection made this encounter natural.
Seeing Rijkaard again stirred memories of Henk ten Cate—the Dutch coach who had once formed Rijkaard's right-hand man at Ajax and Barcelona. The parallel with Rafael Benítez and Pako Ayesterán at Liverpool was striking: same dynamic, same reliance on a trusted deputy to bridge the gap between manager and players.
Recent rumours around Melwood suggested a La Liga club was interested in luring Ayesterán away—either as head coach or technical director. For Liverpool, that would be unwelcome news.
Yang Yang had been at the club barely more than half a season, yet he already understood exactly what Steven Gerrard had meant when he first introduced Ayesterán. The Spaniard served as the vital communication link between Benítez's tactical demands and the dressing room. Losing him would mirror Rijkaard's loss of ten Cate.
The decision, however, rested entirely with Benítez. Neither Yang Yang nor even captain Gerrard had any standing to interfere. It was an internal coaching-staff matter.
Letting Pako Ayesterán go would be straightforward. Replacing him would prove far more difficult.
The examples were clear: Rijkaard without ten Cate, Ferguson without Carlos Queiroz. Lessons in how fragile the balance could be.