The roar that erupted when Alexander Frei's shot hit the back of the net was something Jin Hayes had never experienced. He'd read about the Westfalenstadion, about the famous Yellow Wall, about the noise. But reading couldn't prepare you for the physical sensation of eighty thousand voices merging into a single, primal scream. The air vibrated. The ground shook. For a moment, he thought he might pass out.
Then he was buried.
Frei reached him first, wrapping him in a bear hug, shouting something incoherent directly into his ear. Then came Şahin, Kehl, Hummels – a pile of black and yellow bodies, all crushing him, all yelling, all laughing. They'd been dead and buried, and this slight fifteen-year-old had breathed life back into them.
In the midst of the chaos, Jin Hayes caught a glimpse of the Bremen bench. A figure in green sat motionless, his large, dark eyes wide with an expression that looked almost like fear.
Mesut Özil, the player everyone called a genius, the young playmaker destined for greatness, stared at the celebrating pile of Dortmund players as if he'd just seen a ghost. He'd watched the entire sequence unfold – the nutmeg, the roulette, the impossible mis-hit that somehow became the perfect pass – and he still couldn't process it.
Those dribbling moves weren't just skilled. They were wrong. They broke the rules of how football was supposed to work. And yet, they'd worked perfectly.
Özil had always known he was talented. Special, even. But watching Jin Hayes, he felt something he'd never felt on a football pitch before.
Inadequate.
In the stands, Hans Heinrich was living his best life.
"YES! YES! YES!" He grabbed his wife Maria and planted a kiss on her cheek, then another, then another, until she was laughing and pushing him away.
"We did it! Did you see that? He just—he just—I can't even explain what he did!"
Maria was laughing too, tears streaming down her face. "I saw, I saw! Oh, that wonderful boy!"
Beside them, Robert, the sceptic from the fan club, was already reaching for his wallet. He pulled out a hundred-euro note and pressed it into Hans's hand.
"You were right," Robert said, his voice gruff but genuine. "I was wrong about him."
Hans blinked at the money, then at Robert. "The match isn't over yet. We might still lose."
Robert shook his head. "Doesn't matter. That boy just did something I've never seen anyone do against Bremen. He earned this."
Hans grinned and pocketed the cash, only to have Maria's hand dart in and snatch it away with surprising speed.
"Hey!"
"Mine now."
"That's robbery!"
"I'll buy you beer with it tonight. Consider it an investment in marital harmony."
Hans opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Maria's logic, as always, was immovable. He settled for grumbling and turning back to the pitch.
Anna watched her parents bicker with a new expression on her face. Normally, she'd have rolled her eyes, pulled out her phone, and retreated into her own world. But now, her phone stayed in her pocket. Her eyes stayed on the pitch.
On that figure in yellow.
Number 24.
Jin Hayes.
She'd seen him every day for two months, a quiet presence at the breakfast table, a shadow disappearing to the training ground at dawn. She'd never really seen him before. Not like this.
On the pitch, he moved like no one else. When he had the ball, defenders swarmed him, and he danced through them as if they weren't there. His face, even under pressure, held a slight smile. Calm. Confident. Almost playful.
He's beautiful, she thought, then immediately looked away, her cheeks flushing. Focus, Anna. He's just a footballer.
But her eyes drifted back.
On the pitch, the game had transformed.
Jin Hayes, now fully unleashed, was a constant threat. Every time he received the ball, two, sometimes three Bremen players converged on him. And every time, he found a way through. A step-over here, a body feint there, a sudden burst of acceleration that left defenders grasping at air.
In the 58th minute, he drew a foul from Hummels – a frustrated tug on his shirt as he ghosted past – earning a free kick in a dangerous position. Borowski's delivery was cleared, but the pattern was set. Bremen couldn't get out of their own half. They couldn't attack because they were too busy defending against the teenage phenomenon on their left.
In the 64th minute, Dortmund won a corner.
Borowski raised his hand, signalling the near-post routine. The ball swung in, a wicked inswinger aimed at the six-yard box.
In the penalty area, bodies collided, markers jostled for position. Jin Hayes found himself marked by Torsten Frings, the Bremen captain, a veteran of two World Cups, a man who had faced Rivaldo, Ronaldinho, Zidane, Totti. He'd spent his career marking the best players in the world.
None of them had prepared him for this.
One moment, Jin Hayes was behind him, held at arm's length. The next, he was two metres away, having materialized as if by magic. Frings spun, disbelieving, and watched as the boy controlled the dropping ball with the outside of his foot – a touch of impossible softness – then, in the same motion, flicked it with his heel past Frings's desperate lunge.
In the six-yard box. Against a World Cup veteran. With the casual elegance of a street performer.
Frings could only stare.
Jin Hayes was at the byline now, the angle too tight for a shot. Goalkeeper Tim Wiese rushed to cover the near post, cutting off any possible route to goal. A normal player would have shot, or maybe tried to cut it back.
Jin Hayes wasn't normal.
He pulled the ball back, parallel to the goal line, drawing Wiese and two defenders with him. Then, with the outside of his right foot, he flicked it into the chaos.
The ball squirted through a forest of legs, a pinball without the pins. Mats Hummels, Dortmund's young centre-back, was simply standing in the right place at the right time. The ball hit his shin and deflected into the net.
2-2.
The stadium exploded. Again.
In the commentary box, Scholl was struggling to find words. "OHHHHH! JIN! THAT WAS... THAT WAS ART! HE IS A MAGICIAN! A GREEN MAGICIAN!"
The phrase slipped out, unplanned, a moment of pure spontaneity. It would follow Jin Hayes for the rest of his career. Der Zauberer. The Magician.
"TEN MINUTES ON THE PITCH! TWO ASSISTS! THIS FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLD HAS COMPLETELY TRANSFORMED THIS MATCH! SINCE HE CAME ON, THE MOMENTUM HAS SHIFTED ENTIRELY! DORTMUND ARE LEVEL!"
On the pitch, the celebrations were wilder than before. This wasn't just a goal. This was a statement. They were coming back.
In the Bremen half, players stood in various states of disbelief. Frings hadn't moved. Mertesacker, the giant centre-back, was staring at Jin Hayes as if trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.
"How did he...?" Mertesacker began.