Years later, when a 35-year-old Marco Reus found himself in the unfamiliar surroundings of Carson, California—ranked 15th in the Western Conference with the LA Galaxy, eliminated from the CONCACAF Champions League by Tigres UANL—he would stand on the pitch after matches and let his mind drift.
What came back wasn't the weight of captaining Borussia Dortmund through a decade of Bundesliga battles. It wasn't the Champions League nights, the Der Klassiker clashes, the near misses and the triumphs.
What Reus remembered most was his first season with the first team. A substitute appearance in the 80th minute. Two goals. And a 15-year-old Asian kid who refused to lose.
…
90th+3 Minute – Werder Bremen 4–4 Borussia Dortmund
"Jin! You're unbelievable!"
Reus sprinted across the pitch, grabbed Jin by the shoulders, and roared his exhilaration into the night air. Two goals since coming on. A stoppage-time equalizer. His heart was pounding out of his chest.
"I know you're excited." Jin's voice was calm, almost too calm. "But don't get carried away yet."
He nodded toward the center circle. "Go get the ball. We've still got time."
"Time? You're not thinking—"
"Of course I am."
Reus blinked. Şahin jogged past, grinning despite his exhaustion. "You don't know Jin yet. Pressure just makes him worse. Or better. Depends on how you look at it."
Jin bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. His face was pale with fatigue. Reus, fresh from the bench, didn't hesitate. He jogged toward the Bremen goal, where goalkeeper Tim Wiese was trying to stall, the ball tucked under his arm.
Reus snatched it away before Wiese could react. Bremen players swarmed him, but Reus was slippery, dodging and weaving, cradling the ball like a running back racing for the end zone.
Jin watched from midfield, dragging his leaden legs forward one step at a time. His lungs burned. His calves threatened to cramp. Normally, he would have been substituted by now, but Fuhren had used the last two changes to shore up the defense. Jin was staying on.
No choice. Grit your teeth and hold on.
He had trained his stamina relentlessly since joining the first team. But there were limits to how much he could push at 15. Coaches and physios had warned him: his physical peak was years away. There was no need to rush.
Jin hated that advice.
He hated being substituted because his legs gave out. He hated missing chances in stoppage time because he couldn't run onto a pass. Waiting years felt like an excuse.
His physical attributes were never going to be elite. No amount of conditioning would turn him into a physical specimen like some of the players he faced every week. Physical talent was still talent. And in that department, Jin knew he'd drawn a short straw.
Is this it? If only my physicality could be world-class too...
[But at what cost?]
The voice came again. Familiar. Cold. Just like the first time.
That time, he had traded his shooting ability for max-level technical talent.
Now, he didn't hesitate.
Whatever it takes. Give me max-level physical talent.
[...]
A strange warmth flooded through him—starting at his feet, rushing up through his legs, spreading to his chest, his arms, the crown of his head. His lungs stopped burning. The weight in his legs lifted. What had been a slow, agonizing walk became a jog, then something closer to a run.
Şahin did a double take. "Wait—you can still run? How?"
Jin shrugged, suppressing a grin. "You should train harder. Your stamina's worse than mine. That's embarrassing."
Şahin opened his mouth, found no words, and closed it again. He didn't have the breath left to argue.
Jin hadn't told him the truth. He wasn't fully recovered—not to 100%. But enough. Enough to run. Enough to dribble. Enough to have a chance.
The clock showed just under two minutes remaining.
One more goal.
Champions League qualification was still a mathematical impossibility for most, but Jin didn't care about odds. As long as there was a path forward, however narrow, he would run it.
He glanced toward the Bremen goal, then at Reus, who had finally placed the ball at the center circle. The Werder Bremen players were regrouping, trying to compose themselves after conceding two quick goals. Their body language told the story: they were rattled.
Jin took his position and waited.
Two minutes. One chance.
That was all he needed.
…
The 4–4 equalizer had shattered Werder Bremen's composure. Their shape fractured—attackers pushing forward in search of a winner, midfielders and defenders retreating to protect what remained. The disconnect between front and back opened channels that hadn't existed all match.
Diego collected the ball in the final third, looking to drive at the Dortmund defense. Sebastian Kehl read it instantly. With veteran instinct, he stepped across, stuck out a leg, and stole possession cleanly.
"Kehl! Dortmund have another counter! They've scored twice in two minutes—could they actually—"
Scholl couldn't finish the sentence. The momentum was undeniable.
Kehl didn't hesitate. His through ball skipped past the midfield line, straight into the path of—
Borowski pressed tight against Jin's back, leaning in, trying to muscle him off the ball. The kid was exhausted. One good shoulder check and he'd crumble.
Borowski made contact—and bounced off as if hitting a wall.
Jin rode the challenge, stepped forward, and nudged the ball with the outside of his foot, shaping to turn. Borowski recovered quickly, lunging to block the path—
Too late.
Jin dragged the ball through Borowski's legs in one fluid motion, spun, and exploded past him. The acceleration was savage, the gap created in an instant.
"Jin! He's through! Cutting inside—straight toward the center!"
In the Weser Stadium stands, home fans gripped their seats. Every time this kid touched the ball, tension rippled through the ground. Across from them, the 300 traveling Dortmund supporters were on their feet, voices raw.
Naldo and Baumann closed in together, two center-backs converging to shut the door. They'd watched the footage. They knew what he could do.
They underestimated his speed.
In the 94th minute, with legs that should have been empty, Jin Hayes exploded between them like a slalom racer threading gates. The gap was tight—barely a shoulder's width—but he was through before either man could react.
"Jin—OH MY GOD!"
Scholl's voice cracked. The image on the screen evoked something primal: a lone figure in yellow, splitting defenders, accelerating toward goal. Comparisons wrote themselves.
"His pace! His explosiveness! He's still sprinting in stoppage time!"
"One-on-one—with the goalkeeper!"
Tim Wiese rushed off his line, arms wide, trying to smother. Jin got there a step earlier, toe-poking the ball past the diving keeper, then sidestepping the challenge with a subtle shift of his ankle.
Empty net.
He chased the ball toward the goal line, legs pumping, the roar of the away end building to a crescendo. In Dortmund, across the city, screams of joy erupted simultaneously.
The ball crossed the line.
Silence—then chaos.
"JIN HAAAYYYEEEESSSSSS—"
"MATCH WINNER! HE HAS DONE IT HIMSELF!"
"Dribbled through the entire team! Through the goalkeeper! Into the net! He is unstoppable! He is Borussia Dortmund's superhero!"
"Have you ever seen anything like this? In stoppage time! A comeback from four goals down!"
"Dortmund are immortal! This is the Black and Yellow spirit!"
Scholl had abandoned any pretense of neutrality. His voice was hoarse, delirious, lost in the moment.
5–4.
A scoreline from another dimension. A match that defied reason.
Jin slid on his knees from the goal line to the corner flag, the turf burning through his shorts. He leaped onto the advertising board in front of the away end, arms raised, and let the noise wash over him. Three hundred Dortmund fans screaming like thirty thousand.
Scholl's voice cut through the broadcast, raw and certain:
"At this moment—Jin Hayes is the God of Dortmund!"