Bild's Matthäus column had long been labeled a "Jin Hayes fan club." The German legend rarely missed an opportunity to praise the young player, but this time his enthusiasm overflowed every line.
"I believe Borussia Dortmund have rediscovered their soul."
"With all due respect, changing coaches at a critical moment is a major disruption for any team. Even if Thomas Doll was limited, he was an experienced pair of hands. Dortmund still had a mathematical chance at Champions League qualification, and his sudden dismissal should have derailed everything. I almost lost hope—I thought this Dortmund side wouldn't even make the Europa League."
"But then came the magician from abroad. And suddenly, Champions League hope feels real again."
"When tactics fail in desperate moments, only genius can rewrite fate."
"Jin Hayes's performance at Weser Stadium reminded me of the fire I felt when I wore the Black and Yellow. He is a natural competitor. An artist. If football is a symphony, Jin's ankles are the conductor's baton. Last night, he turned Weser Stadium into his personal gallery—every touch a brushstroke."
"When the game entered stoppage time, this young man bled Black and Yellow. He single-handedly became the backbone holding the team together. All five goals carried his imprint—two assists and a goal in injury time alone, pulling Dortmund back from the edge of the abyss."
"Champions League qualification remains a long shot. But with Jin in this team, we Black and Yellows fear nothing."
It wasn't just Matthäus. All of Germany had lost its collective mind.
Across Europe, the tremor was felt. Marca, Mundo Deportivo, The Sun, Gazzetta dello Sport, Manchester Evening News—from Spain to Italy, France to England, the story of Werder Bremen vs. Borussia Dortmund dominated the week's football discourse. Jin Hayes had once again become the center of European attention.
The last time was his 4–3 comeback against Bayern. Before that, it was Arsène Wenger signing a 15-year-old from abroad.
*"Crazy Stats! Jin Hayes: 12 Dribbles, 8 Fouls Suffered, Crowned Eternal Last-Minute Winner"*
"From 0–3 to 5–4: Dortmund's Young Stars Jin Hayes & Reus Tear Bremen Apart"
"Jin Hayes: Dortmund's Savior! Asian Prodigy's Injury-Time Hat-Trick of Contributions Seals Comeback"
*"Weser Stadium's Night of Madness: 15-Year-Old Breaks Bundesliga's Longest-Held Assist Record"*
….
North London – Colney Training Centre
Arsène Wenger arrived in his Jaguar, as he did most mornings. Breakfast at the training ground was one of his preferred times to check in with players, to let conversations flow naturally. When he walked into the canteen, he found a cluster of them huddled around Abou Diaby's table.
A copy of The Sun lay spread open. The headline wasn't about any Premier League star. It was a familiar face—a young man, arms raised, standing on an advertising hoard in front of a frenzied away end. Even in still image, you could hear the roar.
Wenger raised an eyebrow. He'd gone to bed early the previous night and missed the late fixtures.
"What's happened?"
"Coach, it's Jin… he's something else."
Theo Walcott pointed at the headline, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. Wenger glanced down, assuming he'd misread.
"From three goals down… to a 4–5 winner? Three goals in injury time?"
"That's what I said! I thought it was a misprint. But he actually did it."
Walcott shook his head slowly. Around the table, other Arsenal players were equally dumbfounded. Four assists and a goal across the ninety minutes. Twenty-two assists for the Bundesliga season.
The Sun had emboldened the stat line:
*"A 15-year-old has broken a record that stood for 24 years. The previous single-season Bundesliga assist record was set by Karl-Heinz Rummenigge in 1983/84, with 16. Michael Ballack matched it in 2002/03. Now, a non-German player has surpassed both—and raised the bar to an almost absurd level."*
Wenger studied the paper, a quiet smile forming. He'd known what he was doing when he signed the boy. But even he hadn't expected the impact to arrive this fast.
Across the table, Cesc Fàbregas sat frozen. He had made Jin his imagined rival, measuring his own progress against the headlines coming out of Germany. In the Premier League, Fàbregas had established himself as a starter, his assist count for the 2007/08 season already at 17—the undisputed leader in England.
He had thought that was enough. Enough to stake his claim, to put distance between himself and a 15-year-old playing in a different league.
Now he stared at the number 22 printed beneath Jin's name. Twenty-two assists. In a single season. At 15.
Fàbregas felt the energy drain from him. He slumped in his chair, fork forgotten, appetite gone. The gap between 17 and 22 wasn't just numbers. It was a statement.
…
Carrington Training Base.
Manchester United's players were still dissecting the madness that had unfolded in the Bundesliga the previous night.
"Mamma mia—three goals in stoppage time? From 3–0 down to 5–4? Am I losing my mind, or is the media?"
"Did anyone actually watch the match?"
"No… I'll find the replay later. Werder Bremen and Dortmund are both solid sides. Might see one of them in the Champions League next season."
"You mean Bremen or Dortmund? Dortmund's a stretch."
"The Black and Yellows. It's still mathematically possible."
Rooney glanced across the dressing room at Cristiano Ronaldo, who was meticulously styling his hair in front of a small mirror. The Portuguese winger always spent extra time on his appearance before matches—product, perfume, the full routine. Undeniably effective on the pitch. Undeniably the manager's most trusted weapon, given license to shoot from anywhere.
"What do you think, Ronaldo? About the kid?"
Ronaldo shrugged, not looking away from his reflection. "I don't pay much attention to other teams."
"That 15-year-old Asian kid—he plays a bit like you did when you first arrived," Rooney said, a teasing edge in his voice. "All the dribbling. The flash."
Ronaldo's hands stopped moving. His expression hardened slightly.
When he'd first come to Manchester United, the English press had labeled him a show pony. Too many tricks. Not enough end product. Hearing the comparison—even from Rooney—clearly struck a nerve.
"No," Ronaldo said flatly. "He's not there yet."
In Cristiano Ronaldo's hierarchy, there were only two players worth measuring himself against: Kaká at Milan and the young Argentine at Barcelona. Those three stood at the summit. Everyone else was fighting for fourth.
Rooney let it drop. He smiled to himself, though, and said nothing more. In his gut, he had a feeling about that Asian kid. Any 15-year-old who could conjure three goal contributions in stoppage time to complete a comeback had something you couldn't teach. Heart. Nerve. The refusal to accept defeat.
That kind of quality didn't stay in the shadows for long.
…
Back in Dortmund, Jin Hayes had noticed a shift.
For weeks, the neighbors on Heinrichstraße had treated him like any other kid from the street—friendly greetings, the occasional wave, nothing more. Now they kept a slight distance. They looked at him as if they wanted to say something, then thought better of it.
What's going on? I don't bite.
Even Aunt Maria and Uncle Hans had become more reserved. Last night, when Maria had prepared his post-match meal, she'd been visibly anxious—worried the seasoning was off, worried an ingredient hadn't been prepared correctly, worried she'd somehow disappoint him.
"You've noticed it too, right?" Jin asked Anna, who was stretching in the living room. "Everyone's been acting strange the past couple of days."
Anna seemed to be the only person in the world who hadn't changed. She wore the same distant, unimpressed expression she always did. Even after their afternoon in her bedroom—the photos, the closeness—she treated him exactly as before.
"You were too much," Anna said simply, bending into a side stretch. Her yoga pants did nothing to help Jin maintain eye contact. "People don't know how to act around you now."
"It was just a last-minute winner against Bremen. I had one against Bayern too."
Anna paused her stretch to give him a look. "You don't understand what scoring three goals in injury time does to people. My mother almost passed out when it happened."
Jin blinked. "That dramatic?"
"Among Black and Yellow fans, you've basically been turned into a god."
She said it flatly, as if stating the weather. Jin rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable.
"They'll go back to normal in a few days," Anna added. "Just give them time."
"Good." Jin exhaled. He liked Heinrichstraße the way it was. Outside of football, he was just a high school student trying to get through the week.
Anna resumed her stretching, her voice quieter now. "Next weekend is my first runway show. Are you…"
She turned her head away, not looking at him.
"Sunday? The day after the Wolfsburg match?"
"Yes."
"Of course I'll be there."
He said it without hesitation. Supporting a friend was the obvious thing to do.
"Okay."
Anna's reply was soft. From the angle where Jin stood, he couldn't see the small smile she was trying to suppress.
He was already thinking about something else, though. The warmth that had flooded his legs in the final minutes against Bremen. The burst of acceleration that shouldn't have been there. The sacrifice he'd made without fully understanding what it cost.
What exactly was the price this time?