On the lush turf of the King Power Stadium, Ling was just picking himself up off the grass, the sting of the foul already fading, replaced by a buzzing anticipation.
He'd won the penalty.
He saw his teammates converging and, for one naive, exhilarating second, thought they might let him, the new kid, take the spot-kick.
He trotted over with a hopeful smile on his face, but as he got closer, he tuned into the quiet, professional conversation.
It wasn't an argument; it was a negotiation.
Romelu Lukaku, his eyes fixed on the Golden Boot race, was politely making his case to Juan Mata, the team's designated taker.
The atmosphere in this Manchester United squad, fostered by Mourinho, was one of warm professionalism.
There would be no public spat over a penalty, not like in other teams.
Mata, a man who seemed genetically incapable of selfishness, simply nodded, gave Lukaku a pat on the chest, and handed him the ball.
A simple, generous act.
Ling felt a small prick of deflation, followed immediately by a wave of self-awareness.
He'd been naive.
Of course.
This wasn't a pre-season friendly.
This was 0-0 in a hostile away stadium.
The sheer, crushing importance of this single kick—a kick that could define the entire match—was astronomical.
Even if José Mourinho was the most carefree manager in the world (which he emphatically was not), he would never hand that burden to a teenager making his first-ever start.
The fallout from a miss wouldn't just be the lost points.
The media storm, the social media crucifixion, the dent in his own fragile confidence... it could be career-derailing.
'No', Ling thought, clapping his hands in encouragement as he backed away.
'it doesn't matter. My time will come. There will be other chances.'
He just hadn't earned that level of trust.
Not yet.
.....
🎙️ In the Sky Sports Commentary Box
"Well, that's electric!" cried the veteran voice of Martin Tyler, his excitement palpable.
"Just eight minutes in, and the young debutant, Jeremy Ling, has set the game alight! A lightning-fast shoulder drop, he's inside, and Maguire... oh, he's just chopped him down! Clumsy! That is a stonewall penalty!"
"Maguire is absolutely sick," added Gary Neville, his tone analytical. "He gets drawn in by the quick feet, and he's caught flat-footed. Ling wanted the foul, he engineered it, and he got it. Brilliant, aggressive wing play. That's what United have been missing."
"Now, there's a discussion," Martin noted, as the camera zoomed in on the United players.
"Mata is the usual taker... but he's handed the ball over to Romelu Lukaku. The Belgian wants this."
"And that's the right call," Neville said firmly. "You want your number nine, your main goalscorer, brimming with confidence. This isn't a moment for sentiment; it's a moment for a goal."
....
📱 On the Twitter Timeline
@UnitedWay (RedDevilsFan99): LIIIIIIING!! SKIIIILLLS! 🔥🔥🔥 Gets the pen! What a start for the kid! Give him the ball!!
@LFCKopite (Jamie_LFC): lol Maguire is supposedly worth 50m for that? Embarrassing. #LEIMUN
@OliverKay_TheTimes (Oliver Kay): Smart play from Ling. Identifies Maguire as the slower man, attacks him directly, and forces the error. Mourinho will be delighted with that. Lukaku steps up... big moment early on.
@BlueFox(Mark_LCFC): Here we go again. Always a pen against us. Come on Kasper, you know what to do!
....
Back on the pitch, Lukaku placed the ball on the spot with meticulous care.
He took five steps back, puffed out his cheeks, and stared down Kasper Schmeichel.
The whistle blew.
The run-up was powerful, deliberate.
Lukaku didn't try to be clever; he simply smashed it, hard and low to the left.
Schmeichel, guessing right, dove full-stretch, but the ball was struck with too much venom.
It ripped past his fingertips and bulged the back of the net.
1-0 to Manchester United.
Lukaku exploded, sprinting towards the ecstatic away end, his face a mask of ferocious joy.
He wheeled away, miming a gun-shooting gesture with both hands, a signature celebration.
Ling was one of the first to join the huddle, following his teammates as they piled on, hugging and high-fiving the goalscorer.
'Maybe one day,' Ling thought with a private grin, 'we'll get a chance to do a classic 'musketeer' pose together.'
The thought was immediately followed by a random pang of sympathy.
'Why do I suddenly feel a bit sorry for Lautaro Martínez?'
Across the pitch, the mood was bleak.
Harry Maguire stood with his hands on his hips, his head bowed, the picture of remorse.
"Don't worry about it," Wes Morgan, the colossal captain, said, clapping him firmly on the shoulder.
His voice was a profound, sincere rumble.
"I used to make mistakes all the time, too. It's just a penalty. You'll face plenty more situations like this. Got to learn to face 'em."
Maguire just grimaced.
Somehow, that didn't make him feel any better.
Beside them, the right-back Danny Simpson was silent.
In truth, he felt he was the one who should be apologizing.
Maguire had only been forced to make the desperate challenge because Ling had already ghosted past him.
He still couldn't fathom how every feint, every shimmy the black-haired kid made, seemed to perfectly exploit his own weaknesses.
'Is Manchester United's youth training really this advanced?' he wondered miserably.
"Everyone, lift your spirits! Get your heads up!" Jamie Vardy was already clapping, his voice a gravelly roar.
"Plenty of time left! We can bloody well equalize!"
Schmeichel, seeing his teammates' deflated state, said nothing.
He just walked back to his goal and hammered a frustrated fist against the post.
On the sidelines, José Mourinho's face was covered in a rare, unguarded smile.
He swung a clenched fist through the air.
'Increase efficiency on the wings. Create threats. Take the lead. Control the game.'
The most crucial step was complete.
Solving the rest of the puzzle would be much simpler now.
He truly hadn't misjudged the person.
On the other side, Craig Shakespeare, Leicester's manager, looked somewhat dazed.
Promoted from assistant after the controversial sacking of the title-winning Ranieri, he was a man out of his depth.
This sudden goal had shredded all his pre-match arrangements, and he stood motionless, staring blankly at the pitch.
...
While the fans processed their joy and sorrow, the match resumed at a breakneck pace.
Leicester City, stung into action, immediately launched a fierce assault down their right flank.
Riyad Mahrez began to weave his magic, cutting and surging, making life miserable for Daley Blind.
The Dutchman was clearly uncomfortable.
Blind frantically waved for help.
Ling dropped back, and with Nemanja Matic also shifting over to plug the gap, they just about managed to weather the storm.
Then, Mourinho made an unexpected adjustment.
United didn't retreat.
They attacked.
The entire formation pushed forward, pressing high, relying on dense, suffocating positioning in the middle of the park to monopolize possession.
It became a half-court siege.
Leicester, after their initial flurry, reverted to the conservative 4-4-2 that had left them vulnerable in the first place.
The game now flowed through Ling.
He frequently broke down the wing or cut inside to combine with Mkhitaryan in the half-spaces.
Danny Simpson, however, had learned his lesson.
He was now on high alert, refusing to dive in, backing off, giving Ling space but never a clear path.
But he soon made a despairing realization.
The black-haired youngster marking him was unnervingly calm.
When a breakthrough wasn't on, he didn't force it.
He didn't try a hopeless trick or a low-percentage cross.
Instead, he'd calmly shield the ball, pivot, and lay it off securely to a teammate, recycling possession.
Simpson couldn't win the ball. He couldn't foul him. He couldn't even get close.
Every time the ball went to Ling, it was like a magnet, drawing in Simpson and often a central midfielder.
This tactical gravity was crippling Leicester, weakening their defensive core and opening up vast, green spaces for Paul Pogba to drift into and attack.
As the minutes ticked by, United's possession stat climbed: 62%, 65%, a staggering 67%.
During this period of dominance, Pogba, playing with a swagger, unleashed three powerful shots.
But it seemed United had used up all their luck on the penalty.
Two of his efforts were met by spectacular, sprawling saves from the in-form Schmeichel.
The third, a thunderbolt from 25 yards, beat the keeper completely but smashed against the post with a thwack that echoed around the stadium, before bouncing clear.
The game drifted towards the 42nd minute.
Leicester, realizing they were being slowly suffocated, finally woke up.
They spread their formation wide and launched an intense, desperate press.
This was exactly what Manchester United had been waiting for.
The midfielders and forwards exploded into motion.
Pogba, seeing the gap, didn't hesitate.
He disguised a no-look through-pass, a perfect, weighted ball that split James and Ndidi, rolling invitingly into the path of Mkhitaryan.
The Armenian met it on the run, and with a single, fluid touch, curled the ball wide with the outside of his boot.
"Here it comes!" Martin Tyler shouted in the gantry. "Manchester United's left-wing again!"
On screen, Ling trapped the ball instantly.
In front of him was Simpson, who had wisely given up pressing and was now just trying to hold his position, to show Ling the outside.
From the away stands, thousands of United fans roared, a wave of sound willing the young player on.
Ling, observing Simpson's defensive posture, began the dance.
A blur of step-overs, left foot over right, right over left.
'Giving me the outside lane?' Ling thought. 'Trying to force me onto my weaker left foot?'
It was the smart defensive play.
Simpson knew Ling was right-footed.
Even if he beat him down the flank, a left-footed cross would surely be low-quality, and Simpson would have time to recover.
The inside channel—the path to a right-footed shot—was the real danger zone.
Without the slightest hesitation, Ling took the bait.
He exploded with a burst of pace outside, down the byline.
"Jeremy Ling! A brilliant breakthrough!" Tyler yelled. "He's past him! A low cross near the byline!"
But it wasn't low.
Ling, at full sprint, whipped his left foot at the ball.
It was a stunning delivery, arcing like a rainbow, high-quality and viciously spinning.
It soared over the heads of Leicester's leaping centre-backs, dropping perfectly toward the far post.
At the King Power Stadium, tens of thousands of spectators held their breath.
Paul Pogba, having ghosted in from deep, launched himself at the ball in a full-stretch, sliding volley.
"POGBAAAA!"
He connected, but it was just too high.
The ball skimmed the top of the crossbar and nestled into the netting behind the goal.
A collective groan, followed by applause for the effort.
Ling, whose momentum had carried him tumbling off the pitch, quickly hopped up, patting the turf from his shorts.
He saw Pogba give him a massive thumbs-up and a grin.
Ling smiled and returned the gesture, but a familiar, critical voice was already speaking in his head.
'My left foot... still not good enough. If I'd aimed that just a fraction wider, given him more space from the keeper... that was a goal.'
Nearby, Danny Simpson was just trying to catch his breath.
He was already drenched in a cold sweat.
The referee checked his watch.
With little time left, the score remained unchanged.
A whistle blew, signaling the end of a breathless first half.
Manchester United headed for the tunnel, a hard-earned one-goal lead in their pocket, courtesy of a debutant's brilliance and a striker's confidence.
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Well what do you think? i edit a lot of shit on this chap.