"WHOA!!!"
Old Trafford didn't just cheer; it erupted.
The sound was a physical force, a deafening, guttural roar that shook the foundations of the Stretford End.
Thousands of arms punched the air in unison, a sea of red scarves waving like banners of war.
The anxiety that had plagued the fanbase before kickoff—the fear of falling behind the "Big Six," the dread of a post-Pogba collapse—evaporated in an instant.
It was replaced by a bloodthirsty anticipation. They didn't just want to win anymore; they wanted a rout.
On the pitch, the tension broke.
Romelu Lukaku, now one step closer to the Premier League Golden Boot he so desperately coveted, sprinted toward the corner flag, swinging his massive arms to pump up the crowd.
As the Manchester United players rushed to join the huddle, Nemanja Matić grabbed Ling by the shoulder, shaking him with a grin that wrinkled his eyes.
"Haha! Well done, kid! You fooled them all!"
"It was a team effort," Ling replied, shouting over the noise, patting the Serbian giant on the back.
He wasn't being falsely modest.
Ling knew the geometry of the goal better than anyone.
Without Matić's ghost run into the vacuum, and without Lukaku's bullying hold-up play, Ling's movement would have been meaningless.
He hadn't just isolated Idrissa Gueye; the system had dismantled him.
...
The touchlines presented a study in contrasts.
Ronald Koeman stood frozen, the color draining from his face.
The smile he had worn during warm-ups was gone, replaced by a look of dawning horror.
He hadn't expected Matić—usually a defensive anchor—to be the hidden blade.
'But why was that dark-haired kid lingering in the left half-space? 'Koeman thought, his mind racing.
'Wasn't he afraid of being trapped?'
Unless...
Koeman's expression stiffened. He realized, too late, that he had walked into a trap.
Every movement, every lure, every pass had been pre-planned.
His "Giant Killer" tactics hadn't just been beaten; they had been deciphered and dismantled before a ball was even kicked.
A few yards away, José Mourinho allowed himself a brief, clenched-fist celebration.
But the Special One never lingered on success. He immediately whistled, summoning Matić to the sideline.
"Hold the midfield now," Mourinho instructed, his voice cutting through the din. "Mark Sigurðsson tightly. Suffocate him. If he can't turn, Everton has nothing."
Matić nodded, wiped sweat from his brow, and jogged back into the fray.
The Whistle Blew. The Trap Snapped Shut.
Manchester United's 19th-minute goal forced Everton to abandon their shell.
Like a boxer who had taken a heavy blow, they staggered forward, desperate to land a punch of their own. Their formation loosened, attempting to push through the center.
But they immediately hit a wall.
Everton's engine room was built for destruction, not creation.
Schneiderlin and Gueye were excellent ball-winners, but they lacked the vision to drive play forward.
And Gylfi Sigurðsson? The "Icelandic Sniper" was suffocating.
Shadowed relentlessly by Marouane Fellaini's elbows and Matić's positioning, he couldn't find a pocket of space to breathe, let alone shoot.
Sigurðsson had no choice but to drop deep, bypassing the midfield entirely to launch hopeful long balls toward the lone figure up top.
Wayne Rooney.
It was a cruel sight.
Facing his former teammates, Rooney fought with everything he had.
But Phil Jones, the man who had once looked up to him, showed no mercy.
Jones engaged physically, slamming into Rooney's back every time the ball approached.
Working in tandem with the athletic Eric Bailly, they muscled the legend off the ball with brutal efficiency.
Rooney tried to turn.
He tried to chase.
But his legs, once powered by rocket fuel, now felt heavy.
Years of playing at the absolute limit—and perhaps a life lived fully off the pitch—had eroded the explosive vigor that once terrified Europe. He was a lion with dull claws.
"Bailly wins it! He plays it out to Fellaini on the flank."
"Manchester United are breaking!"
In the 37th minute, the trap sprung again.
Fellaini didn't dwell on the ball. He struck a diagonal pass toward the right flank, bypassing the congested midfield entirely.
Conte's Chelsea had made the "back three" fashionable in England, and Koeman had tried to copy it.
But a back three is a double-edged sword.
If your wing-backs are caught high, the flanks are not just weak; they are empty.
Mourinho stood on the touchline, arms crossed, exuding the aura of a general watching his cavalry charge.
Trample them, his posture seemed to say.
Juan Mata gathered the ball in the final third. He cut inside sharply, forcing Phil Jagielka to step out of the defensive line.
The structure was broken.
Mata slipped the pass into Lukaku.
The Belgian striker received the ball with his back to goal, using his immense strength to hold off Ashley Williams.
He was an immovable object. He prepared to turn and shoot, to hunt for his own glory.
But then, a voice screamed from his left.
"PASS IT! IT'S OPEN!"
Lukaku didn't think.
He laid the ball off instantly to the left side of the penalty area.
Ling arrived fast.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Michael Keane charging in from the side like a freight train.
Keane, a former United academy graduate, was desperate to make a block.
Time slowed down for Ling.
Option A: Control the ball, feint, and try to dribble past Keane.
Result: The angle closes. Pickford rushes out. The chance dies.
Option B: Hit it now.
Ling didn't hesitate.
He planted his right foot and swung his left boot through the ball with perfect technique.
He didn't try to smash it; he guided it.
THUMP!
The sound was dull and heavy.
The ball shot off the turf like an arrow, keeping low, skimming the grass.
Jordan Pickford stretched his frame to the absolute limit, his fingers clawing at the air, but the shot was too precise. It kissed the inside of the side netting.
2-0!!!
"Beautiful!"
"A classic Mourinho masterclass! From back to front in four touches!"
"Jeremy Ling doesn't waste the gift! A low-driven arrow into the bottom corner!"
In the Sky Sports studio, Martin Tyler voice cracked with emotion.
"That is efficiency! That is lethal! His second Premier League goal, and he looks like he's been playing here for a decade!"
At Old Trafford, the noise reached a fever pitch.
The fans were falling in love.
They had seen Ronaldo, they had seen Giggs, they had seen Best.
And while it was too early for comparisons, they knew a "United player" when they saw one.
And this kid? He was one of them.
Just imagine.
He is only eighteen.
...
On the pitch, Ling scrambled up from his slide and sprinted toward the corner flag, his face a picture of pure joy.
But he didn't make it.
Ashley Young intercepted him with a tackle-hug, and within seconds, he was buried under a pile of red shirts.
"You beauty!"
"Ice cold, Ling! Ice cold!"
"My pass wasn't bad, eh?" Lukaku laughed, slapping his head.
When Ling finally emerged from the scrum, his hair was a bird's nest, standing up in every direction.
He looked disheveled, exhausted, and utterly happy.
From the sideline, Mourinho raised both arms, a rare, genuine smile breaking his stoic mask.
"You always manage to surprise me, kid."
...
The match resumed, but the spirit had shifted. Everton tried to attack, but it was the desperate flailing of a drowning man.
United's midfield was a fortress.
Every Everton attack ended with a hopeless long ball toward Rooney.
It became painful to watch.
In the final eight minutes of the half, Rooney was isolated.
The man who used to bulldoze through defenses was now being bullied by them. Time is the one defender no striker can dribble past.
In stark contrast, Everton's other youngster, Tom Davies, provided a few sparks—nimble turns, energetic runs—but he was fighting alone.
Finally, the referee brought the whistle to his lips.
PEEEP!
The first half ended.
United 2, Everton 0.