Whoosh!
The sound was not just the ball hitting the net; it was the collective exhalation of sixty thousand souls turning into a roar.
Countless Manchester United fans leaped from their seats, their arms flailing wildly as deafening cheers shook the foundations of Old Trafford.
To them, it felt as though a bolt of red lightning had struck the pitch.
One moment, Ling was bulldozing past Pablo Sarabia and Gabriel Mercado on the wing; the next, the ball was nestling in the back of the net courtesy of Paul Pogba's volley.
The scoreline had changed in a baffling, brilliant manner.
It was completely different from the cautious, pragmatic approach of the first leg.
This was fire. This was Manchester United.
Victory wasn't just a possibility anymore; the quarter-finals were within reach, tangible and waiting to be seized.
High in the stands, the group of Chinese tourists immersed themselves in the festive atmosphere.
Zhang Wei grabbed Li Tao's shoulder, shouting to be heard over the noise.
"This ticket price! It was absolutely worth every penny! If the Champions League Round of 16 is this thrilling, I can't even imagine what the North West Derby against Liverpool will be like!"
On the pitch, Paul Pogba was in his element.
After the ball crossed the line, he sprinted dozens of meters toward the Stretford End.
The cheers washed over him like physical waves. He slid on his knees, raising his arms high, basking in the adoration.
This was what he lived for.
He loved the feeling of being the sun around which the galaxy revolved!
Previously, Mourinho's tactical constraints had shackled him.
Playing as a deep-lying defensive midfielder required discipline, tracking back, and doing the dirty work. It left few opportunities to surge forward, let alone score spectacular volleys. That frustration was why he often resorted to showboating in midfield or making headlines with his haircuts—he needed to express himself.
But tonight, he had been unleashed.
The Manchester United players swarmed him.
"Paul! Magnificent!" Ling grabbed Pogba, patting him forcefully on the shoulder. "That finish was world-class! You read the flight perfectly!"
Pogba grinned, his teeth flashing under the floodlights.
For a player with a "bad boy" reputation fueled by media narratives, genuine praise from a teammate was essential fuel.
The reasons behind his initial departure from United years ago were complex, with his agent Mino Raiola playing a significant role, but those were old stories.
Since returning, he had tried to humble himself, but the lack of freedom had gnawed at him.
Now, with Zlatan Ibrahimović injured and Michael Carrick nearing retirement, Ling had quietly positioned himself as the bridge between the manager and the squad.
He knew that managing Pogba's ego was just as important as managing the ball. If Pogba felt valued, United played better.
If United played better, Ling's own path to glory was smoother!
"Haha, Ling, don't be modest!" Pogba laughed heartily, pointing a finger at the winger. "That cross was a dream. Your left foot is almost as good as mine now!"
"Almost," Ling winked, not engaging in the debate.
He turned to the center circle, clapping his hands to keep the focus.
On the touchline, Jose Mourinho breathed a sigh of relief.
This aggressive, heavy-metal start was not his usual style. He preferred control, structure, and risk aversion. But playing at home against a technical Spanish side was dangerous; if they played too cautiously, Sevilla might settle into a rhythm and create an "Old Trafford miracle" of their own.
So, he had gambled. He decided to crush their spirit from the first minute.
It worked.
In the opposing dugout, Vincenzo Montella looked like a man who had just woken up in a nightmare.
He stood frozen, staring at the pitch, before frantically scribbling statistics in his notebook.
"Fuck," Montella muttered, rubbing his temples. "What bad luck."
Before the match, he had meticulously studied Mourinho's tendencies.
He expected a low block. He expected United to sit deep. He had prepared his team to dominate possession and probe for gaps.
This early goal had taken a sledgehammer to his game plan.
Now, the aggregate score was 3-1 to Manchester United.
Crucially, United had two away goals from the first leg
The math was horrifying.
It meant Sevilla needed to score at least three goals at Old Trafford to advance.
This essentially sealed their fate.
Montella's mind went blank. He returned to his seat, slumping down in silence.
"That goal changes the complexion entirely," Gary Neville said on the commentary, his voice filled with relief. "Sevilla now have a mountain to climb. They don't just need a goal; they need a miracle. Mourinho has sent them out to kill the tie early, and it's worked a treat."
"It's the connection between Ling and Pogba that will worry the rest of Europe," Martin Tyler added.
"One creates the chaos, the other provides the finish. It's lethal."
The match resumed, but the dynamic had shifted irrevocably.
Sevilla tried to stick to their principles.
They launched attacks using rotations and positional switches, trying to confuse United's man-marking system.
Their wingers dropped deep to overload the midfield, desperate to regain control.
But United were ready.
They pressed aggressively, condensing the pitch. In a possession-based system, space is oxygen.
United were suffocating them.
Sevilla's passing rhythm faltered, passes going astray as red shirts swarmed them. If not for Romelu Lukaku's slightly heavy touch squandering a couple of promising counter-attacks, the scoreline could have been even uglier.
Then, in the 27th minute, the game took a turn for the comedic.
Eric Bailly, aggressive as ever, stepped out of the defensive line to dispossess Franco Vázquez.
The Ivorian center-back looked up and immediately launched a long pass toward the right flank.
It wasn't the most refined pass but Marcus Rashford wasn't giving up on it.
Because Sevilla's defensive midfielders had pushed high, their full-backs were tucked inside.
The flank was exposed. Rashford turned on the afterburners, sprinting desperately to keep the ball in play.
Sergio Escudero, the Sevilla left-back, tracked back frantically. It was a foot race. Rashford got there first, nudging the ball past him near the corner flag. He prepared to accelerate toward the box.
"He's past him..." Martin Tyler started to say.
Suddenly, Escudero, realizing he was beaten, reached out in desperation.
He grabbed the waistband of Rashford's shorts!
Riiiiip.
As Rashford surged forward, the shorts stayed behind.
The white fabric was yanked down to his knees, revealing his underwear and half of his backside to the floodlights and the cameras.
Tweeeet!
The referee blew his whistle immediately, signaling a foul and brandishing a yellow card for Escudero.
Rashford stumbled, realizing a sudden draft.
Horrified, he frantically pulled his shorts back up, his face turning a shade of crimson that matched his jersey.
He was just a nineteen-year-old kid.
The thought of having his ass broadcast in high definition to millions of people worldwide made him want to vanish into the turf.
The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in laughter!
It was the kind of low-stakes humiliation that football fans loved.
"Well," Gary Neville chuckled on the broadcast, trying to maintain composure. "That's one way to stop a winger. Escudero has literally caught him with his trousers down. A definite yellow card, but Rashford will be checking social media with one eye closed tonight."
Social media was already having a field day!
@TrollFootball: Marcus Rash-ass. 🍑 #MUNSEV
@RedDevil_DNA: Escudero trying to expose our secrets! Shocking defending! 😂
@PunditPat: Great run, shame about the moon landing.
On the pitch, Rashford angrily tightened the drawstring of his shorts, glaring at the Sevilla defender.
But his teammates weren't exactly sympathetic.
"Marcus!" Ling jogged over from the left flank, covering his mouth to hide his grin. "Do you want to become the 'Bare Butt Hero' too? You're trying to pull a Diego Costa?"
"Or a Steven Gerrard?" Nemanja Matic chimed in, jogging past. "Although usually, they wait until the locker room."
"Or Antonio Cassano!" Lukaku added, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "The boss must be having flashbacks."
"Why?" Rashford asked, still flushed. "Are they... close? No way, the boss has a wife and kids!"
Matic burst out laughing. "No, you idiot! It was the 2009 season. The Coppa Italia semi-finals. Inter Milan got knocked out by Sampdoria. Cassano was so excited he stripped down to his underwear on the pitch, ran up to Mourinho, and stuck his ass right in the air to taunt him!"
"No way," Ling laughed. "He actually did that?"
"Hahaha! Ask him at halftime!" Matic roared.
The group of United players burst into laughter, simultaneously turning their heads to look at the technical area.
Mourinho, standing on the sideline with his arms crossed, noticed five of his players looking at him and laughing.
He frowned, checking his clothes. "What's wrong? Is my zipper down?"
"Nothing, Boss!" Ling shouted back, cupping his hands. "We are just praising your tactical genius!"
Mourinho narrowed his eyes suspiciously but waved them back to position.
If he knew they were gossiping about Antonio Cassano's backside and his past humiliations, the "hairdryer treatment" at halftime would have been legendary.
Mourinho valued focus above all else.
"Let's keep that our little secret," Ling whispered to the group. "If he finds out, we are running laps tomorrow."
Rashford, finally composing himself, muttered under his breath, "Next time, I'm wearing sliding shorts. Two pairs."