After completing the second flick over dribble, Thiago Silva had already been beaten.
Leo Lin faced the goalkeeper one on one and struck the dropping ball on the volley.
A bouncing shot.
Alisson sprang into the air like a flea, reaching out with one hand to block the shot, but he could not get there.
A bouncing ball is the hardest to judge.
The ball brushed past Alisson's palm, crossed the line, and hit the net.
The fans, who had just been staring in shock, now had their mouths open even wider.
Many instinctively grabbed their heads with both hands.
On the touchline, Hierro turned to look at Xavi. Both men stood frozen, stunned into silence.
"My God!" Derek Rae exclaimed, his voice full of disbelief.
"Unbelievable!" Gerrard echoed, equally stunned.
"This is..."
"This is Ginga!"
"Leo Lin! A Ginga style goal!"
"He's scored a Ginga style goal against Brazil!"
"I don't even know how to describe it!"
"There are no words in the world that can do this goal justice!"
"A goal like this belongs in the heavens. It could only be scored by a god, if gods played football!"
"With this goal, Leo Lin stands among them. A god level performance!"
Derek Rae delivered the highest praise of his commentary career.
Leo Lin sprinted to the sideline, pointing first to his chest, then to the ground, nodding repeatedly, full of confidence and authority.
"Leo Lin. That celebration settles every Spanish fan."
"He's telling them, as long as he's here, nothing will go wrong!"
Not many Spanish players rushed over to celebrate.
Because...
Busquets was standing there with both hands on his head, staring toward the sideline. On the bench, his close friend Iniesta mirrored him, rubbing his temples.
Asensio covered his mouth. Beside him, David Silva looked like he had turned back into a child, startled but ecstatic as he leapt toward Leo Lin and wrapped him in celebration.
Carvajal looked down at his right foot. He felt like he had just delivered the assist of the tournament.
But that assist would never win the award because of him.
Spanish fans erupted in celebration.
Even Brazilian fans began applauding Leo Lin.
This goal had completely won over those who loved the Ginga style.
After releasing his emotions, Leo Lin quickly ended his celebration and returned to his own half. There was still plenty of time left, and excessive celebration would only hurt the team.
Until the final whistle, there was no room for complacency.
Play resumed. Leo Lin's sudden brilliance, combined with Spain's sharp counterattacks, made Brazil wary, and the match settled into a tense stalemate.
The remaining minutes of the first half ticked away, and Spain headed into the locker room with a one goal lead.
During halftime, as they walked through the tunnel, Hierro overheard a reporter delivering a live segment.
"That's pure talent!"
"Lin is terrifying!"
"That goal was incredible to watch. It was pure art."
"That level of creativity. Aside from peak Pelé, I can't think of anyone who's shown it."
"He's a genius. A once in a century genius!"
Hierro smiled and called out.
"Hey, you."
The reporter turned, and the camera immediately focused on Hierro.
"A genius?"
"Let me tell you something."
"Klopp told me that when Lin was at the club, he stayed behind every day after training for an extra hour."
Hierro nodded.
"Every single day. Rain or shine."
"At first, others stayed with him. But after a week, after a month?"
"He was the only one left."
"The only one still putting in that extra hour every day."
Hierro shook his head, pride written all over his face.
He was genuinely proud of Leo Lin.
"So you think it's just talent?"
"I don't agree."
"He simply understands repetition."
"Practice again and again."
"Work again and again."
"Anyone with talent who eventually shines in front of the world must have both talent and hard work."
...
Fans were eager to know what the two head coaches would say in the locker room.
Leo Lin had no idea what was happening in Brazil's dressing room. He only knew that Hierro remained calm, giving no complex tactical instructions, just telling the team to stay composed and keep playing on the counter.
Soon, the second half began.
49th minute!
"Brazil have another great attacking chance. Neymar on the wing, facing pressure from two defenders."
"A fake shot into a cut inside. Quick two touch combination!"
"Beautiful footwork!"
"Neymar slips between Carvajal and Ramos!"
Ramos is out of position. Brazil have space in the box.
Neymar drives a low pass into the middle. Jesus hits it first time.
But he puts too much power into it and cannot find the angle. The shot goes straight down the middle, and De Gea gathers it comfortably.
De Gea immediately throws the ball out to launch a counterattack, finding Busquets.
"Busquets!"
"A long pass finds David Silva!"
"Costa is in the middle!"
"Leo Lin is at the far side!"
"Switched to Leo Lin!"
"A square pass!"
"Diego Costa is through!"
"Shot!!!"
"Goal!!!"
"Two nil!!!"
"Diego Costa doubles the lead!!!"
"Brazil have been caught out by Spain's counterattack again!"
"Both goals came from situations where Brazil had chances themselves, but they failed to take them. Spain punished them in transition!"
"This Spain is completely different. I've never seen them play such sharp counterattacking football!"
Leo Lin roared as he charged toward Diego Costa.
Costa leapt over the advertising boards and ran toward the Spanish fans to celebrate.
Far away in Spain, inside a small, unremarkable restaurant.
A customer happened to be recording video, capturing this classic counterattack.
As Diego Costa scored, Spain extended their lead again.
Cheers erupted.
He did not notice, and neither did the crowd. In the recording, a waiter wiping tables stared at the players on the screen, his body swaying unconsciously with Spain's movement.
When the goal went in, he could no longer hold back.
He covered his face and broke down in tears.
His shoulders shook along with the roar of the crowd.
It was not a harmonious scene. Everyone else was celebrating, and only he was crying.
Do you know why?
Maybe life had not been kind to him lately. He had too many tables to wipe, wanted a better job, worked hard with his devoted wife to raise their children, and still had parents to support.
He believed he should be earning enough to buy his wife flowers, get his child their favorite toy, and allow himself a moment to breathe under the weight of life.
But for now, he could not.
And so, this goal brought out a feeling he had not experienced in a very long time.
Joy.
Sometimes, that alone is enough to make a man cry.
And this.
This is soccer.
This.
This is soccer.
...
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