Football: He suffered a broken leg at the start of the game, but partnered with Haaland!

Sun Yang decisively locked his phone.

No matter how much the forum trolls raged or how much the German media mocked him, he didn't bother to engage with those glaring words like "glass man" or "a bad move by the higher-ups."

In the brutal world of professional football, you can't win even a single point by typing on a keyboard.

Only a goal can shut them up, and an assist can slap them in the face.

In the locker room, Haaland was still loudly cursing and swearing.

"Bro, I really don't understand those idiots out there. If they had even glanced at the training ground during those few kicks you fed me today, they would have bitten their tongues off and chewed them to pieces!"

Sancho leaned against the wardrobe, his fingers still swiping across the screen.

"Don't overestimate the level of online trolls. Even if they see it, they'll just say Erling's positioning is like a god of war, and it has absolutely nothing to do with being a passer."

Haaland turned his head: "Jadon, can't you say something that's pleasant to hear?"

"Of course you can," Sancho shrugged cheekily. "For example, your volley today was pretty good, only a tiny bit worse than my shot."

"Get lost!"

Sun Yang ignored the banter between the two clowns and carefully stuffed the shin guards into his backpack.

On the shin guard, the Monkey King, hand-painted by his father Sun Wu, was slightly soaked with sweat, making the red and black patterns appear even more profound.

He carefully wiped away the sweat with a towel.

Seeing him packing his things, Haaland immediately picked up his backpack and came over.

"Sun, come on, I'll drive you home. We need to practice tactics more tomorrow, don't burn yourself out today."

Sun Yang zipped up his backpack, but didn't put it on.

"You guys go ahead, I'll stay a little longer."

Sancho raised an eyebrow upon hearing this, his tone tinged with surprise: "Don't tell me you're going to do extra training?"

"Just half an hour," Sun Yang said calmly.

Haaland shook his big head like a rattle-drum: "Damn half an hour! I'm sick of hearing that. You guys who are always going to take two hours or more."

Sun Yang couldn't help but laugh out loud: "You already know, why are you asking?"

Sancho, unusually serious, abandoned his usual playful demeanor and spoke in a very earnest tone.

"Brother, I know you're burning with anger and want to slap those media outlets in the face. But if you actually make the roster this weekend, and you train too hard tonight and exhaust yourself, the old man will definitely kick you off the roster without hesitation."

Sun Yang met Sancho's gaze.

"If I don't practice, I'll have no chance."

Haaland still wanted to persuade him.

Sun Yang reached out and patted the big guy's arm hard: "Don't worry. I don't practice sprints or high-intensity confrontations. I just work on ball control, half-turns, two-touch passing, and finding my feel for long-range shots."

Sancho sighed helplessly, "Brother, you call this only practicing a little bit?"

"This is the most basic point for me."

Haaland roughly shoved the large container of protein powder into his bag, muttering a Norwegian curse under his breath.

"Okay, you can keep rolling. But whatever you do, don't practice until the wee hours of the morning! I don't want to spend the whole weekend waiting for you to go on stage, only to have you run a couple of steps and then be panting and holding your knees."

Sun Yang nodded emphatically: "Just focus on getting into a one-on-one position."

Haaland grinned, extending his massive fist: "You're in charge of getting that damn ball to my feet!"

Their fists collided forcefully in mid-air.

Sancho quickly moved closer and forced his fist between the two men.

"Hehehe! And me too! Don't forget the weak-side winger! If you two dare to just play your own little cliques on the field, I'm definitely going to complain in training about you ostracizing your teammates!"

Sun Yang looked at him with a half-smile: "Then please make sure you don't go off-center when you're positioning yourself, Uncle Sang Qiao."

Xiao Heizi immediately got angry: "I was offside? Dude, that's called 'line-jumping art,' you know?!"

Haaland added mercilessly, "It's a pity that linesmen often don't understand your abstract art."

The three young men pushed and shoved each other, exchanging a few words of laughter and insults.

After Haaland and Sancho left, the Blakel training ground gradually became empty.

One by one, the teammates' supercars drove away from the parking lot, the roar of their engines gradually fading into the night.

Sun Yang changed into a brand new, dry training uniform and turned to step back onto the grass.

The base sheds its daytime hustle and bustle after nightfall.

Two towering searchlights illuminated half of the training field as bright as day, and the freshly mowed turf exuded a pleasant grassy scent.

The stadium manager, Old Hans, strolled over with a large bunch of keys in his hand, and froze on the spot when he saw Sun Yang.

"Sun? Are you sure you want to keep messing around? I'm about to lock the equipment room door."

Sun Yang responded politely in fluent German: "Mr. Hans, could you make an exception for me? Just lend me ten balls, two small goalposts, and a few goalposts."

Old Hans looked the black-haired oriental boy up and down suspiciously.

"You can borrow it, but don't shovel the turf bare! Last week, those energetic U19 kids kicked the edge of the penalty area into a hole, and the gardening team cursed them for three whole days."

Sun Yang grinned and said, "Don't worry, I promise I'll only torture the football tonight and treat the grass very well."

Old Hans grumbled a couple of times, then turned around and went to open the door to the equipment room.

Ten standard balls, two half-height goalposts, six striking orange marker plates, plus a heavy moving wall.

Sun Yang placed the marker plate precisely on the right side of the court.

This is precisely the "death zone" that head coach Favre circled in red on the tactics board that afternoon.

He received the ball on his right side.

You must never touch the ball more than twice!

The first option is to make a long pass to Sancho, who is making a run down the weak side.

The second option is to use a surgical approach to find Haaland, who is making forward runs.

There is no third option.

This is not just a tactical requirement; it is his only ticket to the Westfalenstadion.

Sun Yang took a deep breath and began to fight hard to stop the ball.

The ball bounced off the inside of his foot and landed half a meter in front of him.

No! It's too far away.

In the Bundesliga, those ruthless defensive midfielders can rush up and take the ball and the player away in half a second.

Come again!

The ball rested close to his feet on the grass, but his body was completely turned away from the direction of the attack.

No way! Against a defensive veteran like Hummels, if he sees you with your back to the goal and gets the ball, he'll just press on and bombard you with his body, leaving you no chance to turn around.

continue!

Sun Yang kicked the ball forcefully towards the rebound wall.

The moment the ball bounced, he feinted with his left shoulder with remarkable realism, and then deftly controlled the ball with the outside of his right foot, his entire body completing a half-turn as if lubricated.

He then used his left foot to push the ball towards the far goal, which was forty meters away.

boom!

The ball went precisely into the goal frame.

He made no gesture of celebration, but instead lowered his head and silently ran over to pick up the next ball.

Once, ten times, fifty times.

He treated the tedious movements as a lifeline, repeatedly chewing and refining them.

A long pass with the instep of the right foot to the far end.

The left foot stops and then moves forward to complete the return pass.

Before receiving the ball with your back to the goal, forcefully use your back muscles to block the virtual defender.

He struggled to drag the heavy, moving human wall behind him, forcing himself to adapt to the lingering sense of oppression.

The first time, the space was blocked by the dummy, and the rhythm of the ball was half a beat slower.

The second time, in an attempt to save time, the pass was too flat, making it easy to intercept.

The third attempt lacked power, and the ball speed was insufficient to tear apart the defense.

Sun Yang, one hand on his knee, gasped for breath, sweat dripping from his chin onto the grass.

My mind was filled with Favre's cold warning, like a demonic voice piercing my brain.

You must never touch the ball more than twice!

These keyboard warriors are right; my current physical condition is indeed not up to the standard of a Bundesliga starter.

But he must use his brain to play football and use extreme speed to compensate for his weakness in physical confrontations.

He placed the ball back next to the marker.

Before catching the ball, look back to observe.

Observe the position of the winger on the weak side, observe Haaland's starting point, and observe the gaps in the opponent's defensive midfielders' positioning.

Then receive the ball.

The field was empty at this moment, but in Sun Yang's bloodshot eyes, twenty burly men had appeared out of thin air.

Augsburg, a relegation-threatened team, will most likely park the bus, completely locking down the middle.

If Dortmund gets bogged down in a grueling battle, Haaland will definitely have two burly men hanging around him, and Sancho will also be tackled with flying tackles.

The first ball you take when you come on as a substitute must be like a scalpel, directly dissecting the opponent's first line of defense.

We must not be slow! Even a second's hesitation can turn into disaster.

If you want to survive in the Bundesliga, don't even think about taking that extra step just to look cool.

"Again!"

Bang! The ball hit the barrier and bounced back.

Bang! The inside of his right foot traced an exaggerated arc as he hurtled straight toward the small door.

Bang! This time it grazed the goalpost and missed by half a meter.

Sun Yang cursed under his breath in frustration, rubbed his sore thigh muscles, ran over quickly, retrieved the ball, and repositioned it.

At this time, on the third floor of the office building.

The lights in the head coach's office were still glaringly bright.

Favre sat with his arms crossed in a leather chair, his desk covered with reports of Augsburg’s last three matches.

Assistant coach Terzić, holding a tactical pen, paused the video on the big screen on Augsburg's high press.

"Boss, look, this is the same 'cheap' tactic they use against strong teams. Their forwards cut off the back passes from the number six position like mad dogs, forcing us down the flanks into dead ends. As long as we can't get past the right flank, we can only watch the huge gap on the left and can't attack it."

Favre rubbed his temples in frustration.

"I understand the tactics. The key issue now is, who can safely select the ball and get it to the weak side under their meat grinder-like high pressure?"

Terzic opened his mouth, but couldn't give an answer immediately.

Because they all have a clear understanding of the situation.

Brandt has a knack for passing, but he tends to overthink things in crucial moments, which can easily cause him to miss opportunities.

Dahud has exquisite footwork, but once he faces physical contact, he loses all rhythm.

Veteran Hummels' long passes are certainly accurate, but as a center-back, his position is too far back, and the long passes take too long to create a sudden, deadly attack.

That new Chinese-American kid can pass on his knowledge.

But he was a green newcomer who didn't even know which way the door to the professional league was open! That was the biggest time bomb.

Favre let out a long breath, stood up, and walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window.

He just wanted to get some fresh air.

But the moment his gaze fell, his eyes widened slightly as he saw a lone figure under the halfway spotlight, tirelessly running back and forth.

It's Sun Yang.

The ball is met at the right side of the rib area.

A smooth half-turn.

Immediately following this, he made a very subtle second low-angle drive.

The ball darted into the far end of the goal with incredible precision, as if it had eyes.

After doing that, the kid ran over and retrieved the ball, this time switching to a powerful through ball behind the opponent's center-back.

Terzic, holding a coffee cup, also approached the window.

"Damn it, that kid's still here?"

Favre stood with his hands behind his back, saying nothing, his gaze fixed intently on the green field below.

Terzic observed for a full two minutes, then suddenly burst out laughing.

"Boss, did you see that? This kid is sticking to those two passing lines you drew on the whiteboard this afternoon. He even placed the markers exactly the same way."

"I'm not blind yet." Favre's lips curled up slightly involuntarily.

"Should I go downstairs and stop him? We have scrimmage practice tomorrow."

Favre remained silent for a long five seconds, then shook his head.

"Ignore him."

Terčić turned his head in surprise to look at the head coach who usually emphasized scientific training.

Favre had already turned around, picked up the internal phone on the table, and dialed the logistics duty room directly.

"Hans, keep the lights on at the training ground. Also, tell the recovery room to have someone stay tonight and prepare an ice bath and stretching mats. Oh, and have the kitchen prepare a high-protein, low-fat supper for him right away."

Old Hans on the other end of the phone was clearly stunned by this series of instructions, muttering as he asked if he was going to arrange overtime for some big-name star.

Favre put down the tactics board, his tone revealing an unusually decisiveness.

"This isn't overtime. This is an investment."