Chapter One: Certain Victory

October 28, 1989.

Xinjiang.

Four years had passed, and Long Yuyun now seemed much more mature than he had been back then—after all, he was approaching thirty. His epaulettes had changed from those of a lieutenant to a major. Life in Xinjiang was certainly harsher than in the Beijing Military District, but at least promotions came more quickly here. Besides, Long Yuyun was an exceptional soldier.

In this vast and sparsely populated land, living quarters were always spacious. As a major, Long Yuyun had a rather large house within the military compound. It was simply furnished, but there was a distinct elegance to its arrangement—a testament, of course, to the lady of the house.

Cradling an infant still swaddled in his arms, Long Yuyun’s face was radiant with affection. He gently teased the baby’s cheek and spoke softly, “Son, today you’re going to watch the match with your father… Let’s see our national team make it to the World Cup!”

“You know, it’s one thing for you to be obsessed with football, but do you really have to bring our son into it too?” chided a female officer beside him, giving him a reproachful look. “Haven’t you suffered enough because of football? If things hadn’t turned out the way they did back then, you’d probably still be in the Beijing Military District.”

Long Yuyun laughed. “If I hadn’t come to Xinjiang, how would I have met you? And then there’d be no son for us to dote on.”

Yin Xiuping, deputy leader of the medical unit of the Xinjiang Agricultural Corps—and Long Yuyun’s wife—blushed and shot him a glare. “Do you really think we’ll win today? China’s already lost two matches.”

“The top two teams qualify. With South Korea already through, the UAE is still a point behind us. If we win today, we advance! There’s no way Qatar can match us,” Long Yuyun declared with confidence. “Besides, our son’s name means ‘Victory’—how could we not win?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t end like the match against the UAE, when two goals slipped in during the last three minutes,” Yin Xiuping muttered, then continued, “And you, giving our son such an obvious name. ‘Victory’—isn’t that a bit too blunt?”

Long Yuyun beamed. “It’s a perfect name. Don’t forget, as soon as I named him, China won its first match against Saudi Arabia and avenged the defeat from 1981!”

“Just look at you,” Yin Xiuping said, half exasperated, half amused. She’d long since grown used to her husband’s transformation whenever football was involved—his usual calm, steely military composure melted away. Still, Long Yuyun was an outstanding officer and a wonderful husband. Aside from smoking, the occasional drink, and his passion for football, he had no bad habits at all. For a soldier and a man, smoking was hardly a serious vice, and he rarely drank. Watching football was just a hobby—if an admittedly fervent one.

“Great shot!”

Long Yuyun leapt from the sofa, shouting in excitement. He snatched a beer from the table, flicked off the cap, and drank half the bottle in one go.

On the television, a group of Chinese players were embracing each other in jubilation. It was the sixty-seventh minute of the match, and after relentless attack, Ma Lin from Liaoning had finally scored. China led Qatar one-nil!

If this score held until the end, China would advance to Italy as the Asian runner-up!

“Careful, don’t frighten the baby!” Yin Xiuping said, cradling their child with a hint of annoyance.

Long Yuyun, his face flushed with excitement, turned and played with his son. “Nonsense—look at our little Victory, he’s just as happy!”

Indeed, the little one, not even a year old, was giggling with his mouth wide open, waving his tiny arms from within his swaddling clothes.

“He’s just like you,” Yin Xiuping said with a laugh.

“Of course—he’s my son!” Long Yuyun replied proudly.

The joyful atmosphere lasted another twenty minutes—neither Long Yuyun nor football fans across China sensed that the third nightmare on China’s road to the World Cup was about to unfold. The first two nightmares had been Saudi Arabia’s infamous lack of effort after China nearly qualified, and the “May Nineteenth Incident.”

The third nightmare had a name: “The Black Three Minutes.”

When Qatar equalized in the eighty-ninth minute, every Chinese fan’s mouth fell open in shock. It was unbelievable—how could China let their opponents draw level at such a crucial moment?

A draw meant China would only finish third behind South Korea and the UAE, once again just one step from the World Cup finals.

Yet, in that moment, there was still a flicker of hope in Chinese hearts. After all, three minutes of stoppage time remained—China still had a chance to retake the lead.

On the field, the Chinese players surged forward in waves, abandoning defense entirely; everyone pressed into the opponent’s half. But such an attack was pure folly.

Qatar’s swift counterattack exploited the gaping holes in China’s defense; in the second minute of stoppage time, they scored again, turning the match on its head—two to one!

Another black three minutes! Just like against the UAE, China conceded two goals in three minutes, letting victory slip from their grasp.

No one ran anymore. Everyone knew that, by this point, even if the world’s best—Maradona, Platini, Zico, Matthäus—were all put on the field for China, they couldn’t score two goals in the remaining minute.

Chinese fans in the stands in Kuala Lumpur fell silent; those watching on television at home were silent too.

Long Yuyun’s teeth ground audibly, his eyes bloodshot, his hand clenched tightly around the beer bottle. Were it not for his wife and their infant son—were it not for the last shred of reason, fearing he might frighten them—he would have smashed the bottle against the television.

Yin Xiuping watched him with concern. In that small room, two out of three people were suffering.

Only little Long Victory played on, carefree and oblivious.

At length, Long Yuyun finally unclenched his hand and let out a helpless sigh.

“Victory… but there was no victory after all…” he said, a bitter smile on his lips.