Chapter Thirteen: Some Are Always Disappointed, Some Always Find Satisfaction

Let us revisit the events that just unfolded. Perhaps Karl was moved by Momo’s words, or maybe the football struck him squarely on the head—whatever the reason, for the first time, he actively contested a header, and, surrounded by Bielefeld’s Dutch central defender commander, number 3, Van de Ven, and a fullback, he succeeded in knocking the ball away.

Where the ball landed, number 37, Momo, was still searching for space. While every other player had a mark, Momo became the one overlooked. As mentioned before, it was rare to see Momo dribbling or running idly, but whenever you did spot him, he was invariably in a perfect pocket of space.

Receiving the ball uncontested, Momo found handling it at his feet not difficult, but Bielefeld’s defensive recovery was swift—the thirteen previous tumbles had proven this well enough.

Every player has a preferred way to handle or carry the ball—back to goal, cutting inside, and so on. Momo’s method was unique: in a one-on-one situation, he would push the ball forward, gambling that the distance favored his odds, and challenge his opponent to a fair duel.

The direct consequence of this approach is that the goalkeeper often chooses to charge out when Momo is processing the ball, since the football rolls toward the keeper’s direction.

This is a peculiar confrontation in football, almost like issuing a challenge. It’s reminiscent of the gunslinger duels of the American West—ten paces, turn, and fire—or the gladiatorial contests of ancient Rome, two men facing off in fair combat.

Momo relied on his explosive speed, rated at fifteen, while the goalkeeper depended on the ball rolling toward him and the advantage of using his hands.

Clearly, this time, Momo made a miscalculation.

Bielefeld’s goalkeeper, number 22, Ellhoff, proved surprisingly quick—no slower than Momo. If nothing changed, Momo would squander a golden opportunity, something he could not accept.

Ellhoff and Momo, like American football players, sprinted directly at each other. Many strikers would opt out of such a fifty-fifty scenario, fearing injury.

But Momo’s temperament was different. Though he stood only one-seventy in height and seemed unassuming, beneath this modest exterior beat a courageous, fearless heart.

Momo chose to go to ground and touch the ball—an extremely dangerous move, especially against Ellhoff’s full assault. If Ellhoff failed to pull up, Momo risked being trampled; if unlucky, he could suffer irreversible harm if certain vital areas were trodden.

It was 2002; Manuel Neuer was still wandering in some youth academy, and Oliver Kahn had yet to deliver his legendary World Cup performance in Korea and Japan.

It was 2002; the Italian target-man style still prevailed, goalkeepers were mostly traditional, and guarding the box was the cardinal rule.

Yet Momo consistently encountered keepers with Neuer's heart, yet who ultimately played like Wang Dalei on an off day. Ellhoff was perhaps a typical Wang Dalei, but he could not stop Momo’s all-out strike.

A sharp pain shot through, but Momo felt grateful to Ellhoff: after Momo reached the ball first, Ellhoff slowed, turned sideways, and fell, sparing Momo from serious injury. To put it plainly, Momo didn't need to leave the field.

“Congratulations, you scored,” Ellhoff said, calm and natural. Of course, this composure was possible only because his team had already netted three goals; otherwise, he wouldn’t be so philosophical. For a rival with such fighting spirit, respect was warranted.

“What do you want?” Karl ran over from nearby, crashing into Ellhoff. At first glance, Karl seemed fierce, but a closer look at his face revealed the bravado of a neighborhood boy trying to act tough.

“Hey, Karl, calm down, calm down,” Momo said, taking Karl’s hand and easily pulling him away from Ellhoff, barely exerting any force.

“Alright! Since that's settled, I’ll let it go. If Momo hadn’t pulled me away, I’d have shown you what’s what,” Karl muttered, though Momo had already let go.

“Beautiful! That was a great goal! It looks like Momo was knocked down by Ellhoff, but don’t worry—Ellhoff is fine, and our Momo certainly showed restraint,” Chen Nu’s commentary was tinged with irony. In his mind, Momo’s stunning goal should spark interest among Chinese fans. The goal itself might not be crucial, but Momo’s fierce determination and bravery—his reckless courage—made people worry and feel inspired.

Whatever the case, before the first half ended, Karl of Hannover 96 assisted and Momo scored, pulling one back. In the remaining minutes, neither side found a good opportunity, and the match wound down to halftime.

“In the second half, we must attack; defending stubbornly will not bring victory.”

To be honest, Momo found himself seeing Peter Neururer in a new light. Previously, he’d considered Neururer a foul-mouthed, talentless coach, useless to the players, but now he saw that there was something to be valued.

“Karl, in the second half, reduce your movement. No need to drop back—just stand in Bielefeld’s defensive half, be a pillar, and play balls to Momo.”

Karl seemed a bit awkward, clearly unaccustomed to Neururer’s rare gentleness. In fact, it was a stroke of luck the coach was not cursing him, so Karl nodded vigorously, his face flushed with excitement.

Momo quietly gave Karl a thumbs-up; Karl, perhaps too thrilled, took a moment to respond.

“Jan Simak, you have no defensive duties. Your sole task is to press forward, disrupt their back line, and pass to Karl whenever possible.”

Neururer pointed at Jan Simak, signaling great trust. Aside from not being allowed to shoot, Simak was given free rein.

“Link and Zuraw, I want you two aligned, setting up an offside trap. I want you to be the firmest wall.”

Time passed swiftly, especially in a tense atmosphere—it always felt insufficient. Fifteen minutes waiting for a bus seemed like fifteen years; fifteen minutes gaming felt like fifteen seconds. Everyone got up and prepared to warm up at Alm Stadium, but at that moment, Neururer pulled Momo aside.

“Keep searching for space, seize your moment, and score the winning goal. Understand?”

Momo had to admit, he liked this arrangement. His first love was football; second was freedom. With his physique, defending Bielefeld’s towering players would only be asking for trouble.

“Of course, coach. I crave victory; I’ll do my best to equalize.”

Momo’s voice carried a note of excitement. To Neururer, Momo seemed a consummate professional, but in truth, Momo simply loved football; playing was all he needed.

The whistle for the second half sounded quickly. Though he hated to admit it, Hannover 96 had kicked off the first half, only to concede three goals. Now it was Bielefeld’s turn to start—could Hannover 96 return the favor?

This was merely Momo’s imagination. In reality, the situation offered Hannover 96 little advantage, never mind scoring.

Karl stood in Bielefeld’s defensive half like a simpleton; Jan Simak spent the entire match harassed by number 44, Borges. If not for defenders Link and Zuraw performing admirably, Hannover 96 might have conceded again.

As for Momo? With scant possession, he simply searched for spaces.

“Great opportunity! In the 62nd minute, Hannover 96’s defender Link cleared with a long boot. He’s performed far better this half, making several key defensive plays and now launching a rapid counterattack.”

The ball sped from Hannover 96’s defensive half into Bielefeld’s. Jan Simak received it, but under the relentless attention of Borges, Simak immediately lofted it toward Karl.

Simak was a bit frustrated; he couldn’t understand why Borges, a central midfielder, was constantly pestering him, a winger.

Now Karl was only marked by a Bielefeld fullback, barely 188 centimeters tall, and easily headed the ball to Momo.

“Great pass! Karl’s header, Momo receives—oh, careful! What a pity! Van de Ven shadowed Momo throughout, truly deserving his reputation as Bielefeld’s defensive commander—his interception was decisive.”

Chen Nu sighed, and Van de Ven launched a powerful kick, sending the ball back to Hannover 96’s half. Both teams favored rapid midfield transitions.

Bielefeld’s number 5, Kauf, collected the ball, using his robust physique to maintain control. Hannover 96’s midfielders were helpless. Meanwhile, Jan Simak and Borges were locked in a mutual struggle—once Borges harassed Simak, now Simak harassed Borges.

“Poetic justice! Simak and Borges have squared off! Bielefeld loses a passing option; number 23 striker Wisik drops back, Kauf nutmegs a pass.”

Number 23 Wisik sprinted down the flank toward the box, but defenders Link and Zuraw kept their eyes fixed on number 10 striker Vichniarek. Unbothered, Vichniarek smiled and raised his hand for the ball.

“Bielefeld’s star striker Vichniarek is truly bold—calling for the ball in such circumstances! Now it’s up to Wisik—does he trust Vichniarek? He does! He passes!”

Link and Zuraw’s faces darkened. Calling for the ball right in their faces? Was this a slight? Silently, the two resolved to teach Vichniarek a lesson.

The ball arrived; just as they moved in, Vichniarek returned it, and now Wisik faced a fullback marking him. Both rushed the ball, Link and Zuraw’s attention drawn to them.

Ultimately, Wisik was faster—he touched the ball, sending it toward goal. Was it a shot? Link and Zuraw wondered, and at that moment, they saw a blue and white figure.

Number 10, Vichniarek! When did he get there? Wasn’t he offside? Link and Zuraw’s faces changed, and all around Alm Stadium, excitement erupted.

“A hat trick? Is Vichniarek about to net a hat trick? My God, it’s magnificent. I can hardly describe that move.”

Vichniarek’s eyes gleamed with a sharp light, fixed intently on the goal. The Hannover 96 keeper was out of his field of vision—Vichniarek felt in top form, ready to wear the hat.

A song began, accompanying Vichniarek as he surged into the box—blue and white shirt, black shorts, white socks. Wearing Bielefeld’s home colors, Vichniarek was about to claim his hat trick. It was an unquestionable breakaway. Unquestionable.

This day had finally come again.

We prepare for every match.

That is why we are all here.

Whether you win or lose.

No matter what happens.

We always believe you are the best.

Now is the time to fight.

It’s time to walk the path we must take.

Don’t give up—let us see the future.

You already have the world’s greatest fans.

Our hearts beat only for you, Bielefeld.

Through our joint efforts, we have achieved so much.

Such achievements are not easily won.

With your strength, soon we will reach the summit together.

Now is the time. It’s time to walk the path we must take.

Don’t give up—let us see the future.

You already have the world’s greatest fans.

Our hearts beat only for you, Bielefeld.

We are the world’s greatest fans.

Our hearts beat only for you, Bielefeld.

We are the world’s greatest fans.

Our hearts beat only for you, Bielefeld.

There will always be those disappointed, and those satisfied. Amid the singing of Bielefeld’s supporters, Vichniarek struck in the box. Chen Nu’s voice lingered in the commentary booth, and the songs at Alm Stadium flowed endlessly—all for their hero, Vichniarek.