Chapter Two: Staying Out Is Harder Than Getting In

A perfect, powerful volley! That was what Mo Mo thought just before he fell to the ground. He believed that shot should have found the net. Yet now, his thigh throbbed with pain, likely a result of having overexerted himself. All around him, the noise of the crowd surged—jeers and laughter, a cacophony that made Mo Mo lift his head and look toward the goal. Incredibly, the ball was nowhere to be seen inside it.

Then the Oberhausen goalkeeper walked over, ruffled Mo Mo’s hair, and Mo Mo, bewildered, scanned the field until he finally spotted the ball in a distant corner.

Damn! How could it not have gone in? His toes were still aching from the impact. He tried to stand, only to realize his right leg had been strained from overuse—he must have pulled it. Helpless, he sat back down on the turf.

“Oh, what a pity! This young player has missed the target entirely! It’s harder to miss than to score from there! What? A Chinese player? That explains it.” The commentator’s tone was tinged with regret, as if being a Chinese footballer was a misfortune. Peter Neururer’s face was dark with displeasure. Thank heavens for Freddy Bobic—if that boy had become a regular starter, Hannover 96 would have been finished.

“Wait, it looks like the Chinese player is still down—he’s hurt! Really injured! Seems he pulled a muscle from swinging his leg too hard. The team’s already signaling for a substitution.” The commentator sounded almost gleeful at the misfortune. Peter Neururer, however, looked troubled. Freddy Bobic was already thirty-one, not in the best shape—otherwise, he wouldn’t have been warming the bench at Dortmund or coming to Hannover 96. He had come here to prove he wasn’t too old, that he could still play.

Kalmond’s previous injury hadn’t fully healed, and now, after this new setback, the team doctor informed Neururer that it would be at least three weeks before he could play again. Mo Mo’s own injury, caused by insufficient warmup, would heal in three days at most.

Mo Mo was dejected. In his past life, he had always lamented players missing open goals, and now, in his own first official match, he had delivered a perfect demonstration of just that.

It seemed Peter Neururer had already given up on Mo Mo, actively seeking a new striker, while Freddy Bobic was being hailed as a miracle worker by the German press, called the savior of Hannover 96.

Within the team, Mo Mo now found himself marginalized—not just because he was young and had little in common with the older players, but because they resented his exuberant fist-pumping after a teammate’s injury.

But at the moment, Mo Mo had no time to dwell on these things. He was groping in the dark, like a blind man crossing a river by feeling for stones. There was so much to improve. First and foremost, his technique. It was all too strange—he had inexplicably returned to the past, as if born for football. Yes, for football.

No one paid him any mind, which suited Mo Mo. He busied himself with purposeless running, juggling, training, doing what he thought was right. Occasionally, he’d glance at his stats: his physique had reached 10, stamina 9—enough to give him motivation.

But his shooting was only a 4. Just 4. He would take a run-up, try shot after shot, but the ball was like a mischievous child—uncontrollable, flying left, right, high, low, missing wildly. What was going wrong? His toes hurt, yet he still couldn’t figure out the trick.

“Why do you always shoot with your toes?”

Mo Mo turned his head, puzzled. Wasn’t shooting just kicking the ball as hard as you could? Was there really something to learn?

“You could try using the inside of your foot, or the outside.”

Mo Mo turned fully now, thoughtful, and saw that the speaker was Freddy Bobic.

Mo Mo was surprised—Freddy Bobic was known for his aloofness and found it hard to get along with others, which had created friction with many coaches, including Sammer, and affected his career. Why he would offer Mo Mo advice was a mystery.

But seeing Mo Mo’s thoughtful expression, Bobic didn’t say much more. He walked to a waiting ball and fired it straight into the net. Bobic was famous for his sharp headers and precise, ruthless finishing—his shot was like a bullet, something Mo Mo could only dream of matching.

“Shooting takes dedicated practice. It’s not as simple as you think.”

Mo Mo always felt like a child when it came to football. Seeing his wide-eyed stare, Bobic grew more interested.

“This is an instep shot—powerful, mostly used for turning shots. When the ball is slightly ahead or to the side, you can use the instep to shoot. It lets you change the angle at the last moment; if you cut in diagonally, the keeper will move to cover the near post, so with a half-turn, you can shoot directly into the far corner.

“The outside of the foot delivers shots that are sharp and sudden, highly deceptive. You can shoot from all kinds of angles—straight on, from a tight angle, from the side, even volleys. You can make both straight and curving shots.

“The instep arch gives high accuracy but less power, best for close-range shots or penalty kicks.

“The laces provide both power and accuracy and are the most commonly used. Shooting with the toes, as you always do, is useful only in scrambles in the box when there’s no time to swing your leg—a quick poke can catch the keeper off guard.”

With each explanation, Bobic demonstrated a shot. When he finally tried a toe-poke, even he missed wildly. He shrugged helplessly.

“See? Toe-poke shots are very inaccurate. Even I can’t reliably score with them.”

Whether Bobic truly couldn’t control a toe-poke didn’t matter—what struck Mo Mo was Bobic’s attitude. He looked at Bobic and asked, “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me all this?”

Bobic gazed at him for a moment, then turned away, his voice tinged with melancholy. “Maybe because you and I share the same stubbornness.”

Thirty-one years old and unwilling to accept decline, Freddy Bobic still wanted to play, to be the undisputed starter, to prove to those who doubted him that he, Freddy Bobic, was a striker—the best.

Famed for his fierce headers, deadly finishing, keen sense in front of goal, and his imposing yet swift physique, Bobic was a rare all-round striker.

His glory days were in 1995 and 1996 at Stuttgart, where, alongside Balakov and Elber, he formed the Bundesliga’s most fearsome “Three Carriages.” Wherever they went, they struck terror into opponents. At the time, Stuttgart’s “Three Carriages” were as renowned as Dortmund’s current golden triangle of Rosicky, Amoroso, and Koller.

They propelled a mediocre Stuttgart side to the league’s summit and made their mark in Europe. All three saw their reputations and market values soar; Bobic, particularly, became a star after winning the top scorer title, earning a call-up to the German national team.

It was a pity that in the 1996 European Championship, though Bobic didn’t play much, he still scored 19 brilliant goals for Germany. Had he maintained that form, he would have been the national side’s undisputed starter.

But injuries took their toll, and he could only watch as Bierhoff, barely even a substitute, became a star overnight.

Bayern Munich, the Bundesliga giant, was notorious for snapping up any player or coach it deemed a threat. In 1997, after Bayern bought Elber for a fortune, the “Three Carriages” disbanded. Stuttgart brought in the Nigerian star Akpoborie to replace Elber, but he fell far short. Balakov was aging, and the club’s strength waned.

At that time, Stuttgart hired the eccentric old coach Schafer (later Cameroon’s coach at the 2002 World Cup). His personality clashed with Bobic’s, and Bobic’s name vanished from the starting lineup—most of his time wasted on the bench.

He never returned to the national team and missed the 1998 World Cup. Schafer’s stubbornness led to poor results, and both he and Bobic were forced out. Bobic then joined Dortmund for a new adventure.

At the time, young coach Skibbe was building the most expensive squad in Bundesliga history, and Bobic was a key recruit. In the summer of 1999, he joined Dortmund for 12 million marks, alongside Worns, Evanilson, Reine, and Ikpeba.

But football is unpredictable. Bobic started well, Dortmund’s attack flourished, but soon the team slumped, nearly relegated.

Skibbe was sacked after a humiliating Champions League exit and poor league results. Veteran Lattek and young Sammer took over as caretakers and barely kept the club up.

In the following season, Sammer took full charge and rebuilt the team as he saw fit, bringing in Heinrich from Italy and Oliseh from Juventus. With the arrival of Rosicky, Koller, and Amoroso, Bobic was relegated to the bench without a chance to compete. Later, Everton’s arrival meant he lost all hope of playing time, sharing the bench with Sorensen, Heinrich, and Reine.

Desperate to keep playing, Bobic went on loan to Bolton in the Premier League, where he flourished and once scored four goals in a game, playing a key role in their survival.

But he declined Bolton’s offer and chose to return to Germany, where Peter Neururer found him and invited him to join Hannover 96.

Like Mo Mo, Bobic just wanted to play football—they loved the game for its own sake. Their shared sense of isolation drew Bobic’s attention—perhaps it was the attraction of kindred spirits.

Both joined Hannover 96 in January 2002. Sadly, one became a sensation, fulfilling his ambitions, while the other, in his only appearance, became a laughingstock.

There are thirty-four rounds in Bundesliga 2, and Hannover 96 were already a powerhouse by round twenty-eight. On March 30, 2002, Mo Mo was on the bench, Bobic started, and Hannover thrashed Schweinfurt 6–0. Bobic scored four, another teammate scored twice—Mo Mo didn’t care who, just as they didn’t care about him.

But misfortune struck when Bobic injured his leg while sliding in celebration. He would miss the next away game against Saarbrücken, who were nineteenth in the league. By then, Hannover 96 had scored 80 goals, leading Bundesliga 2 (they would finish with 93 and earn promotion to the Bundesliga). Now, Mo Mo’s opportunity had come.

“You’ll be playing in the next match,” said Peter Neururer. He rarely spoke to Mo Mo, but this was one of the few times he did. Mo Mo nodded, his eyes burning with fighting spirit. Neururer continued, “I’ve put you on the transfer list. Make the most of this chance—maybe you can move to a better club.”

Mo Mo’s face froze. He turned to look at Neururer, his gaze calm as he spoke. He was certain that, in his past life, he had never spoken so bluntly.

“One day, you’ll regret the choice you made today. I’m sure of it.”

Neururer thought the Chinese boy was mad. Regret? He already regretted bringing him to Hannover 96. With a goal machine like Bobic, why would he care about any other striker?

“Perhaps. Anything else? If not, go and prepare.”

Neururer sounded dismissive. Hannover 96 were firmly top of the table, six points ahead of Bielefeld, with Mainz and Bochum seven points behind. Unless they lost all six remaining matches, promotion was assured.

“Give me a number, then,” Mo Mo said. All this time, Neururer hadn’t even bothered to get him a shirt with his name on it.

“That’s reasonable. Take number 37.”

Neururer’s tone was perfunctory, but Mo Mo didn’t care. He was far more interested in the so-called player training system in his mind.