Chapter Three: Grudges and Grace

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At that time, Mo Mo was quite full of himself, taking great pride in his 15-meter burst speed. So, when he launched into action, he was certain that there was no way his side could lose. But imagination is sweet, and reality is harsh. Just as he was about to reach the ball, Hao Haidong got there first and poked it away.

The two of them chased after the ball, bodies entwined, but Mo Mo was always a step behind. At thirty-three, Hao Haidong actually beat the seventeen-year-old, famed for his explosive start, in his strongest attribute. By now, Yang Chen had walked over. He’d been wondering why it was taking Hao Haidong so long to bring Mo Mo over, but seeing this scene, he seemed to understand.

This kid Mo Mo! How could he not see the situation? Hao Haidong was famous for his quick starts! During team sprints, whenever the whistle blew, Hao Haidong would always leave the others far behind in the first fifteen meters. But by the time they neared the finish line, Qu Bo would surge ahead, leaving Hao Haidong in the dust.

By now, the people around them had started commenting, with the usual exclamations about Hao Haidong’s prowess, and how if he’d gone abroad in his youth, he’d be a starter in any top league. Of course, there were also those belittling Mo Mo, saying that second-division standards weren’t all that impressive.

But they were overthinking it. If Hao Haidong had gone abroad back then, perhaps no one would have paid him any attention.

It wasn’t until 1996 that the national team realized football technique was about technique under pressure. Previously, they’d practiced juggling or dribbling through cones—essentially circus tricks. Of course, one can’t forget Qi Wusheng’s national team and its grueling physical regimen, famously known as the “Zhaoqing Ten-Thousand-Meter Run.”

Hao Haidong truly “learned” how to play only in 1998, by which time he was already twenty-eight. Before that, he’d been muddling through on his own. It wasn’t until the national team coach was replaced by the Englishman Houghton that Hao Haidong realized how much he’d been doing wrong—and that was the general level of training in the national side.

Now, Mo Mo and Hao Haidong were both chasing after a ball that had been pushed out ahead of them. In that short sprint, Mo Mo’s fifteen-meter burst actually put him at a disadvantage. Still, it wasn’t a complete loss; after a while, Hao Haidong was starting to get out of breath.

It was at this moment that everyone around—players, passersby, and media—could genuinely sense that Hao Haidong was thirty-three. Mo Mo was putting real pressure on him, forcing Hao Haidong to give his all just to hold onto the ball.

Bora Milutinović was a man of the world, but even he had once praised Hao Haidong to his face, saying his acceleration over five meters was world-class, even top-tier! Perhaps he’d even gone a bit too far, suggesting that Hao Haidong’s five-meter burst was faster than Ronaldo’s.

Bora held Hao Haidong in high regard—perhaps because, in China, there was no one else with such explosive speed, sharp instincts in front of goal, or an eye for opportunities. Maybe Mo Mo had that kind of potential, though he hadn’t fully developed it yet. Bora may have sent Hao Haidong to fetch Mo Mo as a way of keeping him grounded; after all, once a Chinese player achieved even a little success abroad, he could become difficult to manage back in the national team.

In truth, Bora was overthinking things. Mo Mo wasn’t arrogant, but he had to admit that Hao Haidong’s display left an impression on him. Even though Mo Mo believed 2002 was China’s golden generation, and knew that at this time the country’s players were among the best in Asia, he still had a naïveté about the true level of these national team stars. Now he knew: even at thirty-three, Hao Haidong could handle him with ease.

Just as Mo Mo was thinking this, he noticed that Hao Haidong had slowed down, his breathing rough. At that moment, Mo Mo touched the ball before him for the first time, then again, and a third time. Silence fell all around them. After a lifetime of waiting, a generation’s effort, China had finally reached the World Cup—yet time had passed them by.

Mo Mo wasn’t insensitive. He didn’t feel the urge to show off and snatch the ball from Hao Haidong in front of everyone. He stopped the ball at his feet and let Hao Haidong come to take it.

Hao Haidong seemed to sense something too. He stopped the ball, held it under his foot, hands on hips, taking on a commanding air, and grinned at Mo Mo.

“Kid, you still need to practice more! Hahaha!”

His earlier lead clearly put him in a good mood. As some reporters started to approach, Yang Chen came over and pulled Mo Mo away, leaving Hao Haidong to deal with the press. Even at a distance, they could hear Hao Haidong’s voice.

Was this a gesture of care? Mo Mo wondered. As he was lost in thought, Yang Chen spoke up.

“In truth, sometimes getting into the national team too early isn’t a good thing.”

There was a hint of meaning in his words. Mo Mo looked up at Yang Chen. At just one-seventy, Mo Mo practically had to look up at every footballer. In fact, he’d yet to meet a player shorter than himself.

“Where are you from?”

Yang Chen’s sudden question caught Mo Mo off guard.

“Zhejiang, but I’ve lived in Changsha for years.”

After a moment’s thought, he decided there was no harm in saying it, so he revealed his previous life’s ancestral home.

Yang Chen paused, then gave Mo Mo a slightly peculiar look.

“How old are you, really? How did Real Madrid spot you? And how did you end up in the second division?”

Mo Mo chose not to answer. There was no way to explain it. Yang Chen didn’t press, though he seemed to care that Mo Mo was from Zhejiang.

“Do you know Fan Zhiyi?”

Of course Mo Mo knew! He was also aware of the factional struggles in the locker room, the Dalian-Shenhua rivalry at the start of the 2000s league—two dazzling teams, each with its own faction, with Hao Haidong and Fan Zhiyi as their figureheads. But Mo Mo couldn’t see what this had to do with knowing Fan Zhiyi.

“I’ve heard of him. Why?”

Mo Mo replied calmly, his face betraying nothing. Yang Chen’s gaze was searching, and finally he spoke.

“Fan Zhiyi is from Zhejiang too. I thought you two might be close.”

Mo Mo had no wish to get entangled in factional disputes, and Yang Chen’s words made him a little uneasy. He didn’t understand why this needed to be discussed; he just wanted to play ball.

While Mo Mo was pondering this, Hao Haidong had managed to escape the reporters and was jogging over. He ruffled Mo Mo’s hair, almost as if petting a small animal—Mo Mo couldn’t help but feel a bit resistant.

“Hey, little guy, got a bit of a temper!”

Mo Mo was about to reply, but Yang Chen was already quietly whispering something to Hao Haidong. Hao Haidong’s face darkened, then as if recalling something, he said,

“What does it matter! Back then, I didn’t even want to join the national team! If not for playing for China, and if not for Fan Zhiyi playing for China, would I have come? Now the World Cup is near; let’s focus on that first and worry about the rest later. What does this kid know?”

He was referring to the time during the final qualifiers when he’d refused to join the national team, even saying, “If Fan Zhiyi is there, I won’t come.” Even sending the coaching staff to mediate had been useless.

In the end, only when Bora Milutinović himself went to speak did Hao Haidong relent. Bora didn’t say much—just asked, “Who do you play for?” Hao Haidong answered honestly, “China.”

Bora replied, “So does Fan Zhiyi! Whatever your personal relationship, I don’t care! But when you’re on the pitch, play well! If you want to get to the World Cup!”

On account of this, Hao Haidong and Fan Zhiyi temporarily set aside their grudges. The two big men joined forces, China’s internal divisions vanished, one led the attack, the other the defense, and together they broke through to the World Cup.

Seeing Hao Haidong’s reaction, Yang Chen didn’t say any more. He was just worried that the young man playing in Germany might not understand the situation—Yang Chen himself wasn’t part of any faction; he was a steady sort.

“Haha, I heard there’s a new kid. I just had to come meet him!”

Even before the man arrived, his voice did. Who else could stride so boldly but General Fan? When Mo Mo saw Hao Haidong’s obvious displeasure, he knew instantly—it had to be Fan Zhiyi. They might be teammates on the field, but off it, they weren’t friends.

Honestly, usually there weren’t many people in the national team who could go toe-to-toe with Hao Haidong. He was in charge of attack, Fan Zhiyi of defense. If Fan Zhiyi was the general, commanding all but Hao Haidong on the pitch to defend as he wished—

Then Hao Haidong was a proud lone wolf. Their personalities were different: Fan Zhiyi had a fiery temper and wouldn’t hesitate to throw a punch, while Hao Haidong was more of a straight-shooter, fond of sarcasm but otherwise harmless.

In truth, the two weren’t even on the same path. Fan Zhiyi, the great general, liked to fight to pay the bill, loved being surrounded by people. Hao Haidong preferred to drink tea or eat alone. Even on the pitch, their positions didn’t conflict.

If there had been conflict, it was in the past, when they’d lived under the same roof. Fan Zhiyi couldn’t stand that Hao Haidong wouldn’t defer to him, so he had his underlings take Hao’s wallet and hide it in the dorm, just to mess with him. Hao Haidong assumed Fan Zhiyi had stolen it, took it to heart, and so the feud began.

Such is the way of the world—full of strange twists.

No matter what, Fan Zhiyi made real contributions to Chinese football. “Attack wins games, defense wins titles”—that’s not just empty talk. And now, he just wanted to meet Mo Mo; there was no reason for Mo Mo to be rude.

“Hello, I’m Mo Mo,” he said.

Fan Zhiyi narrowed his eyes at the youngster, then burst out laughing.

“Not bad, not bad! Where are you from? Want to grab a meal together?”

At this point, Hao Haidong stepped in, blocking Mo Mo from Fan Zhiyi. What’s this? The defender’s hands reaching into the forwards’ ranks?

“I’m talking to the young man—what are you blocking me for?” Fan Zhiyi’s tone was a little irritable. Mo Mo tugged Hao Haidong aside, then replied,

“Zhejiang.”

Fan Zhiyi glanced at Hao Haidong with a hint of triumph, then chuckled,

“Ah, a fellow countryman! Want to go out with your big brother?”

Hao Haidong was about to pull Yang Chen away, but Mo Mo turned to look at him. Understanding, Hao Haidong stepped forward and said,

“Hey! This kid’s a striker—what’s a defender doing meddling with the forwards?”

Fan Zhiyi wasn’t amused. What, not allowed? Can’t manage you, can’t manage Yang Chen, now can’t even manage a youngster?

“He’s my countryman! I’m telling you, Cannon Hao, get out of the way.”

At this, a few of Fan Zhiyi’s men stepped forward. Mo Mo’s first thought was that China’s footballers back then really were well built—every one of them solid as a rock. Yang Chen quickly smoothed things over.

“Hey! The coach still wants to see him. Maybe later?”

Both Fan Zhiyi and Hao Haidong turned to look at Yang Chen, and even Mo Mo was surprised—the coach wanted to see him?

“I see! Well, little countryman, I’ll find you later.”

No one really knew what kind of person Bora Milutinović was, yet he’d managed to get Fan Zhiyi and Hao Haidong to set aside their differences and play together. Mo Mo was curious, but fortunately, he would soon get to meet the foreign coach who had led China to its first World Cup.