Chapter Eight: Costa Rica

In the stands, a sea of fiery red swept across the rows. Some draped themselves in the national flag, others wore headbands emblazoned with “China Must Win.” They roared, they shouted, as if their voices alone could lend strength to the players on the field.

China’s team wore white kits with red accents. Expectation and excitement mingled on their faces, along with a touch of awkward stiffness. The Costa Rican players, clad in red, gathered in a tight circle, deep in discussion. At that moment, Fan Zhiyi smiled serenely, looking either relaxed or quietly enjoying himself.

Goalkeeper Jiang Jin’s expression was grave. Horns blared from all directions, mingling with the fervent cries of Chinese fans. For a moment, it felt less like Gwangju, Japan, and more like home.

“Many of you may be listening to other commentators, but wherever Mo Mo is, you’ll find me, Chen Nu. Let me bring you the play-by-play for this match.”

As China’s game was being broadcast on CCTV, a portion of the fans still opted for Chen Nu’s commentary.

“We’re underway! China’s defenders control the ball, quickly passing into midfield—beautiful! A lofted pass! Yang Chen! Number 20, Yang Chen has the ball!”

Right from the kick-off, China launched a sharp attack. The defenders passed up to midfield, who sent it to Hao Haidong. Hao returned it to midfield, and with a powerful long pass, the ball found Yang Chen! Under pressure from two Costa Rican defenders, Yang Chen kept possession!

“Costa Rica is marking tightly. Yang Chen pushes down the flank—ah! He pushes it too far! The ball goes out. But that was a promising attack. If Costa Rica relaxes even a little, we’ll break through and get a dangerous shot on goal.”

Listeners of Chen Nu’s live broadcast rolled their eyes. Why not just say he could dribble through everyone and score?

“Costa Rica takes the throw-in into our half—wait! China presses, intercepts! Beautiful play—just like that! Number 14, Li Weifeng, drops back; we’re effectively playing with five defenders now.”

Li Weifeng, number 14, sent the ball out. The five at the back exchanged short passes, looking composed—perhaps buoyed by that opening move. Yet off the field, Mo Mo frowned.

It was a terrible build-up: the ball sent out wide where a Costa Rican player waited. It looked reckless—almost as if they didn’t want to keep possession. Couldn’t they at least try to break through?

“Beautiful! We win the ball at the back, pass into the center, a driving run, out wide! It’s Sun Jihai! Sun Jihai on the ball—oh my!”

In that instant, China put together a fine sequence. After several passes drew in Costa Rica’s defenders, a long ball found Sun Jihai on the wing. But the key was Hao Haidong, who had dropped deep, held up the ball, and played it back to the center-back, setting up the attack.

Sun Jihai burst forward. Arrogant as he might be, his speed when he sprinted was undeniable. A Costa Rican defender closed him down, but Sun coolly nutmegged him. As he tried to slip past, though—

Costa Rica committed a foul, not quite worthy of a card, and Sun Jihai went down. The match had reached the eighth minute, and the well-heeled Sun had earned a free kick at the edge of the box—a promising position.

“Number 18 Li Xiaopeng to take the free kick. Let’s see what quality he delivers! Wow! Costa Rica’s defenders can really leap—our players had no chance at the header. Maybe a direct shot would’ve been better.”

Chen Nu’s voice, as ever, carried a hint of mischief. Meanwhile, viewers at home gasped, as did Mo Mo in the stadium.

“Magnificent! Absolutely brilliant! Costa Rica’s defender clears, the ball bounces on the ground. A Chinese player cushions it with his foot, then strikes with the inside of his right—what a perfect arc! The ball flies behind him, catching the Costa Ricans off guard!”

No one saw it coming—not even Mo Mo. The skillful flick sent the ball over his own head and behind, but sadly, under pressure from the Costa Rican defense, number 20 Yang Chen couldn’t make it dangerous and the ball was cleared.

“Corner! No question, it’s a corner! In the first ten minutes, China has Costa Rica under siege! I feel like we’re destined for the round of sixteen—we don’t even need Mo Mo on the pitch!”

At this moment, Chen Nu and all Chinese fans were jubilant. Watching the national team batter Costa Rica’s goal again and again, with China on the offensive, who could contain their excitement? Even Mo Mo forgot his worries—he just wanted his country to win.

“Number 18 Li Xiaopeng steps up for the corner—let’s just hope it’s better than his free kick. Here he goes! Back post! Oh! Too much power, it flies out past the endline! I could do better myself!”

Chen Nu’s voice was indignant. The TV echoed with horns, cheers, and cries of “Go China!” Not just in the broadcast, but all around, people cheered in time with every rise and fall of the game.

The match pressed on. China reverted to its old routine: Fan Zhiyi (number 5), Xu Yunlong (21), and others exchanged passes at the back, waiting for an opening to cross. Costa Rica pressed aggressively, and in just seconds, possession changed four times! Luckily, the defenders kept their cool and cleared their lines.

“Another throw-in in our half. Costa Rica’s attack is showing signs of life, but our defenders—under Fan Zhiyi’s command—have built a Great Wall of flesh and blood, repelling every assault!”

Chen Nu, perhaps too nervous, now spoke with a quaver. The game shifted. Our midfielders pressed hard, even going to ground with sliding tackles. Say what you will, but this Chinese team had courage and tenacity.

“Ahem! I can hardly contain myself. You can hear it clearly on the broadcast: a chorus of ‘Go China!’ It stirs the heart—I want to shout it myself! Go China!”

No one minded Chen Nu sneaking in a few extra cheers. In fact, they were shouting along. Chen Nu felt frustrated—he wanted to drop the microphone and just join the chant: “Go China!” He cared for nothing else.

“Beautiful! That’s the fighting spirit of the Chinese!”

Chen Nu suddenly roared. The players were giving their all—just moments ago, a high ball from Costa Rica soared in, and our defender, undaunted by danger, leapt to head it away, right into the path of the Costa Rican striker’s boot. The striker was startled; had he swung at the ball, he’d have kicked the man instead. He had no choice but to pull back.

Mo Mo jumped to his feet, his face flushed, blood surging. All around, voices cheered for China, flags waved in every direction. The fans were passionate, the players played with their lives—who could say China wasn’t fighting with everything against Costa Rica?

Competing for headers, pressing high, sliding tackles—unafraid of collisions. Who dared say they were cowards?

“Number 22 Castro takes the throw, number 9 Wanchope wants the ball—wait! One of our players presses, ah! Nearly loses his footing, but the ball is cleared! He did it! Foreign players really are built tough!”

Chen Nu’s voice rang out, high and penetrating. But no one paid attention to his words; they were glued to the screen, some forgetting they weren’t actually at the stadium, shouting “Go China!” with abandon.

“Hao Haidong! Hao Haidong! He receives the pass, shields the ball—China launches a quick counter! There’s a Costa Rican defender at his back—can he play the ball? He does! Hao Haidong! Hao Haidong!”

A Chinese player, under pressure from three Costa Ricans in the back, managed to get the ball out. But a mistake in passing saw Costa Rica intercept near midfield. One of our players lunged in with a sliding tackle, winning the ball, and another surged forward, with long strides, sending it to Hao Haidong.

Now Hao Haidong was surrounded—not just by one Costa Rican defender but two midfielders as well. Hao leapt and crashed to the ground, but the ball somehow threaded its way through the three of them, though it carried too much weight.

Mo Mo watched it all unfold and could not help but sigh—Chinese football had come too late to the game. These were uncoordinated movements; all they could do was rely on physicality to compete. Mo Mo, after all, was a maniac for training in the German second division.

So many plays caught Costa Rica off guard, not because of anything else, but because the style was more street soccer than professional. Call it imaginative, or call it chaotic, but who could criticize these men fighting with their all for playing the “wrong way”?

Yang Chen, Sun Jihai, and others had gone abroad and trained properly—no endless laps, no pointless physical drills. But football is not the work of a few alone. Another Chinese player tried to carry the ball forward but was dispossessed by a Costa Rican. Overall, Chinese players’ ball control was too weak—they had to keep passing just to maintain possession.