Chapter Eleven: Entrusted in a Time of Crisis

In the second half, both sides launched impressive attacks, each with several decent attempts at goal. Yet, none of these shots posed any real threat to the net, and everyone on the field was quietly speculating when a goal would finally be scored. At this moment, China's offensive seemed to edge out Costa Rica's, though none of their efforts came close to hitting the post. Still, it was clear they were attacking more frequently.

Yang Chen made two hurried shots in succession—hurried, because both were taken outside the penalty area. Had he passed instead, perhaps a better opportunity would have arisen.

As the match reached the sixtieth minute, Number 11, Ronald Gomez, carried the ball forward, chased and blocked by three or four Chinese defenders. Gomez and Number 9, Wanchope, executed a wall pass; Wanchope's shot was blocked by the defense.

"Beautiful! Beautiful! That was a success—wait! Careful! The ball! It's in! Number 11, Ronald Gomez! He caught them off guard!"

Chen Nu’s voice rose and fell, tugging at the listeners’ hearts. Just moments ago, Wanchope had unleashed a shot, striking a defender. Although six or seven Chinese defenders clustered nearby, their focus was solely on whether the ball had gone in. At that precise moment, Gomez slipped through four defenders and unleashed a fierce shot.

The ball flew like a rocket, straight and true toward the goal. Goalkeeper Jiang Jin reacted, diving to save, but the ball skimmed the post and found the net—a tricky angle, a powerful strike.

"China is temporarily trailing. Right now, Mo Mo and Su Maozhen are warming up at the sideline."

For once, Chen Nu refrained from his usual banter, and the spectators watching the match said little as well. Some appeared dejected, others shouted encouragement for China. All this stood in stark contrast to the joyful celebrations on Costa Rica’s bench.

China’s subsequent attacks showed some improvement, but headers from skilled players like Hao Haidong and Yang Chen were thwarted by the opposing defenders, who always seemed to have a height advantage. Several promising chances fizzled out.

"We can clearly see that China's formation is beginning to unravel. The newly substituted Number 17, Medford, has not disappointed his coach."

Chen Nu’s tone sounded somewhat dispirited, which was quite unlike him.

"Number 11, Ronald Gomez! Once again, it's Ronald Gomez! He’s dribbling along the edge of the penalty area. He crosses—shot! Ahahaha! No goal! Our defender clears it—it's a corner kick."

Moments earlier, Gomez had tried to cut inside, but our defender stuck close, giving him no space. Just before being forced out of bounds, Gomez managed a fine cross, only for Fan Zhiyi to clear it with a powerful kick.

"Hold your positions! Hold your positions! As long as we’re properly positioned and our defense holds, this goal can still be chased!"

Costa Rica’s players didn’t opt for a high kick but instead played the ball low, directly toward one of our defenders.

"A low pass, it's ours—ah! Careful! Behind you! Number 11, Ronald Gomez! Shot! No, it's not—it's Number 4, Wright!"

Gomez, moving quickly, beat our player to the ball and, despite two defenders pressuring him, managed to pass it out. Number 4, Wright, emerged from the crowd and headed the ball into the net. Jiang Jin jumped but couldn’t save it.

At this point, Head Coach Bora Milutinovic glanced at Mo Mo and Su Maozhen. Su Maozhen looked uneasy, while Mo Mo was unfazed by the situation, determined and ready.

Milutinovic pondered his options. China was down 2-0. Ordinarily, Su Maozhen would be the obvious substitution, but he doubted Su Maozhen could alter the course of the game. If Mo Mo were to enter instead...

After weighing the possibilities, Milutinovic decided to take a chance. If he substituted Su Maozhen, he wasn’t confident in the outcome, and Su Maozhen’s mindset made him difficult to trust. In that case, it was better to let Mo Mo fight—if they lost, at least a young player gained valuable experience.

"Mo Mo, come here."

Milutinovic’s voice was low, burdened with worry. He understood the temperament of the Chinese media. After conceding two goals, his tactical changes hung over him like a sword. If he entrusted the young Mo Mo instead of the veteran Su Maozhen and the situation remained unchanged, the praise he had received would soon turn into criticism.

"Later, don’t worry about defending. Stay upfield and look for opportunities. Understand?"

Milutinovic knew Mo Mo well. With his slight build, in such a fiercely physical match, involving him in defense would not only disrupt the defensive setup but might create new vulnerabilities. Mo Mo’s defensive ability, in this context, was negligible.

Mo Mo nodded firmly. He understood the situation and knew where his strengths lay. Turning, he saw Su Maozhen watching him with a complicated expression—perhaps some relief, perhaps regret, but none of it mattered.

What mattered was that Mo Mo was ready to step onto the field.

"Head Coach Bora Milutinovic has chosen to substitute Mo Mo for Yang Chen. In truth, at this critical moment, I do not hope to see Mo Mo enter the game."

Chen Nu’s voice was tinged with worry. Too many football talents had been buried in classrooms, too many lost on training grounds, too many obscured by club transfers. He didn’t want Mo Mo to become the target of media attacks because of this match, as such blows can crush confidence.

But Mo Mo didn’t care about any of that—not for fame, not for fortune.

He only wanted to be on the pitch, to sweat, to strive for his country’s honor.

Who does not love their country? Who would not give their all for it? Only when disappointment reaches its depths does love turn to resentment.

Listening to the crowd’s chants of encouragement, hearing some sing the national anthem, seeing Chinese supporters holding flags, draped in flags, with flags painted on their faces—

Mo Mo had yet to set foot on the pitch, but already his blood was boiling.

Come then, World Cup! I swear, this will not be our last time.