Chapter Twelve: Tremble

Yang Chen walked over and exchanged a high-five with Mo Mo.

“Go for it, kid.”

Seeing how exhausted Yang Chen appeared, Mo Mo nodded in acknowledgment, then quickly ran toward the kickoff spot. At this moment, Hao Haidong looked extremely serious, completely different from his usual self; it was clear that conceding two goals back-to-back had left him deeply unsettled.

“Mo Mo is on the field, replacing Yang Chen. Even if we lose today, we’ve still broken a world record: the youngest player ever to appear in a World Cup match. The previous record-holder was Norman Whiteside from Northern Ireland, who played against Yugoslavia at just 17 years and 42 days old in 1982. But Mo Mo was born on November 21, 1985, and is still a long way off his seventeenth birthday.”

Of course, what Chen Nu didn’t mention was that if you counted age the way people do in Zhejiang—where you’re considered one year old at birth—Mo Mo would actually be turning eighteen this year. But since there was a record at stake, Mo Mo could only be counted as a player under seventeen.

On the pitch, the Chinese players’ defensive actions were becoming more and more aggressive, even desperate. One after another, they slid in for tackles, charging at the ball with all their might to block Costa Rica’s attacks.

“Kid! Where do you think you’re running?”

At this point, Hao Haidong couldn’t help but shout. He’d noticed that Mo Mo was running all over the place without any regard for formation. What kind of formation was Hao Haidong talking about? In a 4-4-2, the defenders, midfielders, and forwards should each hold their lines. But Mo Mo was darting about—one moment to Hao Haidong’s left, the next to his right—like a headless chicken, utterly baffling to everyone.

“Senior! I want to discuss something with you.”

Taking advantage of a stoppage, Mo Mo hurried to Hao Haidong’s side, lowering his voice as he tried to negotiate.

Hao Haidong seemed a little impatient. In fact, after repeatedly failing to gain the upper hand in this match, he was quite vexed. And now the new substitute, Mo Mo, just didn’t get it—he wasn’t easing any of the pressure, just running about aimlessly!

Seeing Hao Haidong unwilling to engage with him, Mo Mo frowned, but Hao Haidong paid him no mind, heading toward the edge of the field. In Hao Haidong’s mind, he thought, it would have been better to put Su Maozhen on. This kid didn’t even know how to play football—what was the point of all this running?

“Since Mo Mo came on, China’s attack hasn’t improved at all. But—wait? Mo Mo! It’s Mo Mo!”

This came from the defender Fan Zhiyi, number 5, who made a powerful clearance. Number 14, Li Weifeng, picked up the ball and sent a direct pass forward. Number 10, Hao Haidong, received the ball with his back to goal. It was a textbook Chinese defensive counterattack, but unfortunately, Hao Haidong’s position was tightly marked, swarmed by three opponents.

In this moment of crisis, Hao Haidong had no choice but to dribble back toward his own half. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he suddenly spun around and booted the ball deep into Costa Rican territory.

“Damn kid! Damn kid! You’ve got to be there this time!”

Even as he fell to the ground, Hao Haidong mumbled under his breath. Though he’d been berating Mo Mo about his off-the-ball runs, he’d still been keeping an eye on him. Hao Haidong had noticed that Mo Mo was always drifting into open spaces in the backfield, hunched over and floating about. The tall Costa Rican defenders, if they focused too much on watching Mo Mo, would inevitably lose track of other players, putting them in a dilemma.

A moment before, Hao Haidong had glanced at every gap he could think of, only to find that each one was already covered by a Costa Rican defender. Then, a flash of inspiration struck—after all, he’d already made plenty of wild, misdirected, or out-of-bounds passes. Why not try one more time?

As Hao Haidong turned and sent the ball flying, there was someone racing toward the spot where it would land. Hao Haidong’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the number on the player’s back: 37, MOMO.

Yes, it was Mo Mo. He had been constantly searching for open space, and just as everyone’s attention was drawn by the interplay between Fan Zhiyi, Hao Haidong, and the others, Mo Mo’s eyes lit up—he’d spotted a large gap up ahead! He carefully kept himself level with the Costa Rican defenders to avoid being offside, silently praying Hao Haidong would see him.

He was not disappointed. Hao Haidong’s turn was magnificent, the ball arcing swiftly and sharply through the air—the same kind of pass he’d tried in the first half but missed. This time, Mo Mo seized the opportunity.

“Brilliant! Brilliant! Mo Mo is closer to the ball now—how will he handle it?”

The Costa Rican defenders had just gone to mark Hao Haidong, which left the middle wide open, like a round cake with coverage on both sides but a hole in the center. Normally, this would have been fine, but as soon as they moved away, Mo Mo darted into the gap—without going offside. More importantly, Hao Haidong lofted a precise high ball into the space.

The ball came in high, too high for Mo Mo to bring under control, and there was no time to settle it—the pace of the game was ferocious. If Mo Mo hesitated for even a moment, the Costa Rican defenders would be upon him with a ruthless sliding tackle. In fact, defenders from both flanks were already charging toward him.

The Costa Rican defenders were frustrated. How did they lose track of this short Chinese kid? Mainly, Mo Mo was so cheerful and unassuming, and the tempo on the field was so rapid that their eyes simply weren’t enough. Most critical of all, Mo Mo liked to run hunched over, passing at about the height of their waists—making it especially hard to keep an eye on him.

China’s recent series of passes had left the Costa Rican defense scrambling. With Hao Haidong on the ball and both opposing fullbacks and midfielders pressing, it was easy to lose sight of Mo Mo. Situations on the football pitch change in a heartbeat; no one’s vision covers the entire field without blind spots.

“The ball lands and bounces high—toward the penalty area! The goalkeeper comes out, the Costa Rican defenders converge!”

Mo Mo knew his chances were slim. At 170 centimeters tall, even with a full leap he couldn’t reach that ball, but he pressed forward anyway, hoping for a miracle. Suddenly, he caught sight of a flash of fiery red—it was a Costa Rican defender, leaping high toward the ball!

Mo Mo’s mind had already played out the scene of the Costa Rican defender’s head making contact with the ball.

It’s over! That was Mo Mo’s thought—but in the next instant, a shudder ran through him.