Chapter Fourteen: After the Competition

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PS: Sorry for the late update. I tossed and turned for a long time, hesitating over whether to proceed. The torment is real! If you have time, feel free to join our group 563036979—we can talk about football together. It’s always a pleasure.

What had just happened?

Costa Rica’s goalkeeper, Lonnis, looked bewildered.

A moment ago, two players were converging on the ball. If Lonnis bent down to reach it, Mo Mo would get there first. If he went for a big clearance, he would beat Mo Mo to it. Just as he prepared to send the ball far upfield, a boot reached the ball before he did. Lonnis looked up to see a face—a Chinese player with yellow skin and black hair, sliding in for a shot! That’s right, his last goal was a sliding finish too.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was—where was the ball? Lonnis dropped his foot and turned his head. The ball was rolling obliquely toward the goal. He knew it was too late, but, true to a goalkeeper’s instincts, he flung himself desperately after it.

Mo Mo arched his body, watching Lonnis’s sprint. One eye was tightly closed, the other wide open, fixed on the ball. If it kept this course, would it strike the post? Would it hit?

“Ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball, ball—IT’S IN! IT’S IN! Mo Mo! Mo Mo has equalized for China! Incredible! Unbelievable! Costa Rica grew complacent—careless! And Mo Mo made them pay! Our China is undefeated!”

Chen Nu’s voice trembled with excitement, barely coherent—but nobody cared, not a soul! China had scored! China had drawn level with Costa Rica! No one was thinking about Brazil or Turkey in the next match; all that mattered was this moment—a rare draw, a precious draw.

The ball ricocheted off the post and bounced into the net, entirely over the line—a goal beyond dispute! Yes! A goal beyond all doubt!

“What perfect timing for this goal! There are only thirty or forty seconds left—if China can hold on, they’ll draw with Costa Rica! Damn this referee, why hasn’t he blown the whistle yet?”

Chen Nu’s indignation was clear—and justly so. Why hadn’t the referee ended the game?

Costa Rica tried to snatch a late goal, but the 2-2 scoreline held until the final whistle.

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The stadium erupted in thunderous cheers. At that moment, everyone thought of one thing: to sing the national anthem in unison! Forty-four years of waiting! Forty-four years, and at last, we set foot on the World Cup stage.

After the match, reporters swarmed the field. Though they hadn’t won, neither had they lost.

At the press conference, Hao Haidong admitted, “Mo Mo’s performance was decent this time. I was tightly marked, but watch me score in the next match!” True to his candid style, Hao Haidong was undaunted—even though the next opponent was Brazil! Still, this showed the national team’s mindset: at least they weren’t tense anymore.

By contrast, Fan Zhiyi’s remarks were more measured. “Costa Rica was strong, but they didn’t count on our secret weapon—my fellow townsman, Mo Mo!” The room buzzed with whispers; the press knew well where Fan Zhiyi’s ancestral home was.

Yang Chen, Sun Jihai, Li Tie, and others also displayed a positive attitude at the conference. In this context, their optimism was encouraging, though Mo Mo couldn’t say much. Such unbridled positivity, however, could turn into a double-edged sword if hopes were dashed in the end.

Their words soothed the nerves of Chinese fans, but also risked raising expectations too high. If the outcome proved disappointing, all the praise and adulation could swiftly become the sharpest weapon against them.

Mo Mo was deliberately left for last—not as a slight, but because everyone knew he was the team’s spearhead. Though they hadn’t beaten Costa Rica as planned, they hadn’t lost either, had they?

Looking at the excited faces of the reporters below, Mo Mo knew what they wanted to hear, and what Chinese fans hoped to see. But he couldn’t make promises. Costa Rica wasn’t a particularly strong team, and their stamina had been drained by China’s relentless defense, giving Mo Mo his opportunity.

Next, they would face the reigning champions Brazil, followed by Turkey, the eventual third-place team. Mo Mo couldn’t guarantee victory; even a draw seemed a distant hope.

“I know what everyone wants to hear. But I can only promise that we’ll give everything we have. Beyond that, I can’t make any promises. I hope everyone can stay calm and face reality—our next opponents are Brazil, and Turkey.”

At these words, the room broke into murmurs. Brazil they could understand, but Turkey? Turkey had only ever appeared in one World Cup, and were knocked out in the group stage! Surely China could at least hold them to a draw?

Seeing the restless media below, Mo Mo felt a pang of sorrow. It was these inflated expectations and excessive praise that, after China’s 0-9 exit in the group stage, turned the media into their harshest critics, shaming the nation for a time.

Turning away from the uproar behind him, Mo Mo understood that words were useless now. All he could do was prepare, with all his strength, for the coming battle against Brazil on the 9th.

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“You went a bit too far,” said Yang Chen, who had always worried Mo Mo might act rashly.

Mo Mo looked up, noticing the lines of age on Yang Chen’s face, and replied, “Because I know what I’m doing.”

Yes, Mo Mo knew exactly what he was doing. He had witnessed Chinese football’s brief peak and its steep decline. He had lived through China’s first World Cup appearance—facing mighty opponents, fortunate yet helpless—a dream come true after forty-four years.

Yang Chen regarded Mo Mo and frowned. He couldn’t fully grasp Mo Mo’s feelings, just as when they had first met. Yang Chen had merely offered polite encouragement, but Mo Mo had taken it so seriously. This kid—this kid!

This time, Mo Mo played nearly thirty minutes. With no extra time in the group stage, he couldn’t stay on longer, but perhaps that was just as well. The physical demands of the World Cup far exceeded those of the German second division. Frankly, by the end, Mo Mo was utterly spent. If there had been extra time—thank goodness there wasn’t.

The next match was on June 8th, in Nishigo, Japan, against Brazil—a team boasting the likes of Ronaldo and Ronaldinho.

But would Mo Mo shrink from formidable foes? Would China surrender because their opponents were strong? No! Never!

Come, Brazil. We are unafraid.