Chapter Fifteen: China

It was clear to see that, although everyone spoke with ease in front of the reporters, in private, the mood was heavy and somber. They were about to face Brazil! Even those who didn’t follow football knew something of Brazil’s prowess. In those days, the mere mention of Brazil conjured up two words: the strongest.

Everyone’s face was clouded with worry. Head coach Bora Milutinović hadn’t put Mo Mo in the starting lineup, and everyone understood why.

Mo Mo’s strength lay in his unceasing search for gaps, always appearing at just the right place at just the right time. He gave the impression of a persistent, buzzing fly, always at your ear, impossible to ignore.

Mo Mo had scored two goals in the previous match, sending fans back home into a frenzy. For amateurs, two goals in the World Cup might seem extraordinary, but it was important to remember: this was only the group stage, and the opponent was merely Costa Rica. Next, they would be up against Brazil—how could that be the same?

Whether in the Champions League or the World Cup, the group stage was always fertile ground for upsets. The giants and footballing powerhouses would invariably have that mindset—“Ah, it’s only the group stage”—and so they might relax a little. But when they truly got serious, you would realize what you were really up against.

Brazil’s lineup (3-3-1-3):

Forwards: Number 9 Ronaldo (Inter Milan), Number 11 Ronaldinho (Paris Saint-Germain), Number 10 Rivaldo (Barcelona)

Midfield: Number 19 Juninho Paulista (Flamengo)

Center-backs: Number 2 Marcos Cafu (Captain, Roma), Number 8 Gilberto Silva (Atlético Mineiro), Number 6 Roberto Carlos (Real Madrid)

Defenders: Number 4 Roque Junior (AC Milan), Number 14 Anderson Polga (Grêmio), Lucio (Bayer Leverkusen)

Goalkeeper: Number 1 Marcos (Palmeiras)

China’s lineup (4-2-3-1):

Forward: Number 10 Hao Haidong

Midfield: Number 8 Li Xiaopeng, Number 19 Qi Hong, Number 9 Ma Mingyu (Captain)

Defensive Midfielders: Number 15 Zhao Junzhe, Number 8 Li Tie

Defenders: Number 21 Xu Yunlong, Number 14 Li Weifeng, Number 17 Du Wei, Number 4 Wu Chengying

Goalkeeper: Number 22 Jiang Jin

For this match, head coach Bora Milutinović made tactical adjustments, mainly due to Sun Jihai’s absence from injury and Fan Zhiyi’s discovery of severe bruising and pain after the last game, which made it impossible for him to play through injury (in fact, he had been hurt in the previous match).

Yang Chen and Mo Mo sat on the bench; on the Brazilian side, players like Kaka were also not on the field.

Yet even so, Brazil’s strength made China falter. Just look at the clubs their players represented—Real Madrid, Barcelona, Milan. At that time, Brazil’s team was resplendent with stars. As the Brazilian national anthem played, countless Brazilians and Japanese fans in the stadium, all dressed in bright yellow jerseys, cheered wildly.

In that moment, the Chinese players on the field felt an overwhelming pressure. What was it like? As if you were surrounded by enemies on all sides, tightly encircled. The duration of a single anthem felt like an entire year. Mo Mo could clearly sense the tension among his teammates.

What sort of oppression was this? As if the whole world were an enemy. Yet all things would pass, and all things would come.

A familiar melody began; a solemn chorus rang out. Mo Mo raised his head, rising to his feet, joined by his teammates. They looked up at the stands, where a massive five-starred red flag was unfurled.

With drums in hand, draped in the national flag, faces painted red, countless voices called out together. The pressure shattered, the sense of siege dissolved, and Mo Mo’s chest felt as though it might burst. From all corners of the stadium thundered the anthem of the People’s Republic of China, “The March of the Volunteers.”

Never had the songs of the homeland sounded so beautiful; never had his heart brimmed with such pride. His eyes grew moist. This was the cry, the hope, the waiting of forty-four years.

The most familiar song is the national anthem, and yet it is often the most overlooked. When relaxed, people might listen to classical or pop, but who listens to the anthem? Yet here and now, it was the best song, the one that moved the soul, the one that united all hearts.

“Arise!
Ye who refuse to be slaves!
With our flesh and blood,
let us build a new Great Wall!
The Chinese nation faces
its greatest peril,
every man forced to
let out his last cry!
Arise!
Arise!
Arise!
Millions of hearts with one mind,
Brave the enemy’s gunfire,
March on!
Brave the enemy’s gunfire,
March on!
March on! March on! On!”

Mo Mo had once sought out the video of that year. When the anthem played, when the camera swept across the faces of Chinese fans, when the scene lingered on the unfurling of the Chinese flag, he could not help but feel a lump in his throat.

Now, truly immersed in it, the feeling was even more indescribable. Who does not love their country? Who does not wish for their homeland to be strong? To stand here, surrounded by the anthem of the motherland, what kind of feeling was this?

Yes, it’s true, we are facing Brazil!

Yes, we are facing Brazil! Yes! We are facing Brazil! But so what? When has my homeland ever feared a powerful enemy? When has our team ever retreated on the pitch?

Come, Brazil! Come! This is the honor of a nation. Look at our resolute faces—have we ever been afraid?

No matter how the media may judge us in the future, call us rubbish or useless! As long as we have a clear conscience, as long as we give our all, as long as we do not shrink back.

The nation will always be the nation, China will always be China, and our courage will always remain.

Family ties cannot be severed, nor can one abandon one’s people. Our homeland will be everlasting.

Mo Mo fixed his eyes on the field. Head coach Bora Milutinović, clad in a red tracksuit, turned to him and said,

“Don’t be nervous! Don’t be afraid! You’ll have your chance to play.”

Surrounded by fans cheering for China, hearing the pounding of the drums, forty-four years—forty-four years we have waited to stand here, coach.

What is there left to fear? What is there left to be nervous about?

We only fear not fighting hard enough, not striving enough, not being able to bring glory back to our homeland.

In 2002, the media in China was far too harsh on us. The media in later years was even harsher. Mo Mo shook his head, knowing that all the praise and cheers right now were only temporary. When the team was in trouble, all this applause would turn to scorn.

But Mo Mo was unafraid. China’s golden generation was already strong. Just a few years ago, their training only consisted of long-distance running!

The teams lined up to shake hands, with China taking the kickoff. The fiery red jerseys blazed upon the field.

Hao Haidong’s expression was solemn. His old opponent, Fan Zhiyi, was injured in the last match and unable to play, so the defense would have to rely on even more players. A trace of determination flashed in Hao Haidong’s eyes as he lifted his head, thinking to himself.

Fight! There’s no other way. So what if it’s Brazil? Even if—Hao Haidong hesitated, then managed a wry smile. Fine! The strongest Brazil is right across from us.

The whistle blew. China versus Brazil had officially begun.

Was the 2002 World Cup really just about ridicule and mockery over a 0:9 scoreline? Open your eyes and see! See! Don’t look at the score, don’t look at the reports—just look at the scene itself! A sharp gleam flashed in Mo Mo’s eyes—this was a Chinese team that would never yield, never fear a mighty foe.