Chapter Eighteen: Eight Minutes

The surroundings erupted in chaos; no one could remain calm any longer. Even Mo Mo hadn’t expected Ronaldinho to pull off such a move!

“Number 4, Wu Chengying! Number 4, Wu Chengying!!!”

When Ronaldinho made that nutmeg dribble, Wu Chengying, number 4, was positioned with his back to Ronaldinho, trying to block him out. Ronaldinho slipped through the defense between two men, the ball sliding right through Wu Chengying’s legs—a threatening attack, no doubt about it.

But Wu Chengying kept his composure. With a decisive swing of his foot, he sent the ball sailing far over the sideline, relieving the crisis. Mo Mo couldn’t help but punch the air—brilliant! Simply brilliant! The Chinese team’s performance in the first half had been nothing short of beautiful!

“That’s a corner kick, and I must praise our head coach, Bora Milutinović, once again! Say what you will about other aspects, but China’s defensive display is truly astonishing!”

Mo Mo hadn’t anticipated this: timely close marking, well-placed blocks and challenges, and the perfect cover at just the right moments. Both offensively and defensively, China’s play during this period had Mo Mo clapping and cheering. Magnificent!

“Number 10, Rivaldo, is taking the corner. He sends it in quickly, but doesn’t aim for the box—the penalty area is packed tight. Two Brazilian players start a passing game at the edge, but, well, their wall pass goes too long. Offside.”

Number 6, Roberto Carlos, picks up the ball, looking somewhat frustrated. All around, Chinese fans roar with excitement, the stadium boiling over like a pot of water. Mo Mo thinks, every Chinese person right now must feel proud—because we’re holding our own against Brazil, trading attacks and defenses. It’s unbelievable.

“That was a perfect play! Watching the replay in slow motion, you can see how smart our back line is—they all stayed put, waiting for number 6, Roberto Carlos, to make his run after the wall pass, catching him offside! I have to praise head coach Bora Milutinović again! How does he do it?”

Chen Nu’s voice carried a hint of teasing as he once more praised Milutinović. Chinese fans, having heard this countless times, joked that he didn’t need to say it again—but every time the defense excelled, Chen Nu couldn’t help it. After all, Milutinović had built this Chinese defense from scratch; everyone remembered what the defenders used to be like.

Mo Mo found it a little awkward himself—wasn’t it just a bit embarrassing? Two players ignited with passion, only to find the Chinese defenders watching them as if they were children asking for candy, or monkeys in a zoo—especially Roberto Carlos at the end, everyone simply watched him chase after the ball.

Roberto Carlos, too, was left speechless. What was this? The corner came to him, he and Rivaldo made a stylish run on the sideline, but when he passed the ball back, all the Chinese defenders stepped up, leaving him offside.

And worst of all, Rivaldo, number 10, couldn’t wait to return the ball as soon as he got it, and overhit the pass! So, knowing full well he was offside, on the world stage of the World Cup, with all eyes on him, Roberto Carlos couldn’t help but chase after the ball.

“All right, a long kick toward Brazil’s half! Ahhh!”

Chen Nu slapped his thigh in frustration. The ball was well placed, and Hao Haidong was there, but he was no match for the Brazilian in the air—he simply couldn’t outjump him.

“Danger! After two simple passes from the back, a Brazilian player delivers a precise through ball, slicing right through midfield—Chinese midfielders are nowhere to be found! Beautiful!”

After a couple of transitions, the ball was sent toward the edge of China’s box. Was that Ronaldo? Or Ronaldinho? It didn’t matter—a Chinese player in red appeared behind him and intercepted the ball! Excellent defending!

“Oh no! The Brazilians press hard, and China can’t afford to be careless! After two quick exchanges, China chooses to send the ball back to the defense!”

The action was moving too quickly for Chen Nu to even tell who was who on the pitch. The Brazilians pressed aggressively, while the Chinese team, like a small boat in stormy seas, had no option but to pass back and slow the tempo.

“Here comes a long ball from the Brazilian back line! The Brazilian captain, number 2, Marcos Cafu, receives it on the edge of the box! He chooses to pass back to a midfield teammate—under China’s tight defense, he has no opportunity at all!”

Chen Nu’s voice was both excited and encouraging, as if cheering on himself and everyone watching. China’s defensive positioning truly was impressive—the box was sealed tight, and Cafu, the Brazilian captain, didn’t dare attempt to break through, instead passing to Ronaldinho in the middle.

“There will be no chances! None! Our defense is solid! The opponent is forced to pass again! Intercepted! Watch out!”

Just as Ronaldinho passed back to Cafu, a Chinese player suddenly pressed forward, taking control of the ball and sending it toward the outside. Unfortunately, Ronaldinho and Cafu reacted quickly, recovering the ball near the sideline.

“Oh no! It’s Li Tie! He was moving too fast and couldn’t stop, slipping and falling by the sideline. Now Brazil is in possession!”

Chen Nu’s voice betrayed his regret; Brazil’s pressing was simply relentless.

“Brilliant! Brilliant!!”

China’s pressing was solid as well—they quickly regained control of the ball. This match was simply spectacular! So far, yes, absolutely! Both sides played at a furious pace, especially Brazil with their standout individual and team play.

“And it’s stolen again!”

Within a single minute, the ball changed possession several times, both teams locked in a fierce battle for control near the Chinese penalty area.

“Ronaldinho!”

Terrifying! Brazil was terrifying! That was all Chen Nu could feel at that moment, and even Mo Mo couldn’t help but be in awe—such passes were his favorite.

Under China’s tight formation, Brazil appeared to retreat and pass back, but before anyone could catch their breath, they fired a laser-precise through ball, finding Ronaldinho right behind the last line of defense.

It was like a bolt of lightning across the sky—the Chinese midfielders could do nothing to intercept.

“China presses forward quickly, Ronaldinho doesn’t linger on the ball! He sends it left! Over there! Hurry!”

In that direction, both a Chinese and a Brazilian player were converging. Who would get there first?

“He’s got it! Beautiful! Who is it? Who made the play? Ah! Careful!”

The pace was dizzying—barely seven or eight minutes into the first half, yet it already felt like an entire match. The intensity! The attacking and defending, the battle for possession!

“Beautiful! He shakes off the Brazilian pressing him—Ronaldinho! Watch out!”

When Ronaldinho passed, another Brazilian was hot on the chase. The Chinese player took control first, but the Brazilian immediately went in for the tackle. Calmly, the Chinese player nudged and shifted, evading him.

Then Ronaldinho himself appeared, rushing forward to challenge. Mo Mo’s expression grew tense—Ronaldinho’s off-the-ball movement was exceptional!

“Yes! That’s it! Wonderful!”

With no other choice in such a dangerous situation, the Chinese player went to ground, sliding the ball away as he fell. Ronaldinho clearly hadn’t expected it—the ball slipped away, and he was left with nothing. Both players tumbled to the ground.

Mo Mo’s eyes widened at the sight. Even as he finished the move, the Chinese player's eyes and head still strained upwards, searching—where was the ball? He cared nothing for himself, or who he was facing—only for the ball.

“Number 4, Wu Chengying, is closest to the ball—with a Brazilian fast approaching behind him! The intensity is off the charts! The Brazilian media claimed this would be a foregone conclusion, as if China playing Brazil at table tennis—rubbish! This is worth it! China, keep going!”

Chen Nu, clearly shaken by the recent burst of action, was extremely animated—but the fans embraced it. With hearts bound together, they faced Brazil alongside their national team, and the team did not let them down, delivering surprise after surprise.

We are facing Brazil! We are facing Brazil! We are facing Brazil!

So what? We’re not afraid! We dare to fight! We haven’t brought shame to China!

The fervent shouts and cheers from all around coalesced into four words: Go, China!

Time seemed to freeze in that instant. Ronaldinho, lying on the ground, looked back at number 15, Zhao Junzhe—the player who threw himself into danger at the crucial moment. Why did he do it? Meanwhile, Wu Chengying, number 4, controlled the ball, fighting hard to clear the danger area.

Mo Mo took a deep breath. The World Cup of 2002—I am not ashamed of you. I am proud, I am filled with pride. For whom did you face? And what spirit and resolve did you show? Honor to those who came before; ask yourself. The 2002 World Cup.

“Beautiful! Cafu’s challenge didn’t fluster Wu Chengying in the slightest—he simply poked the ball to a teammate coming to support him. Hm? That’s number 8, Li Tie, arriving in time!”

Li Tie took the ball but didn’t linger—defense was no longer safe. He sent it forward to midfield, relieving the pressure. But for the midfielder, things weren’t easy—barely beyond the box, surrounded by two or three Brazilian players, trapped in the middle of five.

“Careful! Good! Good! Good!!!”

The midfielder stepped up and intercepted, sidestepping the first man, then colliding with another—ball and man both went tumbling toward the side, the Brazilian in hot pursuit. Another quick sidestep, and suddenly he’d pulled ahead by a body length. The Brazilian, out of options, tugged at his jersey.

“That’s a foul! That’s a damn foul! Is this Brazil? Hooligans! That’s hooliganism!”

The action was so quick that it wasn’t until the player fell that Chen Nu realized it was Qi Hong.

Mo Mo, watching intently from the sideline, had been analyzing Brazil’s shifting rhythms, the way their pace changed so quickly and unpredictably. As for Qi Hong’s fall—Mo Mo saw clearly that the Brazilian did tug his shirt, but it wasn’t really a foul; it was within the rules.

In fact, after the brief tug, the Brazilian got a touch on the ball. Qi Hong’s fall looked a bit theatrical. The thunderous noise all around didn’t distract Mo Mo—he remained focused.

Brazil launched another attack through the middle, searching for openings with crisp passing. In the meantime, Chinese players slid in for tackles, thwarting their advances and dangerous passes—the contest on the field was fierce.

“It’s only the eighth minute, but I feel like I’ve been commentating for an hour! Number 21, Xu Yunlong, takes the ball, but Roberto Carlos slides in and wins it—throw-in. Let’s see! Beautiful!”

Xu Yunlong hurled the ball in. A Brazilian player rushed to intercept, but the Chinese player didn’t stop the ball—instead, he passed it straight back. The Brazilian was fooled by their one-two, and China was on the attack!

Roberto Carlos clearly didn’t expect his teammate to be outplayed like that. He pressed Xu Yunlong quickly, hoping to win the ball back. Xu Yunlong flicked the ball with his right foot, darted left, leaving the ball and body going different ways. Roberto Carlos was left swaying, unable to react.

The crowd erupted. Everyone was electrified—including Mo Mo! Ahead of Xu Yunlong was open space—no Brazilian defenders in sight, he could charge straight into the box and give them a lesson they’d never forget!

Xu Yunlong glanced down at the ball, then looked up—Hao Haidong was already in position. In a flash, Xu Yunlong made his decision and sent a long cross into the box.

“A cross! Xu Yunlong didn’t try to force his way through, he chose to cross—that was the right decision, because as he struck the ball, Roberto Carlos was closing in fast, and more Brazilian players were rushing over! Hao Haidong! Haidong!!!”

The entire stadium exploded. Chinese players pounded their drums, shouted at the top of their lungs—everyone’s eyes were on this beautiful cross!

Today, the Chinese national team had given us so many surprises. But all those surprises—we’d trade them all for just this one: a goal!

We are facing Brazil! We are facing Brazil! We are facing Brazil!

But so what? We are China! What of it?

The stadium was in a frenzy. Mo Mo stood up, eyes locked on the arc of the ball soaring through the sky. Could history be rewritten? It had been—2:2 against Costa Rica! And now?