Chapter Twenty: Jiangjin

The trajectory of the ball was highly threatening, full of power—a truly magnificent free kick! The force and speed were both exceptional.

Mo Mo stood up, his eyes wide with astonishment. Jiang Jin’s fingertips grazed the ball, but still, it tore through the goal! 1:0, Brazil took the lead.

That’s it! Roberto Carlos! He remembered now—this was Roberto Carlos!

In later years, Roberto Carlos would be hailed as one of the top ten masters of the free kick; though some said he was a fleeting marvel, there could be no denying the brilliance of those legendary goals, which would be recounted for generations. Roberto Carlos’ free kicks embodied raw power—swift, sudden, and cunning, yet always forceful. To achieve maximum explosiveness, he often took a long, arcing run-up, adding even more strength to his strikes.

More importantly, Roberto Carlos was a left-footed player, his left leg brimming with power. His array of main guns, coupled with his exclusive techniques, made for a terrifying combination—his shots were truly formidable. And if one were to speak of legends, he was surely one: once the world’s greatest left-back, Roberto Carlos.

Jiang Jin stared at his hand in disbelief—he had touched it, he was certain he had. But it was not enough.

The Brazilian players erupted in wild celebration, all crowding around Roberto Carlos. The free kick he had just delivered was truly beautiful; perhaps not the most exquisite of his career, but a spectacular goal nonetheless.

Mo Mo glanced around anxiously, worried this goal might dampen his teammates’ spirits. To concede so early, just fifteen minutes in, would deal a blow to anyone’s morale. The entire stadium was filled with the thunderous cheers and clamor of the Brazilian fans, a din that lasted until the Chinese players gathered at the center circle to restart the game.

“Come on, China!” Suddenly, cries rang out from the stands. Mo Mo steadied himself and saw that his teammates on the field showed no signs of dejection; those around him seemed unsurprised, as if they had already foreseen such an outcome.

Yes, what more could they expect against Brazil? They had come into this match prepared for defeat. To put it bluntly, all their efforts now were simply to lose with dignity.

This goal had once again demonstrated the devastating power of Roberto Carlos’ left-footed free kick to the world. These fifteen minutes had also shown the world the quality of China’s defenders. If, before, the world had no impression of Chinese football, at least now they would remember China’s defensive line.

This goal was a testament to individual brilliance, not a failing of the Chinese defense. At least up until that moment, the back line had performed admirably.

The match continued. China did not give up; the impact of the goal seemed almost negligible. Their determination and struggle on the pitch were clear for all to see.

“Now the test for the defenders is even greater. Having witnessed such an extraordinary free kick, we must avoid fouling near the penalty area. Not only must we be wary of stars like Ronaldo, but also of Roberto Carlos’ left-footed free kicks,” Chen Nu commented, his voice calm and steady, a contrast to his usual style—an adjustment that unsettled those listening.

The match pressed on. The Chinese team launched several attacks, yet none penetrated the penalty area. The contest grew tense and stalemated. Mo Mo watched intently, searching for weaknesses, but Brazil’s defense was a self-contained, unyielding system.

Especially with Marcos Cafu plugging every gap, the Brazilian back line became even more solid.

“Long ball! Hao Haidong going for the header! How many times is this now?” Chen Nu’s tone grew anxious; the offensive efforts bore no fruit. Both teams now played quick transitions through midfield. Brazil often played direct balls from the back, and so did China. The difference was, Brazil had Ronaldo and Ronaldinho, while China had only Hao Haidong—and Hao could not win headers over the Brazilian defenders.

This made defense easy for Brazil. The almost miraculous Hao Haidong at the start of the match had vanished; against such high balls, a single robust Brazilian defender could easily neutralize him.

China began to focus more on counterattacks—but with little success.

Mo Mo straightened as No. 9, Ma Mingyu, had just tumbled to the ground. That had been a fast counterattack opportunity, but at the first challenge, Hao Haidong failed to beat the Brazilian defender to the ball. No. 9 Ma Mingyu, the captain, was farther from the ball than the Brazilians, but he hurled himself forward regardless—only to come away empty-handed.

They were growing impatient, Mo Mo thought. Such hasty counterattacks posed no real threat! At first, even Ronaldo would track back to help defend. But lately, he lingered in the backfield, waiting for a turnover.

Turning his eyes toward head coach Bora Milutinovic, Mo Mo hoped for some intervention. But what could he do? The secret weapon, Sun Jihai, was injured. In these circumstances, Yang Chen could not find his rhythm, and Fan Zhiyi was unavailable; otherwise, the defense would be even more solid.

What could be done? At this moment, coach Bora Milutinovic turned to look at Mo Mo, then shook his head.

Both Mo Mo and Bora Milutinovic understood: Brazil was not Costa Rica. They possessed a mature attacking and defensive system. For them, the World Cup felt like home. Their defensive line would not make the mistakes Costa Rica had. More importantly, Mo Mo’s explosiveness was no advantage against such a defense.

“Danger! Number 2! That’s Number 2, Marcos Cafu! It’s him again! He’s on China’s side of the field! He’s stolen the ball! He’s breaking through! There’s nothing but open space ahead of him!”

Chen Nu’s voice suddenly rose, high and urgent. It was the nineteenth minute. Number 2, Marcos Cafu, intercepted the ball and launched a rapid counterattack from deep.

The sudden shift in momentum showcased both China’s defensive prowess and Brazil’s world-class play. A Brazilian player advanced with the ball, two Chinese defenders closed in, stole it, and the ball rolled loose. No. 14, Li Weifeng, rushed forward to retrieve it, forming a triangle. But just as No. 14 Li Weifeng was about to reach the ball, from his blind spot, No. 2 Marcos Cafu appeared out of nowhere, intercepting with a decisive challenge. Li Weifeng spun quickly to intercept, but it was too late.

“Danger! Danger! Marcos Cafu is into the penalty area! Past the penalty spot! Marcos Cafu shoots! Ahhhhh!”

Chen Nu sounded as though witnessing a catastrophe, heightening the tension for already anxious Chinese fans.

Coach Bora Milutinovic punched the air in frustration. Mo Mo’s eyes were wide on the scene as cries echoed around.

Jiang Jin was unflustered and composed—no one could help him now.

Marcos Cafu wore a smile, as if he already saw the ball rolling into the net. He swung his leg, he shot—the angle was good!

Jiang Jin leapt with all his might, eyes wide, making one desperate gamble.