Chapter 21 NO

When Marcos Cafu took his shot, everyone—no, the vast majority—believed it was a sure thing. The speed was good, the angle perfect, the distance close, and most importantly, he struck the ball unhurried and unchallenged. Brazilian supporters were already celebrating, as if the goal had materialized before their eyes. Among Chinese fans, some glared in anger, some shielded their faces in dread, and others stared wide-eyed, as if struck with terror.

Even Mo Mo couldn't sit still; no one believed Jiang Jin could save that shot—not a single soul.

But then, against all odds, Jiang Jin blocked it. Maybe it was instinct, maybe something else, but regardless, Jiang Jin leapt and parried the ball away!

“Jiang Jin! Jiang Jin! Jiang Jin has done it! Forget about that earlier free kick—this save! Magnificent! The Chinese team says NO to Brazil! Jiang Jin says NO to Brazil! We will concede no more! Not with Jiang Jin! Not with our indomitable defense!”

Chen Nu's voice was nearly incoherent, overwhelmed by the brilliance of the moment—no one expected it, yet he made the save.

“Number 21, Xu Yunlong! Xu Yunlong clears! After Jiang Jin's save, Xu Yunlong boots the ball away!”

Chen Nu felt reborn; watching a seemingly unstoppable goal denied, he felt himself come alive again. On the field, Chinese fans glimpsed hope anew—the save had tremendously lifted their spirits. “We’re not inferior! We have outstanding players too!”

The cheers for the Chinese team rang out again. Some fans with drums began to beat them: the east wind blows, the war drums thunder—China will fight to the end!

“The ball's been intercepted again! Brazil! Ronaldinho! Beautiful! Roberto Carlos tries a cross—Chinese defender flies in, says NO!”

The ball, barely passed, was snatched by a Brazilian, quickly played to Ronaldinho. Confronted by Chinese defenders, he had grown wiser—sending a pass straight to Roberto Carlos. Under pressure, Carlos dared not linger, swinging a diagonal pass toward the center.

A Chinese player, as if airborne, hurled himself to block the ball, sending it soaring outside the penalty area.

“Brazil again! They have a player in position! Danger! Ahhhhhhhh!”

Chen Nu shrieked in alarm, but no one blamed him. In that split second, number 21, Xu Yunlong, closest to the Brazilian, hurled himself forward, leaping fearlessly to contest the ball. He got a touch, but the impact sent the ball almost straight up, not far away.

“Careful! Careful! Ah! Brazil—no, beautiful!”

A Brazilian lurked under the dropping ball, ready to pounce, but a Chinese player flew in, volleying it away midair. Now, only the roars of “Go China!” and the relentless drumbeats filled the stadium.

“Every Chinese in the stadium is chanting as one! My feelings are impossible to describe... Xu Yunlong is still on the ground, but the match goes on!”

Such determination! People often dismiss the 2002 World Cup with a casual “they just worked hard.” Just worked hard? In a single minute, you’d see multiple players throw themselves into tackles, collisions, and slides.

Just last match against Costa Rica, both Sun Jihai and Fan Zhiyi suffered injuries and couldn’t play today. Facing such fighting spirit, how can one remain unmoved? How can it be dismissed so lightly?

The game continued, China refusing to give up on attack, though Hao Haidong was completely shackled up front. Coach Bora Milutinović had no better plan—this was always a match with no real hope. That they had fought to this point was already astonishing.

“China regains possession and kicks the ball out. Xu Yunlong is still down, clutching his head, his teammates worried as they rush over.”

There was concern in Chen Nu’s voice—another injury? Mo Mo glanced at Coach Bora Milutinović, whose face was etched with anxiety. There was still the next match against Turkey to think about! What would they do if Xu Yunlong, too, was injured?

“Xu Yunlong was hurt in the contest with an opponent, and the coach has come over. We don’t yet know the extent of his injury. The medical staff is hurrying over—the match has gone on for twenty minutes. Let’s hope Xu Yunlong recovers; a forced substitution now would be…”

Chen Nu’s concern was evident, but what could he say? Criticize Xu Yunlong for giving his all?

“The replay shows Xu Yunlong was struck on the back of the head by Ronaldinho’s hand in a tussle. Now, here’s Roberto Carlos’s free kick—Jiang Jin’s beautiful save. What a pity! Wait—Xu Yunlong is back on the pitch.”

Chen Nu’s voice relaxed, relieved—Xu Yunlong was fine. With Fan Zhiyi absent, Xu Yunlong was indispensable.

Mo Mo, too, let out a breath. It seemed Ronaldinho’s elbow had caught him, but after brief treatment, Xu Yunlong was all right.

The match continued. Coach Bora Milutinović stood nervously on the sideline, discussing tactics with his staff. Nine Chinese players formed an impenetrable defensive line in the back, leaving Brazil with few opportunities.

“Compared to the last match against Costa Rica, the Chinese team is clearly more relaxed. Last time, they seemed too desperate for victory and played with restraint. Now, knowing the odds are slim, they’re producing some excellent teamwork.”

With the defense so solid, Chen Nu also found himself relaxing. Well, if we lose, so be it! Losing by just one isn’t shameful—not to Brazil.

Chinese fans continued their relentless cheering, as if their voices could grant the players boundless strength, as if their chants could summon victory. Mo Mo felt his heart surge in the midst of the noise.

He could not hear a single shout from Brazilian fans—the whole stadium resounded only with cries of “Go China!” and the thunder of drums.

“Brilliant! Chinese defenders head the ball clear from the box, sending Brazil away empty-handed!”

No matter how fierce Brazil’s onslaught, Chen Nu’s voice was calm. Some might say the attacking team usually fails to score—but that’s only true when the teams are evenly matched!

Why always be so negative? Why judge by the score alone? For yourself, you always say: I tried my best, lost, but it’s all right, I’ll start over. Why be so harsh on your own country’s football?

Now is when support is needed most, when it’s time for rebirth. Whether in 2002 or the dark years that followed, how could all be dismissed so easily?

Watching the players struggle and sweat, seeing Xu Yunlong still with his head bandaged, the grave expressions of the Chinese players still fighting even against mighty Brazil, even knowing they are outmatched—if he could, Mo Mo would leap onto the pitch himself and fight alongside them, sharing in the struggle, the jeers, and the scorn.

“Roberto Carlos shoots from outside the box, but it’s well wide.”

China’s defense was airtight; anyone trying to enter the penalty area faced immediate interception—there was simply no gap. Roberto Carlos could only finish the attack with a speculative long shot.

“Wait, the replay now shows Roberto Carlos’s free kick goal. The Brazilian bench seems quite excited about it!”

After so many Brazilian passes, searching for openings and coming up empty, Chen Nu noticed something new: the Brazilian bench and players were visibly excited about Carlos’s free kick goal.

“Brazil is passing back and forth outside the box, trying to lure China forward to create space. You can see they’re frustrated by China’s defense. It’s been a while since we’ve seen Ronaldo or Ronaldinho break through—they’ve clearly suffered at the Chinese back line.”

Chen Nu watched the field, not cheering for China’s perfect defense; with nothing happening up front and a goal down, what use is defense alone?

Mo Mo’s brow furrowed—how cunning and patient Brazil was, slowly drawing China out of their half. After a back pass to number 4, Roque Júnior, China’s compact nine-man defense was finally stretched, both in width and depth. What would happen now?

“Number 4, Roque Júnior, charges into China’s half, as if to say, ‘If you don’t believe me, watch this!’ But China’s midfield closes down, and he has to pass to Ronaldinho, who immediately plays it away, not letting the Chinese defenders get close.”

Chen Nu’s commentary sped up—Brazil’s tempo was quickening. It was like boiling a frog in warm water; the heat was rising.

“Number 6, Roberto Carlos, receives the ball on the sideline, almost saying, ‘Come any closer and I’ll jump off the cliff—out of bounds!’”

Even Chen Nu cracked a rare joke—the tension was suffocating. He’d rather see Brazil attack nonstop than these sudden surges, these shifts from intensity to calm, fast to slow.

Number 18, Li Xiaopeng, approached cautiously, probing for a challenge. Roberto Carlos struck the ball with the inside of his left foot, sending it flying at great speed. His left foot—the same that opened the scoring with that free kick—a skill that was simply unstoppable.

A Brazilian received the ball and quickly moved it on. Ronaldinho broke forward—danger! Into the box!

Too fast! In barely two or three seconds, Brazil completed two passes without an error, forming a triangle with Ronaldinho in the center, a Chinese player behind him, two more left and right, all quite close. The one behind reached out, as if to pull Ronaldinho’s shirt.

“Ronaldinho! Ronaldinho goes down—just half a meter outside the box. Number 17! Du Wei with perfect defense. The referee judges Ronaldinho to have dived and shows him a yellow card!”

Chen Nu wiped his brow in relief—at the last moment, Ronaldinho lunged towards the box with explosive acceleration. If Du Wei had been a step slower, Ronaldinho would have entered the area and had a clear shot.

“Let’s watch the replay. Number 17, Du Wei, defending Ronaldinho—his stance is wide, Ronaldinho pushes the ball through Du Wei’s legs, then darts around his right. Just as he’s about to reach the box, Du Wei, knowing he’s the last line of defense, grabs for Ronaldinho’s shirt, but Ronaldinho collapses as if punched!”

It was the right decision—one small step from the box. If Ronaldinho had fallen a second later, it would have been a penalty, or else Jiang Jin would have needed to make another miraculous save. But Ronaldinho had dived?

Mo Mo looked at Coach Bora Milutinović, knowing he probably had no solution. He understood the gulf between the two sides, but still he wondered if the coach had any secret weapon left.

Milutinović, sensing Mo Mo’s gaze, turned and met his eyes. Mo Mo understood—his face was full of anxiety and helplessness. His best cards, Sun Jihai and Fan Zhiyi—one of defense’s twin pillars—were both injured. The substitutes were not necessarily better than those already on the field.

Besides, under such high pressing, the physical and mental toll on the Chinese players was enormous.

“Danger! He’s broken through! Who is it?”

It was number 10, Rivaldo, surrounded by three Chinese players, his feet a blur, trying to confuse his defenders.

Just as everyone thought Rivaldo would pass, he suddenly shifted left, two Chinese players scrambling to keep up. Turning quickly, he shook off a defender, then, after a brief feint, received a return pass from a teammate who’d drawn away another Chinese player. Now Rivaldo faced two lines of defense.

He paused, and just as the trailing defender closed in, Rivaldo burst forward. The first line of three defenders tried to trap him, but he sped past two, matching strides with a third. Then, of the remaining four defenders, three closed in, converging on Rivaldo.

“Danger!”

Chen Nu was almost speechless. The three-man and four-man defensive lines converged, but Rivaldo feinted, slipped past the first, and the triangle was broken—he was free!

“He’s into the box! Rivaldo breaks into the penalty area!”

Chen Nu’s voice grew sharp; Mo Mo was stunned. How could this be? They hadn’t stopped him?

All around, the cries of “Go China!” turned into meaningless screams.

No!