Chapter Five: The Best Player on the Field

The match had returned to its initial state. The players from Salb seemed intent on holding onto their 1-0 lead until the final whistle, while Hannover 96 lacked the courage to press forward, dutifully following Peter Neureuther’s instructions.

Wasn’t it strange? The top-ranked team in the league, trailing in the home stadium of the bottom-of-the-table side, yet playing defensively. It looked for all the world like they were handing Salb three points on a silver platter, to help them avoid relegation!

A fire raged in Mo Mo’s chest. This couldn’t go on, no—something had to be done to change the situation. Opportunities for Bill to get the ball were pitifully rare, and the Hannover 96 players looked less like footballers and more like strollers in the park.

This isn’t right. This isn’t what football is about. Mo Mo told himself that football should never be this dull!

In his eyes, football was a sport of fierce confrontation, where sweat was spilled and victory was seized through relentless effort. But what was this?

He lifted his head, resignation flickering in his eyes. Salb had been employing a dense defensive strategy throughout the second half.

Compact defense, one of football’s tactical approaches. The area within thirty meters of the goal is often called the “danger zone.”

To shore up their defenses, teams often pack this area with players, creating a dense barrier that closes up space and blocks opponents’ advances. This is known as tight, compact defending.

In such circumstances, even if Dorr did manage to pass him the ball, it would be nearly impossible to carve through the defense as he had before. Mo Mo felt a pang of helplessness—but then his eyes suddenly lit up.

He noticed that Salb’s players were getting restless. Their wingers had edged closer to the halfway line, and their strikers were inching into Hannover 96’s half. Could it be that Salb wanted to score again?

It was an unexpected surprise. In the sixty-ninth minute, Salb’s players seemed to lose their patience. A single goal wasn’t enough for them. In the eyes of the Salb strikers and midfielders passing him by, Mo Mo saw a glint of ambition.

Salb wanted more goals. They wanted Hannover 96 to leave not with a narrow defeat, but a crushing one—humiliated on their own turf.

Wonderful! Mo Mo thought to himself. This was the kind of team he wanted: one with an unquenchable thirst for victory, no matter what.

“Salb’s players appear to be changing formation. They were playing a 5-4-1, but now they’re shifting to a 4-1-2-1-2. Looks like they want to attack. Hannover 96’s players on the pitch seem oblivious—I’d be delighted to see Salb teach these lazy Hannover 96 lads a painful lesson.”

The commentator’s tone was edged with dissatisfaction. He was neither a fan of Hannover 96 nor Salb; as a pure football lover, he craved passion, clashes, goals, dribbling—not this dreary spectacle.

Not everyone was oblivious, though. At least Dorr sensed the danger—Salb’s players were closing in on him. But his realization came too late; just as he was about to shout a warning, Salb launched a fierce assault.

“Salb are on the attack—quick and sharp! If they’d played like this all season, they wouldn’t be fighting relegation now. Go on, Salb! Teach those lackadaisical Hannover 96 players a lesson!”

Salb’s holding midfielder sent a sweeping pass upfield. The left winger received it, and before the shell-shocked Hannover 96 right midfielder could react, he sent a through ball to their new advanced playmaker.

Bill couldn’t catch up in time. All he could do was shout, trying to rouse his sleepwalking teammates. But by the time Hannover 96’s defenders realized the threat and moved to block Salb’s advanced playmaker, he had already threaded another incisive pass through to their withdrawn striker.

“What a rapid move! Salb have upped the tempo, using more direct passes to tear through the midfield. Hannover 96’s players must be stunned by this lightning attack. Beautiful—a superb ball!”

With the opposition striker now only thirty yards from goal, Hannover 96’s defenders made the mistake of closing him down tightly. But the opponent was a withdrawn striker—his job was to draw defenders’ attention and create scoring chances for his teammates.

Another slick through ball, and Salb’s attacking striker took possession. The defenders around the withdrawn striker turned desperately to cover; the nearest full-back closed in. At that moment, Salb’s striker slotted a diagonal pass—who was it for?

As the hapless Hannover 96 players turned, they saw the ball returned perfectly to Salb’s withdrawn striker.

“What a lovely one-two! Hannover 96’s back line is really below par this time. Now it all rests on the goalkeeper.”

Salb’s withdrawn striker broke into the box. Hannover’s keeper bent forward, eyes focused. Now, only he stood between Salb and another goal.

“Beautiful! Salb’s striker has a one-on-one—will he shoot? From this angle, he should score… wait! It’s a pass!”

With the keeper closing down the angle, the Salb striker realized his chances of scoring were slim. Without hesitation, he feinted a shot and passed instead.

“Salb’s striker passes—to their advanced playmaker! The ball’s a bit slow—he shoots!”

The pass was underhit, the ball rolling slowly, but for Salb’s playmaker, it was perfect. He chased it down and fired a shot.

“Hannover 96’s keeper reacts brilliantly, parrying the ball away! That pass was just a bit too slow, giving the keeper precious time to react.”

Everyone in Hannover 96 colors breathed a sigh of relief, even Peter Neureuther’s heart skipped a beat. Fortunately, the keeper had saved the shot.

Now Salb’s attacking striker rushed in for the rebound, but a Hannover defender, back in time, hoofed the ball clear—right into Salb’s half.

“Salb’s players are still ruing their missed opportunity!”

The commentator sounded incredulous. Perhaps from his high vantage, he could see what others couldn’t: a yellow-skinned, black-haired Hannover 96 player racing to the loose ball’s landing spot.

“Him again! That incredible Chinese lad! He always finds the weaknesses—his sense for picking up loose balls is uncanny.”

A burst of jeers thundered through the stadium as Mo Mo snatched up the ball. Under this sudden barrage of noise, Salb’s players, startled, realized with a jolt: it was that Chinese player again! The number 37, MOMO—he had the ball once more.

Mo Mo paid them no heed. In his eyes, there was only one objective: Salb’s goal.

His mission was singular—to send the ball at his feet crashing into Salb’s net.

His unusual dribbling style was no longer an issue. Whether he was running with the ball or chasing it, nothing else mattered.

What mattered was that he loved football, loved the feeling of running on the pitch.

Mo Mo ran—not for any other reason, but because in this life, he would live for football. He wanted to play, and more than that, he wanted to score.

“Number 37, MOMO, the Chinese player—he’s burst into the box! He shoots!”

Mo Mo let out a furious roar, startling the keeper who was set to block his shot. In that split second, a streak of white zipped past Salb’s keeper.

“It’s in! It’s in! Hannover’s number 37, MOMO from China, has finally scored! His first-half goal was disallowed and turned into a penalty, which he missed, but after relentless effort in the second half, he’s finally scored! He’s drawn the match level for Hannover 96!”

After confirming the goal, Mo Mo turned and pumped his fist towards the stands. Then, he let out a mighty roar—astonishingly loud for someone not especially tall.

That roar carried so much: a lifetime’s love of football unfulfilled, years of struggle for a substitute appearance, then a starting spot, and now finally, a goal.

He ignored the jeers and abuse from the stands. Even if this was only a second-division goal, even if it was just against the seventeenth-placed, bottom-of-the-table Salb, it was his first goal, the most memorable of all.

Mo Mo screamed himself hoarse, still not satisfied. He spun around and sprinted across the pitch, reveling in the feeling. He howled as he ran, finally trying to slide on his knees, but clumsily fell flat. So he simply lay on his back, gazing up at the sky, tears streaming down his face—how wonderful it was just to be able to play.

“Hey, kid, are you crazy!?”

He turned to see Dorr looking at him in bewilderment. Dorr had celebrated wildly after his own first goal, but never like this—Mo Mo’s joy was almost incomprehensible.

“No, I’m not. I just love football too much, Dorr. You wouldn’t understand.”

Dorr shrugged, a note of regret in his voice.
“Is that so? Well, I have some bad news for you. The coach has decided to take you off.”

Mo Mo sat up abruptly, staring at Dorr in disbelief.
“What? Take me off? Then who’ll play striker?”

Dorr glanced at Mo Mo, shrugged, but didn’t answer. Mo Mo pressed him again.
“You’re not taking me off now, right? It has to be at a stoppage of play. I still have time. Dorr, pass me the ball, please.”

Seeing Mo Mo’s eager face, Dorr rubbed his forehead and finally replied helplessly,
“You’re coming off now, Mo Mo, because right now is a stoppage of play.”

At that moment, the referee walked over, pointed at his watch, and signaled that any further delay would be excessive time-wasting.

Mo Mo could only walk off the pitch in resignation. As he did, a smattering of applause drifted from the stands—the few Hannover 96 fans present, grateful for his equalizing goal.

As Mo Mo stepped off, Peter Neureuther stood, arms folded, a cold sneer on his lips. Mo Mo looked up; Neureuther simply said,
“Go sit down. What are you standing here for?”

Mo Mo tightened his fists, said nothing, and slumped onto the substitute bench, his eyes vacant as he gazed back at the field. The game had returned to lifelessness; Salb were content to defend for a draw, and Hannover 96 showed no intention of mounting a serious attack.

Peter Neureuther glanced at the dejected Mo Mo, a faint smile curling on his lips. Try to challenge me? I’ll show you who’s really in charge here.

The final score remained 1-1. Mo Mo was named man of the match. Dorr congratulated him, but Mo Mo seemed lost—this accolade was not what he wanted. All he desired was more time on the pitch.

Thanks to his man-of-the-match performance, Mo Mo earned about 400 training points. He estimated a starting appearance was worth around 300, a substitute’s about 150, and weekly training netted 60 to 80 points.

To raise an attribute from 6.6 or 6.8 up to 7 required 197 to 207 points. Simulating a maxed-out score of 20 would require at least 100,000 points. Even if he played in higher leagues, amassing that many points in a short time would be nearly impossible. Just upgrading from “competent” to “proficient” required over 2,000 skill points, and to reach “mastery,” in his current state, would take at least 10,000.

After putting all his newly earned points into shooting, his shooting skill reached 6.8, just shy of 7. Mo Mo decided to first raise all attributes below ten to ten, then focus on shooting and positioning.

The next match was the thirty-first round of the second division, set for April 13th against seventh-placed Frankfurt, to be held at Hannover 96’s home, AWD Arena.

Karmont and Freddy Bobic were still out injured and wouldn’t return until after that match, meaning Peter Neureuther would have to rely on Mo Mo again. Or would he?

At that moment, Peter Neureuther was in the Hannover 96 youth team, eyeing a young striker with satisfaction. Standing 1.93 meters tall, Karl fit Neureuther’s criteria perfectly. As for that troublesome “yellow monkey,” he’d be left on the bench. He’d show him who could truly lead the team to victory.