Chapter Twenty-Five: The Shot

Amidst the jubilant cheers of the surrounding fans, Mo Mo felt a pang of guilt within. He knew he lacked the strength to lead the team to victory, or even to help them draw level. Yet, in truth, Mo Mo was overthinking it. Among Chinese fans, only a few harbored wild hopes for a win; most simply wished for a single goal—just one goal would suffice!

“The match has reached the fifty-seventh minute. Li Tie, from the Chinese defense, makes a long clearance, sending the ball deep into Brazil’s half.”

Li Tie squinted, and all his teammates watched intently. They recalled the coach’s words in the locker room: Mo Mo possessed an uncanny sense for finding the right spot and making runs. Perhaps he lacked Hao Haidong’s explosive speed, but on the field, Hao’s acceleration had not proved advantageous. Was the coach right?

He was. For everyone could see it: beneath the falling ball—there was Mo Mo!

“Mo Mo! Mo Mo has read the trajectory perfectly! Danger! Number 8, Gilberto Silva, is closing in! Beautiful!”

From the moment he stepped onto the pitch, Mo Mo began swiftly searching for position. His greatest strengths now were his imagination and composure, enabling him to make the right choice in any situation. As number 8, Gilberto Silva, closed in, most players would need three seconds—or even longer—to decide what to do.

Yet Mo Mo only needed a second. He recalled Cafu’s signature move and decided to try it. So, as Gilberto Silva arrived, all he saw was the arc of the ball sailing over his head, and then a figure darting past him! A perfect feint, ball and body going separate ways!

The Chinese fans erupted in an instant! Unlike Hao Haidong, whose fame guaranteed a Brazilian defender would always shadow him unless he dropped deep, Mo Mo was different.

Mo Mo preferred to roam the field in quick, shuffling steps, his mind constantly calculating the ball’s flight and possible landing spots—always envisioning the ball dropping in the attacking third. This made his movements unpredictable.

He wasn’t seeking open space; he was seeking the ball itself. In such circumstances, the Brazilian defenders couldn’t afford to stick to him tightly; they had their own zones to patrol, their own responsibilities. Mo Mo was a nightmare for them: by all logic, he was the forward to be marked, but he was small, hunched, and darted close by in a flash—if you didn’t look down, you might miss him entirely!

But that wasn’t all. Mo Mo’s range was vast! And the moment you let your guard down, he’d slipped away to another position—like a mosquito you track for a moment, but lose sight of the instant your focus wavers.

Number 14, Anderson Polga, was growing agitated. Just now, Mo Mo had been between him and Gilberto Silva, and the ball had dropped right there! Had the Chinese suddenly become passing maestros?

“Mo Mo is chasing the ball! Number 14, Anderson Polga, is also racing toward it! Ah!!!”

Chen let out a startled cry, barely able to watch. Poor Mo Mo was giving it his all, sprinting after the ball, but Polga was relentless. For the first time, someone reached the ball before Mo Mo!

Polga got there first, pivoted sharply, and Mo Mo crashed into him, tumbling to the ground in a couple of rolls. It looked serious, but in truth, Mo Mo was just diffusing the impact.

Polga hadn’t expected this little Chinese forward to react that way. After clearing the ball far upfield, he turned and asked, “Are you all right?”

Mo Mo dusted himself off, bared his teeth in a grin at Polga, and replied, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Perhaps because Brazil was ahead and Polga was more relaxed, he even responded, “Your Portuguese is really good!”

Mo Mo’s eyes flickered with a cunning light. At that moment, he and Polga were side by side, though Polga had to look down, while Mo Mo didn’t need to. Thus, Mo Mo saw something Polga could not.

“It’s nothing, I’m a language genius. Look behind you!”

It was shameless, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that, at Mo Mo’s sudden outburst, Polga actually turned his head instinctively. By the time he realized there was nothing there and turned back, Mo Mo was already sprinting away!

“Though China trails by a wide margin, their minds are still clear, trying to organize—watch out! Number 6, Roberto Carlos, breaks into the box! One-on-one! The ball goes past the keeper—ah! Magnificent! Du Wei controls it, long pass! Who is that? Mo Mo!”

Polga wasn’t truly careless—at that moment, his team was already in China’s penalty area, on the verge of a one-on-one with the goalkeeper. Polga thought the score would be 5-0 any second. Who could have foreseen what happened next?

“Mo Mo! Mo Mo has the ball! This is a one-on-one chance! Hm? Polga’s speed is incredible—he’s faster than Mo Mo! Mo Mo will be caught at the edge of the box!”

Polga sprinted after the number 13 Chinese player, the gap closing fast. He swore to teach this Chinese kid a lesson! Mo Mo felt Polga gaining; he could even hear the Brazilian’s heavy breathing behind him.

“Polga catches up! Mo Mo stops abruptly and pivots—he’s knocked to the ground! The referee signals advantage! Attack? Where’s the ball? The ball! Ma Mingyu!”

In that split second, Mo Mo made his decision—his right foot stamped on the ball, stopping and spinning. At the instant Polga collided with him, it was like slipping on a banana peel: Mo Mo remained, but where was the ball?

It rolled diagonally into the box. Ma Mingyu surged past both of them, and goalkeeper Marcos charged out to meet the challenge!

“Ma Mingyu gets to the ball first! Ma Mingyu shoots!”

The roar of Chinese fans thundered all around. Mo Mo rolled on the ground, still aching from the collision, but he saw it—he saw Ma Mingyu reach the ball!

“Put it in! Come on!”

“Ma Mingyu shoots!”