Chapter Thirty-Five: Heroes and Sinners (Part Four)

In that instant, Jiang Jin made the right call, but Brent Korkmaz’s header soared high. Jiang Jin leaned back, managed to touch the ball, but both he and the ball crossed the goal line together.

By the ninth minute of the match, Turkey was leading China 2–0. The Chinese fans in the stadium collectively fell silent, while the Turkish supporters erupted in wild celebration.

“Where are you going?”

The bespectacled student looked up at his classmate who was rising to leave. The other glanced at the television, muttering under his breath, “Why bother watching? I’m done with Chinese football! Absolute rubbish.” Even as he cursed, his hands tore at something—judging from the scraps on the floor, the glasses-wearing student guessed they were lottery tickets. He sighed, turned back to the television, and continued watching the beleaguered national team, thinking: we all shared in the joy of reaching the World Cup; now, as we face the abyss, let’s not abandon hope.

Meanwhile, the student who had stormed out, grumbling, couldn’t resist returning. He glanced at the TV, saw China being overwhelmed, shook his head, and silently swore never to watch the national team again, declaring them garbage. His resolve seemed true, and perhaps for a long time he would scorn the team. But if one day the national team showed unexpected strength, it was certain he would once again don the jersey he had so thoroughly despised, resuming his support for the nation’s team.

Bora Milutinović’s face was grim. Hao Haidong’s performance couldn’t be called poor, yet it contributed nothing to the overall situation. Some, like Yang Chen, wanted to slow the pace, but Hao Haidong’s authority was unchallenged. With Fan Zhiyi absent, Hao Haidong’s word was law. If Hao Haidong wanted to attack, who would dare stand in his way? When Fan Zhiyi was present, he could keep things in check outside the forward line; now, with him gone, the defenders could only cooperate. This threw the national team’s strategy into disarray.

“Momo! Get ready to warm up!”

Milutinović made a hard choice. To substitute so early in a World Cup match was far from ideal. But if things continued as they were, the attack would remain stagnant, the defense a mess, and Milutinović was sure another goal would soon be conceded.

“Coach? Isn’t it too early?”

Momo knew this wasn’t the best time for him to enter the game. The substitution would be a slight insult to Hao Haidong, whom Momo deeply admired.

Milutinović turned to look at Momo, who sensed some agitation in him. The media’s praise had unsettled Milutinović, who originally cared little for the accolades of leading an underdog team to the round of sixteen for the fifth time. Now, even he was somewhat lost. Momo could only sigh—the world’s most dangerous thing is flattery, and Chinese media had played that role. Perhaps some had noble intentions, but most simply followed the trend, heaping praise all the way.

Milutinović thought for a moment, seemed to regain his composure, and said to Momo, “Alright, but start warming up anyway.” Momo nodded and jogged to the side to begin his warm-up. Meanwhile, Milutinović went to the sideline, called Hao Haidong over, spoke to him, and Hao nodded in response. Yet, once back on the pitch, Hao Haidong continued as before.

“The match has reached the eleventh minute. Milutinović seems dissatisfied with Hao Haidong’s performance. Momo is warming up on the sideline. Is he about to be substituted in? Why replace a striker when the problem is in defense?”

Chen Nu spoke up for Hao Haidong, but sometimes coaches’ unconventional moves seemed odd. The happenings in the national team’s locker room were beyond outsiders’ understanding. Logically, defensive errors called for stronger attack, but why remove Hao Haidong, the pillar of China’s offense?

Healthy competition breeds progress; dominance by one is a strategic disaster. Without Fan Zhiyi’s restraint, Hao Haidong could do as he pleased. When a team trails, boosting offense is sensible, but Hao Haidong’s approach was disrupting the team’s structure.

If it weren’t Hao Haidong, perhaps nothing would be amiss. But this was Chinese football, and he was “Asia’s top striker.” In such circumstances, teammates, eager to support him, would abandon their positions and become more aggressive.

Milutinović saw Hao Haidong hadn’t changed his ways and began talking to the fourth official about a substitution. Hao Haidong noticed what was happening on the sideline; anxious, he demanded the ball, but was intercepted by Turkish players.

“Hao Haidong calls for the ball, Xu Yunlong’s through pass is intercepted—Turkey launches a quick counterattack. Number 22, Ümit Davala, receives and sends a diagonal pass—beautiful! Li Weifeng heads the ball away—oh no! He didn’t get enough power, the ball lands at the feet of number 10, Yildiray Bastürk!”

Seeing Milutinović talking to the fourth official, Hao Haidong was desperate for a goal to save himself. He called for the ball, Xu Yunlong, without hesitation, sent a through pass between the legs of the nearby Turkish defender, but it was cut off.

Number 8, Li Tie, pressed forward. The Turkish player didn’t dwell on the ball, sending a through pass to number 22, Ümit Davala. Davala received and immediately delivered a diagonal ball into China’s penalty area. Li Weifeng hurried to clear with a header, but lacked strength; the ball fell to number 10, Yildiray Bastürk.

“Li Weifeng isn’t steady yet—number 10, Yildiray Bastürk, charges into the box! Dangerous! Is China about to concede a third goal?”

Witnessing this, Chen Nu cried out in shock. Milutinović, too, was incredulous—was this really the defense he’d built himself? Even Brazil couldn’t penetrate it so easily. Was Turkey stronger than Brazil?

A thunderous roar echoed from all directions—the voices of countless Chinese fans. They could not accept this; they still dreamed of reaching the round of sixteen. Every goal felt like a knife to their hearts, unbearable.

Jiang Jin’s expression was helpless. Everyone was off their game today, especially the defenders. For a moment, Jiang Jin felt as if he had returned to the era before Milutinović took charge.

Everyone focused on the scoring forwards; most hailed those dazzling strikers who scored in droves. But who remembered the lost figures at their feet—the goalkeepers who watched the ball go in?

Football is a game of eleven, yet it is most unfair to two positions: the striker and the goalkeeper.

A striker can be ineffective for eighty-nine minutes, but score in the last minute and become a hero.

A goalkeeper can perform brilliantly for eighty-nine minutes, but concede in the final moment and become a villain.

Looking at the captain’s armband on his arm, gazing at number 10, Yildiray Bastürk, charging toward the goal—

Jiang Jin roared the heart’s cry of all goalkeepers: I don’t want to pick the ball out of the net anymore!

Two figures rushed together, and in the next second, it would be the moment of hero or villain.