Chapter Fifteen: Passing, Passing, Passing

After the coin toss and the selection for kick-off, Munich 1860 ultimately won the right to start the game.

Once the teams had exchanged handshakes, they took their places on the pitch. Mo Mo and Markus Sroth stood at the center circle to kick off, and the match officially began.

During Ottmar Hitzfeld’s reign as head coach, Bayern Munich’s defining trait was their tenacity. They played with an iron resolve, earning them the nickname “the Iron Legion.” Regardless of their current age, Mo Mo could feel this quality keenly.

Anyone who had paid attention to Mo Mo would have noticed that apart from his debut, he rarely passed the ball. Usually, once the ball reached his feet, it was either intercepted or sent straight to the back of the net—simply put, he played solo.

Hitzfeld, of course, was well aware of this and had already accounted for Mo Mo’s technical style in his tactical planning. Hitzfeld was a man of strong opinions. He never quite trusted his young players the way he did his seasoned veterans. Perhaps three or four years ago, when his squad’s old guard was around twenty-nine or thirty, this was a sign of trust. But now?

Munich 1860 didn't run excessively, but at least they were moving. They adopted a classic counter-attacking strategy, relying on aggressive pressing in midfield and defense, breaking up Bayern’s play, and then launching swift counterattacks.

In midfield, number 10 Thomas Häßler, number 3 Romeo Meier, and the two strikers formed a multi-pronged offensive threat.

This was the 195th “Munich Derby” in Bundesliga history. Bayern had already claimed exactly one hundred victories in previous encounters.

Both sides were probing for opportunities, but Bayern Munich’s strength was undeniable. They loomed like a giant, exerting immense pressure on Munich 1860. The blue and white striped shirts seemed like a deep blue sea, and every Bayern attack sent up towering waves.

“Hello everyone, I’m Chen Nu, and I’ll be commentating on today’s ‘Munich Derby.’ Right now, Bayern Munich is firmly in control, and Munich 1860 is putting up almost no resistance defensively.”

Chen Nu’s voice carried a touch of worry. The entire Munich 1860 formation had been pushed back. Except for Mo Mo, everyone had retreated deep into their own half. Given Bayern’s power, it seemed inevitable that they would score first.

“This is a pass from number 13, Michael Ballack. Number 11, Stefan Effenberg, chooses not to dribble but quickly lays it off to number 7, Scholl, out wide. They’re stringing together passes along the edge of the Munich 1860 penalty area.”

If there was anything markedly different about Bayern Munich this season, it was a certain slowness. In the past, they would have used the width of the pitch or fierce pressing and dribbling to win the ball, but now they were content to pass leisurely, like old men. Yes, just like old men, passing the ball between themselves as though this weren’t the “Munich Derby” but merely a routine match or training exercise. They preferred to control possession with passes, only pressing hard when the opponent had the ball near them.

It gave the impression that they were going through the motions, not truly striving.

“And now? A long ball from number 13, Ballack. Effenberg shakes off his marker, but he’s too slow—he can’t reach the ball.”

There was no excitement in Chen Nu’s voice; it was all too flat. Ostensibly, Bayern Munich were besieging Munich 1860, but in reality, they were just passing the ball around, occasionally launching a long pass in hopes of breaching the defense.

By the twelfth minute, there had been no clever moves, no dazzling dribbles, and certainly no goals. Chen Nu stifled a yawn, and Hitzfeld’s brow furrowed—this was not the performance he wanted.

In this season so far, Bayern Munich’s performance had fallen far short of Hitzfeld’s expectations. He wanted Bayern to be like a boxer, landing a knockout punch and felling their opponent with ease.

Yet, in the first round, Bayern had been held to a goalless draw away to Borussia Mönchengladbach. In the second round at home, they’d even conceded two goals to Bielefeld—unthinkable! The third round had pleased him, a three-goal victory over Hamburg, convincing him that earlier struggles were just post-World Cup fatigue, that his veterans could still fight. But now?

“Hmm? A tackle by number 32, Shao Jiayi. He’s carrying the ball forward… I doubt the coach wanted him to do that.”

Indeed, Munich 1860’s coach, Pacult, had not instructed Shao Jiayi to advance with the ball. Against Bayern, his core directive was to keep that damned ball as far from their own box and goal as possible.

But Shao Jiayi had chosen his moment well.

Shao Jiayi had held back for a long time—he was not a patient man. In truth, his instincts were offensive, not defensive (as evidenced by his red card against Turkey shortly after coming on). You can’t use a knife as a shield, can you?

Bayern Munich hadn’t expected this move from Munich 1860. It was like receiving a gift box only to have a prankster’s boxing glove spring out. Number 7, Scholl, raced over to intercept Shao Jiayi.

“And now? Shao Jiayi passes! Mo Mo! My goodness! I almost forgot about Mo Mo!”

Shao Jiayi’s diagonal pass made everyone realize that not all of Munich 1860 was huddled in defense—number 28, Mo Mo, had been lurking up front all along!

“A beautiful pass! Shao Jiayi’s diagonal ball lands perfectly between Lizarazu and Linke, and there’s Mo Mo! Mo Mo controls it!”

The precision of Shao Jiayi’s pass was remarkable. As he surged forward, Bayern scrambled to recover, their back line dropping quickly from the halfway line. Mo Mo was a master of beating the offside trap.

Lizarazu and Linke were staggered, one ahead and one behind, with some distance between them. Mo Mo was caught between the two, seemingly pinned down, but Shao Jiayi’s pass found him precisely.

The ball brushed Mo Mo’s shoulder and dropped just in front of him, allowing him to carry on without breaking stride.

Lizarazu had his back to Mo Mo, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mo Mo had reached the ball. Lizarazu now needed to stall Mo Mo, waiting for his partner Linke to arrive and help intercept.

A feint? Another feint? Yet another? Lizarazu turned to see Mo Mo on his left, feinting. When he looked again, Mo Mo was to his right, feinting once more. As Lizarazu braced himself to intercept on the next move—

“Wonderful! Lizarazu has gone to ground! Mo Mo has faked Lizarazu right off his feet!”

Munich 1860’s coach Pacult clenched his fist in triumph as the entire Allianz Arena erupted. Lizarazu, up ahead, twisted his head and body repeatedly, trying to keep up. Mo Mo feinted twice, and on the third, Lizarazu was already off balance.

Let’s look at a slow-motion replay: On the third feint, Lizarazu turned, his legs spread, and Mo Mo appeared at his left, Lizarazu’s shoulder position. Lizarazu prepared to block him there.

Then, as he turned, Lizarazu’s left leg supported him while his right leg stepped out. Mo Mo, who had considered using his left foot to feint again, changed his mind when Lizarazu spun. Mo Mo switched from a feint to a push with his left foot.

The ball slipped just inside Lizarazu’s left foot. Sensing what was happening, Lizarazu spun again, but his right foot hadn’t touched down yet. The ball, brushing his left leg, slowed slightly, then as he turned, his right leg nudged it, sending it bouncing toward Mo Mo. Linke was now closing in, the two players forming two sides of a right triangle with the ball.

No one paid Lizarazu any heed; Linke had eyes only for the ball. He knew he wasn’t as quick as Mo Mo, so he slid in with a tackle. Mo Mo leaped high to avoid it—Linke was ruthless.

Fortunately, Linke didn’t put much power into the challenge, and the ball wasn’t rolling fast. Most importantly:

First, the ball was still heading toward the penalty area, though not directly at the goal.

Second, Mo Mo hadn’t been tripped; he could still reach it.

“Magnificent! Both of Bayern’s veteran defenders are down! Mo Mo is charging into the box! Kahn! Kahn is coming out!”

Kahn’s blond hair streamed behind him like a furious lion’s mane.

A glint flashed in Mo Mo’s eyes. This angle…

“Mo Mo! Mo Mo shoots from outside the box!”

A deafening roar erupted through the Allianz Arena. It was a beautiful chip shot, the ball tracing a lovely arc toward Bayern’s goal. Would Munich 1860 take the lead?

For a moment, it seemed a lion’s roar echoed through the air—was it the Lion King Kahn, or the blue lion of Munich 1860?