Chapter Twenty-One: The Lion’s Roar

Now it was Munich 1860’s kickoff. One goal behind, what would they do?

In an ordinary match, losing by a single goal would have been acceptable enough for Munich 1860. But this was a derby between two clubs from the same city.

Markus Schroth passed to Momm, and the two of them, in perfect understanding, began to pierce forward together. Defend? To hell with defense. Could they even hold it anyway? Since that was the case, better to trade blow for blow and see who lasted to the end.

Munich 1860 might not have been a team devoted purely to attacking football, but from this moment on they were being forced into becoming one. Either they would charge to a glorious victory, or collapse in utter ruin.

Bayern Munich had originally intended to sink back, tighten their defense, and slow the tempo. Yet Munich 1860’s sudden offensive came like a raging storm, savage and unrelenting. They had clearly not expected that repeated concessions would fail to crush their opponents.

“Eighty-sixth minute. Markus Schroth has dropped back and received the ball just outside the penalty area! What will he do?”

There was expectation in Chen Nu’s voice. When commentating on matches outside the national team, he could not be too openly biased. He was a commentator, after all; he had to remain relatively neutral, explaining the general flow of the game to the supporters and helping them understand the players.

Markus Schroth looked a little flustered. Jeremies stood squarely in front of him. Against a Bayern Munich player, and not especially gifted on the ball himself, he had no thought of dribbling past him. Then he heard a shout. Momm?

“Markus Schroth chips it forward! Too high! But—Momm! Momm has squeezed out of the crowd! Like a balloon filled with water suddenly burst open, like a jet of water forced through a crack—so sudden, so swift. Lizarazu and Linke have lost Momm yet again!”

At that, Chen Nu paused briefly before speaking again.

“Pizarro was famously quick as well, tormenting Bayern Munich’s back line time and again. Against fast players, Lizarazu and Linke have never had any great answer. Their reactions are always just a fraction too slow.”

This was a chance.

Momm told himself so. Lizarazu and Linke were behind him, yes—but all he needed to do was drive the ball through Kahn’s ten fingers.

“Kahn is very composed. Momm is still carrying the ball; he hasn’t shot yet.”

Chen Nu sounded a little puzzled. In the past, that was not Momm’s temperament at all. True, most goalkeepers would rush out when facing him—but now? Kahn’s positioning was superb. He had sealed off every angle that could truly threaten the goal.

The far corner? No. From Momm’s angle, the far post was barely more than a pale sliver. The near corner? There was some space there between Kahn and the post.

“Momm! Momm takes the shot!”

For an instant, it seemed as though the roar of a lion rang out. Kahn gathered the ball tightly into his arms. In that split second of lightning speed, Momm had chosen to shoot down the middle, gambling that Kahn would move. But Kahn had not. He simply held the ball firmly to his chest, his hands unshakably steady.

“Kahn. Kahn makes the save. There is not much time left now for Munich 1860.”

In the time that followed, Bayern Munich began to spread outward again. Their fierce pressing started right from midfield.

“Now Bayern Munich are in possession. Ballack has the ball and has entered the range from which his heavy shot becomes truly dangerous. Munich 1860 are being forced back into a compact defense.”

Ballack’s long-range shooting was deeply threatening. One careless moment and he could unleash a cannon from distance. For Munich 1860, the first priority now was clear: they could not concede again.

Sometimes, individual quality simply left you no choice.

Faced with Ballack on the ball, shaping as though to shoot from distance, Shao Jiayi was the first to lose patience and step up to challenge. As expected, Ballack slipped the ball to Pizarro. Pizarro accelerated with it, trying to stab through Munich 1860’s defense, but this time their reaction was sharp, and his attack was cleared away.

“Eighty-ninth minute. Pizarro’s breakthrough is cleared by the Munich 1860 players, and the ball flies toward midfield. There Markus Schroth rises to challenge in the air and flicks it on toward the center. Momm! Momm! Momm has the ball!!!”

The expressions on Hitzfeld and Pacult could not have been more different. Pacult was full of surprise and delight, because whenever the ball was hoofed clear, Momm always seemed to possess some instinctive foreknowledge, arriving there ahead of time to wait for it.

Hitzfeld, on the other hand, was frowning. Damn it—how had that kid come away with the ball again? Once or twice could be tolerated. Three or four times, and there was clearly a problem.

But however it happened, Momm did end up with the ball. Or perhaps “ended up with it” was not quite the right phrase. At that moment, a Bayern Munich player was right behind him, trying to defend him. Who was it? Who cared? Whoever it was, Momm had to beat him. Didn’t he?

With the inside of his right foot, he popped the ball up. It rose over Momm’s head, over the Bayern player behind him, and dropped toward Bayern Munich’s half.

That Bayern player turned painfully slowly. By the time Momm had already flashed past him, he had not even finished turning his body around. Momm could feel the man’s stunned gaze. His only reply was a broad grin.

“Beautiful! Momm has overtaken him! A pity he’s driving against the traffic—Bayern Munich’s players are rushing up quickly, trying to stop his advance!”

No sooner had Momm brought the ball under control than a Bayern player came sliding in from the side. It was a brutal tackle, but Momm did not panic. He sprang lightly up, avoided the challenge, and kept carrying the ball forward.

But there was a saying about moths to a flame, and Bayern Munich’s back line now seemed to be swarming at him just like moths. Look at that—old acquaintances, all of them. Lizarazu, Linke, Kufour.

Kufour was the youngest of the three, only twenty-six. He was also the least patient, the first to come at Momm. That angle, that position—Momm’s mind was almost blank in that instant. Before he had time to work out what to do, his body had already made the decision for him.

His left instep struck the ball sharply. It looked as though it would be knocked out to Momm’s right, but then his right foot hooked and dragged it, brushing past Kufour’s right hand as it slipped by.

Linke was hot-tempered too. Without a word he launched into a tackle, though he was just a shade too slow, making it look almost ridiculous, like someone throwing himself down in search of contact. Momm nudged the ball again with the inside of his left foot, leaning his whole body on the diagonal as he threaded through the gap between Linke and Kufour.

Seen from high above, Momm’s path would have drawn a V.

And now Lizarazu arrived as well. He was like a rusted sports car—calling him a sports car was already paying tribute to his former brilliance. His speed was simply too slow, outrageously slow.

And his only use was to turn Momm’s V into a Z.

Lizarazu stretched out a leg. By then Momm was nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, but he remained utterly calm, stabbing the ball ahead with the tip of his right foot. Well then—he hit it a touch too hard. It rolled straight toward the penalty area. With no one there to stop it, it would certainly roll into the net.

“Brilliant! Look at that dribble—Momm gives the ball a short, sharp jab with the toe of his right foot, slipping it through the inside of Lizarazu’s right leg. The only issue is that he may have hit it too hard; the ball is rolling into the area.”

Momm brushed past Lizarazu’s right shoulder. If one could freeze the frame at the instant they were level, it would be clear that Momm was balancing on one foot—otherwise his right leg would have crashed into Lizarazu’s.

“One-on-one! This is a one-on-one chance! Or perhaps he didn’t knock it too far at all—perhaps this is Momm’s challenge to Kahn!”

A challenge? Kahn had certainly heard of Momm’s signature move. Would the Lion King fear such a summons? If you wished to fight, then fight he would.

And in that blurred instant, there came the roar of a lion.

No—perhaps two lions.

“Momm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The entire Allianz Arena boiled over like water at a furious boil.