Chapter 58: The Trump Card

The situation on the pitch has become clear.

Mo Mo is currently off the field, receiving treatment from the team doctor for a leg injury. Laut is the one stepping up to take this penalty kick. He looks eager, almost desperate to prove himself. Every time he shares the pitch with Mo Mo, the spotlight inevitably gravitates toward Mo Mo. Unknowingly, Mo Mo has become the pillar of 1860 Munich, perhaps even their true ace.

A so-called "ace" is like the Ronaldos or Messis of the future. When the team performs well, regardless of whether they score, the media will always find ways to heap praise upon them—citing their ability to draw defenders, their midfield organization, or other intangible contributions. Even if they spent the entire match anonymous, as long as the team wins, they will be lauded and hyped. (For instance, Cristiano Ronaldo’s lackluster performance in the 2016 Champions League final; yet, because he was Ronaldo, his final penalty kick was splashed across every newspaper. Why? Because he is an ace; he is exactly who the audience and readers want to see and know about.) Conversely, if the team loses, no matter how well the ace played, they become the primary target for media bombardment. Critics will tear into them, claiming Real Madrid is struggling or that Ronaldo has gone cold, that Barcelona is faltering or Messi is out of form. There is no other reason for this than the fact that they are the team’s core.

Mo Mo is steadily becoming that core for 1860 Munich, and Laut desperately wants to be the one to claim that title.

Lehmann stands hunched over, his expression grim, while Laut feels his own nerves tightening. He is already imagining the headlines: "Laut scores the decisive goal, 1860 Munich overturns Dortmund."

Lehmann signals to the referee that he is ready, and Laut raises his hand in response. He takes his run-up, swings his leg, and strikes.

"Laut takes the penalty—it’s right down the middle! He assumed Lehmann would dive, but what a save! Lehmann!" (Lehmann once achieved legendary status by saving four penalties in a final.)

Laut was simply too young; his intentions were laid bare before Lehmann. Lehmann didn't move at all, simply stretching out his arms to claim the ball. The Dortmund fans around the stadium erupt in chants of Lehmann's name. Though he has his flaws, there is no denying that Lehmann is an exceptional goalkeeper—or rather, a master of the goal.

***

"Lehmann successfully saves the penalty, and the referee blows the whistle for the end of the first half. There should be some stoppage time."

After Laut missed the penalty, the referee signaled for the end of the half, likely hoping to give everyone a chance to cool down. During the break, coach Pacult made adjustments. He instructed the players to pass more to Laut, partly because Mo Mo was being smothered by Kohler, and partly because the severity of Mo Mo’s injury remained unclear.

The team doctor was still applying ice and pain relief to Mo Mo’s leg as time ticked away. Pacult walked over to ask if he could continue. Mo Mo stood up and moved around; other than some swelling in the back of his leg, he felt no other discomfort. He signaled to Pacult that he was fine to return. After consulting with the medical staff, Pacult raised no objections and offered a few words of encouragement.

The halftime interval passed in the blink of an eye. As they walked through the tunnel, the Dortmund players were far from friendly toward Mo Mo. The defenders, in particular, glared at him with cold eyes. Lehmann’s reputation for berating his own defenders was legendary, and he had undoubtedly spent the entire break venting his frustrations in the locker room.

"Yellow-skinned monkey! It’s great that you can still play. I was worried I wouldn't get another chance to teach you a lesson."

It was Kohler. His words were gritted out through clenched teeth, and his expression was sour; even a veteran as respected as he had clearly not escaped Lehmann’s verbal onslaught.

Before Mo Mo could respond, he felt a shove from behind. He turned to see Lehmann glaring at him with a menacing look. "Little brat! Just you wait. I hear you like to challenge people? Ha! Come on, let’s see it. I’ll show you what you're up against."

Just as Mo Mo prepared to retort, the two-meter-tall Jan Koller approached, and the 1860 Munich teammates swarmed in to defend Mo Mo. As a brawl threatened to break out, the referee and the fourth official rushed over to intervene. Everyone managed to restrain their emotions, though Mo Mo continued to be subjected to the unrestrained jeers of the surrounding fans. When he finally stepped back onto the pitch, a chaotic wave of boos rained down on him, deafening in its intensity.

***

Kohler bumped into Mo Mo, sending him stumbling, and looked at him with a provocative smirk. "Scared senseless, aren't you? Yellow-skinned monkey."

Mo Mo could no longer tolerate it. He stepped forward, rose onto his tiptoes, and stared Kohler in the eye. "Believe me, you loudmouth. I will put the ball into your net once again. I’ll make the Dortmund fans boo, and I’ll show a guy like you, who only knows how to use dirty tricks in the shadows, exactly what I’m made of."

Lehmann, standing nearby, overheard this and roared, "Is that so? You yellow-skinned monkey! You’d better actually be able to do it! Huh?"

Kohler started to say something back, but the referee, the fourth official, and the linesmen had all turned their gaze toward them. On a yellow card already, Kohler wisely kept his mouth shut. Mo Mo didn't say another word; he might not win a fight, but there were other ways to settle this.

When it came to football, Mo Mo was serious.

Just you wait. You’ll find out exactly who you’ve provoked.

"The second half is officially underway. The jeering from the sidelines is immense, especially toward Mo Mo—it’s like a roar reaching the heavens."

"But it doesn't seem to have affected Mo Mo at all. Kohler’s marking of him is so tight it's as if he’s glued to him. This is the first time I’ve ever seen someone keep up with Mo Mo’s erratic movement." Chen Nu’s voice sounded surprised. The "Iron Adhesive" nickname was well-deserved indeed.

"I think Kohler shouldn't be called 'Iron Adhesive'; 'dog-skin plaster' would be much more fitting." Chen Nu’s tone was mocking, though not without reason.

Just as Chen Nu was speaking casually, a shocking scene unfolded.

"This is impossible!!!" Chen Nu couldn't help but shout.

What had happened?