Chapter Fifteen: A Heart That Never Gives Up

Bielefeld, once steadfast in defending their own half, began to loosen their grip. Yet this very lapse became Momo’s chance. When faced with someone relentlessly probing for your weakness, no matter how much stronger you are, it is a dangerous affair—and now Momo intended to teach a complacent Bielefeld a lesson to remember.

The opportunity came from Borges’s long pass. Throughout the match, Hannover 96’s number 17, the Czech winger Jan Simak, had persistently challenged him, forcing Borges to make hurried passes, his actions as swift as a ping pong or badminton stroke—separation of man and ball at the moment of contact.

In truth, if there was anyone from Bielefeld who had remained focused throughout, it was their number 44 central midfielder, Borges.

In tense football matches, passing errors or turnovers are common; nobody can claim to be flawless. Even Lionel Andrés Messi has had matches where he was off form, and Cristiano Ronaldo once missed a penalty in the Champions League final for Manchester United.

The game was nearing its end, and the players’ stamina was waning, especially Borges, who had spent the entire match locked in physical battles with Hannover 96’s number 17, Jan Simak. Borges muttered curses under his breath.

“The match is almost over, and there’s not much time left for Hannover 96. Now Borges receives the return from number 23 striker Visek. Hannover 96’s defense has been airtight during this period—it’s hard to imagine the score is actually 3:2.”

Chen Nu’s voice carried a hint of sentiment. Though Momo’s performance in this match was commendable, it hadn’t yet translated into tangible benefit. Even Yang Chen’s matches never received commentary, yet seventeen-year-old Momo was being narrated by Chen Nu. Why? It was his youth and commercial potential that drew attention.

“Bielefeld’s number 44, Borges, swiftly launches a long pass. Under the harrying of Hannover 96’s number 17, Jan Simak, he seems a bit drained—this pass lacks force. Number 5, midfielder Kauf, has to sprint forward some distance to reach it—Momo!”

Chen Nu’s sudden shout startled some Chinese fans who had been about to leave. They turned back to the screen—what happened? Momo suddenly darted in from the angle, intercepting the ball ahead of Kauf. His elusive positioning was simply brilliant.

Momo had snatched the ball, but it was as if he’d stirred up a hornets’ nest. He was alone in Bielefeld’s half, and the menacing number 5 Kauf behind him was enough trouble.

Kauf charged from behind, his body colliding forcefully yet within the bounds of fair play. As Kauf closed in, Momo, light as a paper scrap blown by wind, used the inside of his left foot to flick the ball between Kauf’s legs.

Anticipating Momo’s fall, Kauf quickly raised his hands, signaling no foul, but the referee’s whistle remained silent. As Momo fell, he propped himself up with his hands.

“Beautiful! Momo’s dazzling nutmeg, and he keeps control of the ball—he’s slippery as an eel!”

It was a perfect counterattack. With Kauf behind him, only open field stood ahead—though the defenders still posed a challenge.

“Bielefeld’s fullback steps up to press—wonderful! Simply wonderful.”

Momo knew he couldn’t afford to waste time. Kauf could send him flying at any moment. He felt like a shimmering bubble, fragile to the touch. At eighteen, his composure meant he was not as flustered as he seemed. Though his run was awkward, his mind was sharp.

Bielefeld’s fullback seemed to believe Momo wasn’t at his best, so he pressed forward to intercept, approaching from Momo’s right front, opting not to slide tackle but to stick close for the steal.

Momo’s sensation was strange—his mind both empty and full at once.

As Bielefeld’s fullback moved in, Momo didn’t consciously decide what to do; his body acted before his mind could settle. As they were about to intersect, Momo’s right leg bent, his toe gently flicked the ball upward.

The fullback thought Momo meant to break through on his right and stretched out his leg to block, but Momo was a step ahead, extending his left foot.

The inside of his left foot struck the ball, sending it through the fullback’s legs. Momo’s left leg was then between the fullback’s legs, closest to his left.

Momo pivoted on his right leg, like a dancer, spinning tightly past the fullback.

But it was not over. As the fullback pressed in, a Bielefeld center back sensed trouble and moved forward to cover, seizing the opportunity.

“Bielefeld’s center back covers in time. Momo’s steps are erratic, he seems to struggle with the ball—brilliant! Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!”

Chen Nu’s voice rose and fell, making the audience both frown and listen on, a torment and a rare delight.

Momo felt wonderful. If he had to describe it, it was like being fully immersed while playing League of Legends, racking up kills—one, two, three, four, five. Or like playing cards and always drawing a winning hand, everything flowing perfectly.

Momo felt almost detached from himself. As the center back pressed in, Momo caught up with the ball, yet he didn’t hesitate—his body acted before his mind could decide.

Momo tapped with his left foot, passed with his right, swayed his body, and the ball slipped through the center back’s legs. Momo brushed past him, shoulder to shoulder. The center back hadn’t reacted, reminiscent of Xin Zhao’s “a glint of cold light, then the spear strikes like a dragon.”

It wasn’t fair to blame the center back’s defense; Momo looked as if the ball would slip away at any moment, like a drunk man weaving down the road, his path erratic.

The center back had just arrived, hadn’t thought through his response, when Momo suddenly accelerated, his feet dazzling, the ball magically slipping through his legs. If that defender had made the right choice, he wouldn’t be playing for a club stuck in the German second or third division.

Momo gave the impression of a slow, struggling tractor abruptly morphing into a sports car, speeding up in a flash. Chinese fans before their TVs erupted, while the crowd at Alm Stadium booed—they didn’t want to see their three points slip away.

None of this fazed Momo. Half-possessed, he drove the ball at full speed toward Bielefeld’s goal. If he got past their Dutch defensive marshal, number 3, van der Veen, nothing would stand in his way.

Peter Neururer had risen from his seat, and Munich 1860’s senior scout Ferret stood up, ready to make an offer—the three dazzling dribbles alone would attract clubs, and Momo was only seventeen! Such potential, it was a mystery how Hannover 96 could list him for transfer.

To others, Momo now seemed fearsome—three defenders beaten, unstoppable. But Momo himself felt troubled, nearing his limit. Not just the burden of stamina, but controlling the ball consumed everything he had.

He dared not look up, afraid a blink would let the ball slip away. Now, Momo’s sensation was like frantically striking an object at maximum speed, or running tied foot-to-foot with two others who outpace you.

At last, a pair of boots appeared in his vision, then two legs. Momo was agitated now; his calm at eighteen could not contain him. It was like writing too much, typing too much—his legs felt so uncomfortable he wanted to chop them off, to vent, to be rid of them.

“I don’t know how to describe this dribble! Dominant? No, not quite—this, I’ve never seen before!”

Indeed, Bielefeld’s defensive marshal, number 3, the Dutchman van der Veen, was a bit startled. He’d considered every move Momo might make, but never thought he’d use such a method against him.

Momo, venting his frustration, raised his foot and kicked the ball forcefully at van der Veen, high and hard. In crisis, people instinctively dodge, but defenders and keepers must overcome that impulse.

It’s common in football to see strikers shoot and defenders dodge for self-preservation—like in the 2015 Champions League, PSG vs. Chelsea, when Edinson Cavani ducked and the keeper missed, letting Chelsea take the lead 1–0.

The commentator mused: if a defender had been there, he’d have blocked the shot, but Cavani’s self-preservation was human nature—no one blamed him.

Here, if van der Veen hadn’t stretched out his leg to block, the ball wouldn’t have threatened the goal, but he acted instinctively, raising his leg and successfully blocking the shot.

The ball struck van der Veen’s leg hard—it could go anywhere, but now it rebounded straight, hitting Momo’s forehead, then leaping over van der Veen’s head and dropping into the penalty area.

Elhof abandoned his goal to charge out, while Momo’s vision blurred—one eye dazzled, the other full of tears—yet he forced his eyes open, burst forward at fifteen, and sprinted past van der Veen toward the ball in the box.

This was the final chance, the only thought in Momo’s mind.

The crowd’s noise swelled, Momo pressed on, feeling his fatigue.

But the fire within him drove him forward, forward, always forward.

Elhof, tall at 190 centimeters. Momo, slight at 170. The towering keeper against the diminutive striker. Momo’s vision was clouded, his body spent, but his heart never gave up—his desire to score, his hunger for victory pushed him on.

“Momo! It’s Momo! He hasn’t given up! Can he score?”

Chen Nu’s voice rang out, prompting shouts from Chinese fans. In Alm Stadium, Bielefeld and Hannover 96 supporters raised their voices, while Peter Neururer, face flushed, watched silently as the small yet towering number 37, MOMO, pressed on.

Score! Score! Momo’s effort deserves this goal—let it go in! An indomitable roar rang out. Did it go in?