Chapter 15: Green Leaves

When Chievo's players scored their second goal at home, the entire stadium erupted in cheers.

This was Chievo's golden era, and today they were going to defeat Inter Milan.

By the time Mo Mo had his wound treated and changed into a new jersey, the first half had already ended.

2:0. Chievo was leading Inter Milan by two goals.

Mo Mo felt that he had let down Héctor Cúper's trust. Sitting in the locker room, he appeared rather dejected.

Héctor Cúper adjusted the team's formation on the pitch. Although he didn't say much to Mo Mo, seeing the 4-4-1-1 shift into a 4-4-2 made it clear that Cúper's confidence in Mo Mo had wavered.

Of course, perhaps Héctor Cúper hadn't lost confidence in him at all.

Yet Mo Mo believed he had. In truth, had he paused to think calmly, he would have realized that if the manager were truly unhappy with him, he would have simply substituted him off instead of going through the trouble of tactical tweaks.

Throughout his career, Mo Mo had blazed through leagues with lightning speed: 2. Bundesliga, World Cup, Bundesliga, Serie A.

Consequently, clubs still had a somewhat incomplete understanding of Mo Mo's vulnerabilities. However, Vantieri had kindly laid out all of Mo Mo's weaknesses.

Barzagli looked at Mo Mo and smiled. Still no substitution?

"Chinaman, I'm sorry about what happened in the first half... but I still won't hold back. You won't get another chance like that."

The young Barzagli radiated confidence, but Mo Mo refused to back down because of it.

"Then just watch!"

Barzagli looked slightly surprised. The guy had actually spoken up.

As he watched Mo Mo's receding figure, Barzagli's eyes turned dead serious.

"The second half is underway. Rain has begun to fall on the pitch. Players from both teams have switched to wet-weather boots. Mo Mo hasn't been substituted; Inter's manager still trusts him."

A patch of white gauze was taped across Mo Mo's brow. In truth, his injury wasn't serious—it had just bled a lot.

It only looked rather terrifying because it was on his face!

At the start of the second half, Mo Mo's performance still showed not a shred of improvement.

Barzagli's defense against Mo Mo could only be described as impenetrable.

The battle between the two youngsters played out on the pitch every single second.

Both managers substituted two players each for tactical adjustments, but unexpectedly, both Mo Mo and Barzagli remained on the field.

By this point, Héctor Cúper had reached a certain realization.

Never mind. Mo Mo is still young anyway; let's just treat this as developing a young player.

The rain did not let up as expected; instead, it grew heavier as the match progressed.

The pitch became slippery, and the ball became uncontrollable. Sometimes, a long pass lacked enough force and would simply be swallowed by standing water.

Mo Mo kept searching for an opportunity, but beneath the torrential downpour, even his most threatening explosive acceleration had turned into a liability.

Mo Mo could no longer control his pace. Sometimes, even without anyone blocking him, he would slip and fall to the ground after a rapid burst of ball-control.

For Mo Mo, this was nothing short of a disaster.

In his relatively short professional career, he had never once experienced playing in such a torrential downpour.

At first, Barzagli would tease Mo Mo with verbal jabs, but by now, he had fallen silent. What else was there to say?

Barzagli recalled his own days as a forward—back when he, too, had been just like Mo Mo, craving a single attacking opportunity, only for the cruel reality to eventually force him into becoming a center-back.

Barzagli possessed a heart that yearned to attack, a heart that longed to be an exceptional striker, yet he had ultimately ended up as a central defender. How fickle fate could be.

"The rain on the pitch is getting heavier, and Mo Mo seems to be struggling with every step. Fortunately, the match has reached the eighty-ninth minute; it will be over soon. The referee doesn't seem to have the habit of adding much stoppage time."

Chen Nu's voice sounded somewhat worried. As the saying goes, health is the capital of the revolution! Why was Mo Mo punishing himself like this right now?

"Enough. The match is almost over. You've already played well enough."

Barzagli walked over to Mo Mo, looking down at him as he lay sprawled on the grass.

The gauze on Mo Mo's forehead had long since vanished, but fortunately, the relentless rain had washed away the blood, leaving him with a clean face.

Facing Barzagli's persuasion, Mo Mo smiled and said,

"Isn't there still a minute left? Who knows, I might just score!"

Barzagli was first surprised that Mo Mo had replied, and then felt a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

A goal? Look at the wretched state you're in, and you're still thinking about scoring.

Just as Barzagli intended to do something, the corner of his eye caught a blur flashing past his side. What was that?

Teammates all around were shouting loudly: The ball! The ball!

A jolt went through Barzagli's heart. That figure chasing the ball right now—was that the No. 27, Mo Mo?

"This is a through ball from Inter Milan! Perhaps Barzagli's vision was impaired in the heavy rain while he was chatting with Mo Mo? The ball has bypassed Barzagli! Barzagli turns around—Mo Mo!"

Mo Mo always managed to seize impossible opportunities, and this time was no exception. He had grasped a chance! The prerequisite was that Barzagli wouldn't catch up to him, and that he could get past the Chievo covering defender standing in his path.

"Mo Mo with the ball! Chievo's defender steps up to block. Mo Mo's posture looks strange! Mo Mo! Mo Mo has played the ball out—is that? Álvaro Recoba!!!"

Mo Mo had no intention of being a hero. In fact, he could no longer run; every single cell in his body was screaming and issuing warnings.

Constantly slipping underfoot and the ever-present threat of falling made every movement an agonizing struggle. At that moment, Mo Mo made a decision.

Mo Mo always loved taking players on, especially in 1-v-1 situations where he preferred to dribble past opponents before scoring. But this time, Mo Mo chose to play the supporting role.

The defender clearly hadn't expected Mo Mo to pass under such circumstances. He threw out a leg, only to trip Mo Mo while the ball sailed toward the center.

Álvaro Recoba received the ball with open space ahead of him. Hope burned bright in Mo Mo's eyes: Score one! Save the team's dignity!

Ultimately, Álvaro Recoba broke into the penalty area and unleashed a decent shot. The Chievo goalkeeper managed to get a hand to it, but failed to control it. The ball bounced awkwardly and rolled into the net.

At that moment, Mo Mo raised his hand, signaling the bench for a substitution.

Héctor Cúper watched Mo Mo as he was subbed off, patted him on the shoulder, and then turned his gaze back to the pitch.

Moments later, when the referee blew the final whistle,

Chievo's fans erupted in cheers, while Inter Milan's supporters looked dejected. They had plummeted from first place in the standings straight down to third. Everyone looked toward Héctor Cúper.

Héctor Cúper's expression remained unchanged. What was there to say? They had already given their all.