Chapter Sixteen: You Will Be the First to Make Your Debut

The final whistle sounded.

The score was locked at 3:2, with Bielefeld defeating Hannover 96 on their home ground.

The fans of Bielefeld cheered in the Alm Stadium, rejoicing in their victory.

In the recent duel between the goalkeeper and the striker, Momo had reached the ball first, but with his vision blurred and only a 7.4 shooting rating, he failed to send the ball into Bielefeld’s net. Once again, he tasted the bitterness of coming so close to victory, only to fall short.

Momo sat not far from Bielefeld’s goal, his whole body trembling, the ball brushing past the goal, so close yet so far.

“You did well.”

The words came from Bielefeld’s goalkeeper, Elhoff.

Clearly, Elhoff’s attempt at consolation fell flat. At that moment, Momo’s mind was consumed by the missed goal—nothing else mattered.

What did “you did well” mean? How could that possibly help? Momo brooded, unable to forgive himself for his mistake. Karl came running over, looking at Momo and whispering,

“Are you alright? The coach is heading this way.”

Momo lifted his head, one eye still tightly shut, unable to open, the other reddened and frightening.

“Get up, Chinese boy.”

At that moment, Peter Neureuler strode over, staring at Momo and demanding,

“What are you doing? Weak, cowardly Chinese—are all Chinese so spineless? Hm? Crying on the ground like a woman!”

With a sudden motion, Momo sprang to his feet, storming over to Peter Neureuler with a look that suggested he might strike him. Karl, alarmed, rushed to hold Momo back, but Momo shook him off. Pointing to his own eye, then his filthy jersey, he tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke to Peter Neureuler,

“Do you see this? All of this is for victory. And you? What have you done? Besides standing at the sidelines, what have you contributed? When we were behind, if you’d had any sense, you’d have told us how to win. If someone had been there to support me, maybe that goal would have gone in—just like my earlier play with Karl.”

Peter Neureuler stared at Momo, at a loss for words. Should a head coach really direct the game from the sidelines? Certainly, the head coach has the authority to do so, but it’s rare. They usually point out shortcomings, substitute underperforming players, but seldom change the tactics mid-game.

Generally, the head coach’s role during matches isn’t that significant. Most have already laid out their tactics beforehand, and the team simply follows the rehearsed plan. On-the-spot adjustments can actually cause confusion, sometimes making things worse.

In truth, coaches with real-time tactical prowess—like Marcello Lippi or José Mourinho (the latter is better known as “the Special One”)—are rare. Mourinho, for instance, is known for using all three substitutions and employing four or even five forwards when trailing.

There are many coaches who make good substitutions or give effective instructions, but far more make foolish choices. The truly great managers are often those who seem unremarkable, as if anyone could do their job. Yet, it’s precisely these individuals who have prepared thoroughly during training, which is why they remain so calm during matches.

It's like the story of the legendary ancient physician Bian Que. King Wen of Wei once asked him, “Among you and your brothers, who is the best doctor?” Bian Que replied, “My eldest brother is the best, my second brother is next, and I am the worst.” The king, puzzled, asked him to elaborate.

Bian Que explained, “My eldest brother treats illnesses before they manifest. At that stage, the patient doesn’t even realize he’s ill, but my brother eliminates the root cause. As a result, his skill is hardly recognized, and he’s only esteemed within our family. My second brother treats people at the first signs of illness, when symptoms are not yet obvious and the patient feels little pain. He cures the ailment quickly, so the villagers think he’s just adept at treating minor illnesses. I, on the other hand, treat people when their sickness is severe, when they’re suffering intensely and their families are desperate. They see me using needles, bloodletting, applying potent medicines, or performing major surgery. When the patient recovers, I become famous throughout the land.” The king was enlightened.

To be fair, Peter Neureuler’s coaching might not be outstanding, but he was certainly not incompetent. In fact, his choice not to intervene at the last moment was the right one—had he tried to micromanage, things might have turned out worse. The score could have been 4:2, 5:2—who knows?

By now, the live broadcast in China had ended, but Bielefeld’s fans were still celebrating in the stadium. Peter Neureuler looked at the stubborn Momo before him, shook his head, and approached, pointing at Momo as he spoke,

“Next match, you’re starting. If we don’t win, don’t even think about making the substitute list in the future.”

With that, Peter Neureuler turned to go, but Momo stepped forward, raising his voice,

“If I can lead the team to victory, I want you to apologize to me.”

Peter Neureuler turned, eyes narrowing with a hint of mockery,

“For calling you a woman? Then let me apologize right now: I’m sorry.”

Momo’s expression grew grave. He stepped closer, eyes sharp, his voice low and forceful,

“You’ll see on the pitch whether I’m a man or not.”

Peter Neureuler blinked, tilting his head as he looked at Momo,

“What for? What are you asking me to apologize for? For not coaching from the sidelines? You don’t understand, on the field…”

Momo cut him off, which was certainly rude, but he could no longer tolerate it.

“My country.”

He paused, his voice deep, as if struggling to contain something.

“I mean my country.”

At that moment, Peter Neureuler displayed the straightforwardness the Germans are known for. Most of the time, Germans are direct—if they can do something, they say “yes”; if not, they say “no,” rarely beating around the bush or giving ambiguous answers.

“Alright, Momo. It’s settled.”

Without another word, Peter Neureuler turned and strode out of the Alm Stadium. Momo clenched his fists tightly, knowing deep down that the best way to prove anything is not with words, but with action.

Bundesliga 2, Round 32:

Hannover 96 stands first with 69 points.
Mainz is second with 64 points (they lost this round).
Bielefeld is third with 61 points.

In the next match, on April 28, 2002, Hannover 96 will host Duisburg. If Hannover loses both remaining matches and Mainz wins both, Mainz could, in theory, take the championship, leaving Hannover in second and Bielefeld in third.

At this point, after two matches and days of training, Momo had accumulated about 1,600 training points—nearly 1,100 from the matches, and over 400 from more than ten days of training.

Without hesitation, Momo invested all the points in shooting, raising his shooting skill to 8, with all other stats unchanged.

The next day, Peter Neureuler held an offer sheet from 1860 Munich for Momo—the price was 20,000 euros. (At the time, the exchange rate was 100 euros to 800.58 yuan, so 20,000 euros equaled about 160,000 yuan.)

“Twenty thousand euros? After what Momo’s shown, he’s only worth twenty thousand? Reject them, and tell them unless they come up with three million euros, forget it.”

The clerk, about to send the fax, was startled by Peter Neureuler’s words and looked at him wide-eyed, suggesting,

“Three million euros? They’ll never agree to that!”

A faint, ambiguous smile played at Peter Neureuler’s lips.

“That’s exactly the point—I want them to refuse.”

At that, the clerk couldn’t help but ask,

“If you don’t want to sell, why not just take him off the transfer list?”

Peter Neureuler shot her a glare.

“Mind your own business!”

Take him off the list? What a lovely thought—where would that leave my pride? In the end, it all comes down to saving face!