Chapter Nineteen: Severed at the Waist

The match restarted with another kick-off at the center circle. In less than six minutes, two goals had already been scored between Hannover 96 and Duisburg, and everyone was convinced this would be a goal fest. The home fans erupted into their club anthem, "Love of '96," their voices reverberating through the AWD Arena:

“No one is left behind. Hand in hand, we move forward. United, we are as strong as walls of bronze.
Thank you, you've given us so much. You are precious in our lives.
A love that’s lasted since '96. Your red is so much more beautiful than blue or yellow.
Let others talk about Bayern and Bremen. We’ll always stand by your side, 96, our Hannover!
For so long, you have earned our trust. With you, we never lose heart.
Whether it's raining or snowing, we’re always here, not just in bright, sunny weather.
Things may not always go as we wish, but our love never fades.
We might shed tears, but even in the hardest times, we’ll keep steering our red ship forward.”

Amidst the song, the stadium was charged with an inexplicable energy. In Mo Mo’s eyes shone a special brightness; he could feel the fans’ unshakable love for their team. Whether in the Bundesliga, the second division, or even if they fell to the third, the fans never abandoned Hannover 96.

They weren’t as harsh as the supporters at Real Madrid, though Mo Mo hesitated to say so; it had to be admitted that the world’s toughest fans filled the stands at the Bernabéu. Still, Madrid’s fans were loyal, always packing the stadium to the brim.

“Duisburg is launching a powerful offensive. As we can see, nearly every one of their players is involved in the attack. Except for the keeper and the center backs, everyone’s pushing forward. To be fair, Duisburg’s recent attacking form has been impressive. But—wait! That’s a tackle from Mo Mo! Beautiful!”

Anyone familiar with football knows you can’t expect the commentator to be calm and methodical. The nature of the game is unpredictable and full of surprises. Cristiano Ronaldo, back at Manchester United, once tripped himself up with a fancy move; goalkeepers sometimes fumble a simple stop and end up gifting a goal.

The strangest own goal happened on January 3, 1977. Right after the opening whistle, Cambridge United’s Kruse, without thinking, hoofed the ball back to his keeper. The keeper, caught off guard as he readied himself, could only watch the ball roll into his own net—just four seconds into the match. (I say this because, when describing certain goals, some readers might think it’s exaggerated. But in football, anything is possible. I’ve even seen a video where a keeper’s long clearance, caught by a gust of wind, flew into his own net.)

But this moment had nothing to do with own goals. In fact, Duisburg played quite well. Yet sometimes, football defies all logic; there’s simply no point in trying to reason it out. In a match, the opposition might score three goals from just three corners, or concede three from the same spot in quick succession. There seem to be many factors at play, but when you try to explain them, you realize there’s no explanation at all.

Duisburg’s passing game relied mainly on short passes. With both fullbacks pressing forward, they formed small triangles, moving the ball quickly. But every team has its core players. In Duisburg’s case, number 26, Gouwan, was the ball-winning midfielder. He rarely held the ball for long, preferring quick passes to more creative teammates.

So who were their creative players? Number 21, Waters, the advanced playmaker, and number 29, Nisko, an all-round midfielder. When either of them received the ball, they would slow the tempo, control possession, and look for a through pass or some other way to advance the attack.

Every team has its undisputed core, just like Xavi Hernández Creus at Barcelona, or Steven Gerrard at Liverpool (his five fatal errors, especially the one in 2014, are hard to forget).

Yet everyone’s eyes were always on Duisburg’s twin strikers, but with the help of the tactical diagrams provided by the system, Mo Mo had noticed something different. While his teammates frantically marked every man, all Mo Mo needed to do was position himself between Waters and Nisko and the ball.

Fortune favors the prepared. When Gouwan played a direct pass, Mo Mo was well-placed; he stepped forward and intercepted, launching a counterattack. Duisburg, in that instant, looked like a car forced into an emergency stop from full speed.

Everything has its pattern. When a pattern becomes familiar, it turns into chemistry. Mo Mo didn’t know all their routines, but this time he intercepted perfectly. Duisburg’s routine was simple: once Gouwan won the ball, he’d immediately pass to the creative players—Waters or Nisko.

But with Mo Mo shadowing both, Gouwan’s quick pass became a mistake. The 4-1-2-1-2 formation is like a blade cutting through the center, tightly grouped in threes. In this setup, Gouwan’s pass was always going to cover just a short distance, no matter who he aimed for.

Mo Mo, anticipating the play, stuck out a foot and took the ball. Up front, Duisburg’s attacking trio—two strikers and an attacking midfielder—were still charging forward, following their pattern of direct play, like two runners racing, one fast (the ball), one slow (the player).

When both start together, the ball catches up and overtakes the player, so they meet at the right moment. That’s why commentators sometimes say a pass is too short, forcing the striker to slow down or turn back—ruining the attack.

Of course, too long is bad too; we’ve all seen passes that zip past everyone and are collected by defenders or the keeper. But this time, the ball was intercepted before it reached anyone, and the attacking trio was still running upfield. Duisburg was split in half.

Duisburg had their routine; Hannover 96 now had one of their own—a right-angled triangle of Mo Mo, Carl, and Jan Simak. Mo Mo to Simak, Simak to Carl, and Carl would either shoot or play in Mo Mo, depending on the situation.

Sometimes, people have to learn the hard way. Mo Mo played a quick through ball to Simak, darted between two unprepared midfielders, and Simak charged forward unimpeded. Duisburg’s fullbacks had already pushed up, and Simak ran wild, a stallion in full flight.

Reaching the right spot, he sent a curling cross toward Carl’s head. One had to marvel at the narrow-mindedness of Duisburg’s defenders; their defensive skills might be decent, but their awareness was clearly lacking, and their teamwork attributes seemed low—too many clustered around Carl.

Anyone who’s played football management games has seen this kind of thing and cursed the AI, but it happens in real matches, too. Mo Mo easily received Carl’s header and again chose to burst into the penalty area.

This time, Brathas was far more cautious, though he wanted nothing more than to yell at his defenders and holding midfielders for their blindness. But clearly, this was not the moment.

“Beautiful! Mo Mo drives into the box. Duisburg’s defenders and holding midfielder have all gone after Carl. Will this be a goal?”

Chen Nu’s voice rose and fell, but Chinese fans breathed a sigh of relief. Even though he hadn’t said whether it would be a goal or not, his habit of jinxing things had become a running joke.

Brathas was utterly focused. Mo Mo feinted left and right, but Brathas didn’t bite. Mo Mo couldn’t stop; if he did, number 30, Grugiev, who was catching up behind him, would pounce. But if he shot in haste, there was a ninety-nine percent chance he’d miss.

Brathas was tall and well-built. No matter how Mo Mo shot from this distance, Brathas could reach the ball once he dived. Now they were very close. Brathas’s composure was neither too high nor too low, but he was at his limit.

Mo Mo dribbled into Brathas’s effective range, and Brathas decided to take the initiative, spreading his legs as if to do a split—but it was clear he couldn’t pull it off.

At that moment, Mo Mo’s eyes lit up. With a flick of his toe, he sent the ball darting between Brathas’s legs.

With a “whoosh,” Mo Mo sprang past the seated Brathas as the ball rolled into Duisburg’s net. 2-1! Hannover 96 had taken the lead! Mo Mo had scored again.

But now, everyone’s attention was not on Mo Mo, but on Duisburg’s keeper Brathas’s thighs—his shorts had... torn. The last person Mo Mo recalled suffering such embarrassment was Zizou, and he’d done it more than once. Now, he was witnessing it firsthand.

Whether this was lucky or unlucky, who could tell. The referee paused the match so Brathas could change shorts. Brathas’s face was crimson with embarrassment. In that final moment, he’d realized Mo Mo was about to shoot between his legs.

Brathas could have stopped the shot, but his splits technique simply let him down. Anyone who’s tried to do the splits knows: if you’re not used to it, forcing it always makes you hesitate.

For Brathas, who liked to wear tight shorts and fancied himself quite dashing, this was a disaster. Mo Mo didn’t feel right celebrating too much, but when he saw number 30, Grugiev, he couldn’t help but say, “I told you, next time it’s your turn to fetch the ball.”

Grugiev’s eyes widened as if he wanted to say something, but with the referee nearby because of Brathas’s mishap, he could only mutter angrily at Mo Mo. It was clear that from now on, Mo Mo would face Grugiev’s close marking.

To borrow a line from a football game: Grugiev had automatically set himself to stick to number 37, Mo Mo. But would Mo Mo care? The goals weren’t over yet!