Chapter Twenty-One: Turning Their Methods Against Them

The first half of the match left everyone utterly astonished. Given their recent record of two losses and a draw in the last three games, along with their main striker injured, it was hard for anyone to treat Hannover 96 as the current leader of the German second division. On the other hand, Duisburg, who had remained unbeaten in their last three matches and scored ten goals in that span, were unanimously predicted by experts to at least avoid defeat, if not to win outright as visitors.

And indeed, the game began as expected: less than three minutes in, Duisburg broke through Hannover 96’s defense to take an early 1-0 lead. Yet, no one could have foreseen what came next—the much-maligned Chinese player Mo Mo netted two goals in quick succession, overturning the score. Then, just before halftime, Karl, assisted by Mo Mo, breached the goal once more.

During the halftime break, Hannover 96’s head coach, Peter Neururer, said little. The team ate some bananas—carbohydrates to replenish their energy—and drank some water, fully relaxing themselves. Meanwhile, no one knew what the Duisburg coach told his players, but whatever it was, it had an effect; in the second half, Duisburg began to exert real pressure on Hannover 96.

“In the second half, Duisburg played as if they were on stimulants. Mo Mo, under the close watch of two players, had no room to make any impact whatsoever.” Chen Nu's voice was tinged with regret. In the second half, Duisburg’s number 30, Grujew, and number 26, Kujan, shadowed Mo Mo so closely that he could barely breathe. Yet, even with two men effectively out of the game, Hannover 96 was still pinned back by Duisburg.

To be fair, one couldn’t blame Hannover 96 for faltering: their main striker was injured, their midfield linchpin, Dole, had not recovered, and though the defense remained solid with number 2, Zulau, as the anchor, the midfield and attack were another story. The midfield flanks were virtually useless—having played several matches as mere passengers. Without Dole, their former left and right hands had become two severed limbs. And in the front, Karl alone was not enough—his range was limited, his pace unremarkable, more of a stationary presence than a versatile attacker.

Where had Hannover 96’s attacking impetus come from earlier? Perhaps it was unclear before, but as soon as Mo Mo was neutralized, it became evident: he had been the one causing trouble between the opposition’s midfielders, intercepting balls and distributing them.

Now, the tables had turned; Mo Mo was tightly marked and rendered ineffective.

In the fifty-sixth minute, number 13, Ebers, surged forward with the ball, slipping past center-back Link, prompting Chen Nu to exclaim at the reckless challenge. Fortunately, number 2, Zulau, intervened in time to prevent further damage.

What is most common in lower leagues? Put simply, mistakes abound in less skilled competitions—just watch a compilation from the Australian league, if you’re curious.

In the sixty-third minute, number 17, the Czech winger Jan Simak, drove forward and, under pressure from the opposing fullback, threaded a through ball to Mo Mo. Mo Mo could only manage a wry smile—what could he do with two men glued to him? True, Mo Mo’s acceleration was superior, but football isn’t just about explosive speed; there are all sorts of little tricks—shirt-tugging, nudging, blocking. To really break free, one needs space, and if you try to force it, things can go wrong.

Mo Mo vividly recalled a certain Arsenal match—he’d forgotten the opponent—where Alexis Sanchez tried to accelerate and, with a defender marking him, got elbowed. The defender wasn’t even booked; the explanation was that Sanchez’s acceleration was so fast he ran into the defender’s flailing arm.

Looking at the two men beside him, Mo Mo was quite convinced they would love to do the same, feigning it as an accident.

So, under this pincer, Mo Mo could only show a token intent to receive the ball. As he moved, a burly arm barred his way; Mo Mo wanted to shout for a foul, but the referee seemed intent on keeping the game flowing, and to be fair, the match hadn’t been particularly dirty.

And so, Mo Mo could only watch as number 26, Kujan, stepped up to retrieve the ball and passed it back to defender number 6, Ebers. As all this unfolded, Mo Mo could even hear number 30, Grujew, chuckling under his breath.

“Hey, what’s so funny?”

Mo Mo tried to distract the defender with words, though mainly because he wasn’t strong enough to intimidate like future stars Zlatan Ibrahimović or Diego Costa, who could get under defenders’ skin with their words. Looking at Grujew’s burly frame and his own slight build, Mo Mo wisely chose a different tack.

“Hey, why so quiet now? Huh? You’ve played like crap this whole second half. I’ve got you in my pocket, kid! Don’t think you’ll manage anything more!”

Can’t we have a proper conversation? That was Mo Mo’s first thought, but then he smiled—he had noticed something different.

“You’ve been phenomenal! You really have me locked down.” When Mo Mo said this, number 30, Grujew, though puzzled, couldn’t help but look a bit smug.

“After I scored two and provided an assist, you finally managed to shut me down. Well done.”

Grujew was obviously rattled, especially since he had been outfoxed during that last assist. As his face flushed and he was about to retort, a shout rang out.

“Grujew, what are you doing!”

Grujew turned his head just in time to see the ball skimming low across the grass toward him. He tried to control it, but in his haste only managed to get a touch before the ball bounced past his leg and rolled behind him like a playful child.

Mo Mo’s eyes narrowed with delight. Just earlier, when Kujan had passed back, Karl had pressed forward to intercept. Ebers could only play a long ball to number 29, Nisko, who was also under pressure and had to return the ball—leaving only Grujew close enough to receive it.

As the saying goes, the mouth says no but the body is honest. Nisko saw Grujew, back turned, still talking, but he couldn’t hold the ball for long and shouted to alert him as he instinctively passed. All of this unfolded right before Mo Mo’s eyes.

Seeing the ball bounce off Grujew’s leg, Mo Mo surged forward, launching himself with fifteen points of acceleration toward Duisburg’s back line.

“That was a clumsy mistake by number 30, Grujew. He seemed to be talking to Mo Mo and didn’t react to his teammate’s sudden pass,” Chen Nu’s voice rose in excitement, as if he’d just won the lottery. After all, who watches the German second division unless it’s for a Chinese player—or their own countryman?

Suddenly, the entire Duisburg defense was on edge. Mo Mo wasn’t far from the penalty area, and now that he had the ball, though surrounded by Duisburg players on all sides, he needed only to get past number 6, Ebers, to be clear through.

But would Mo Mo try to take him on? Whenever all eyes were on him, Mo Mo could always spot the movements of others; and when everyone’s attention turned elsewhere, he would appear where he was needed most.

With his left foot, Mo Mo sent the ball slicing through the ever-narrowing gap between number 6, Ebers, and number 26, Kujan. Suddenly, Karl appeared—though he had been there all along.

“Mo Mo passes! It’s Karl! Karl! Karl goes for goal! Wait… that’s—?” Chen Nu’s eyes widened. It wasn’t a shot, but a pass! And the recipient was—

“Mo Mo, Mo Mo! It’s Mo Mo! Mo Mo slides in! Goal!”

When Mo Mo passed to Karl, Karl had intended to shoot, but Brasaas had wised up, keeping an eye not only on Mo Mo but on Karl as well. As he adjusted his defensive position, Karl’s already limited angle was all but closed off.

In that moment, Karl noticed Mo Mo’s movement. When Mo Mo threaded the ball through, the path to the box opened up, as the defenders all turned to follow the pass; Mo Mo darted through the gap.

At that instant, Karl, with what looked like a shot but was actually a pass, sent the ball curling toward the far post. Without outside intervention, it would have just grazed the upright and gone out (if the passer is ahead of the receiver, it’s not considered offside).

Even with fifteen points of acceleration, Mo Mo couldn’t quite reach the ball in time for a proper shot. His only option was to slide in—a generous term, really, as he simply threw himself onto the grass and skidded the final stretch.

Legs flailing, he just managed to get a foot to the ball and prod it into the net. Regardless of how it looked, a goal is a goal—and this was a hat-trick!

At that moment, a figure descended from the stands and quietly exited the stadium. It was Fred, the senior scout for 1860 Munich. Their €3 million offer had put them in a bind; the club was not flush with cash—after all, signing Shao Jiayi had cost only €1 million.

A €3 million price tag for Mo Mo, even at just seventeen years old, was simply too high for them. Yet Fred had thought of a compromise: if the player’s salary were lowered, perhaps a higher transfer fee could be justified. Moreover, several players were no longer in new head coach Walraka’s plans.

Most crucially, their top striker, Davor Šuker, had announced he would retire at the end of the season—a remarkable player, and the Golden Boot winner at the 1998 World Cup.

Of course, none of this concerned Mo Mo at the moment. His only task was to play his best, and find a good agent before the summer transfer window.

Arms raised high, he reveled in the cheers, unaware that Peter Neururer was already planning a substitution—not out of dissatisfaction, but as a reward. With a 4-1 lead and little time left, letting Mo Mo leave the pitch early to soak up the applause was its own kind of prize.

Besides, had Mo Mo not noticed? The Duisburg players around him were glaring as if they were about to burst into flames.