Chapter Twenty-Four

It must be said, spending time with Mino Raiola is a delight. He’s the kind of companion who will eat, drink, play, and watch movies with you, making it feel as if he’s a confidant with whom you can share your innermost thoughts.

Though they hadn’t known each other long, Mo Mo already regarded Mino Raiola as someone worthy of trust.

“Mino, what’s your plan? Well?”

Mino Raiola adjusted his clothes, drawing Mo Mo’s attention to his hands, and then to his impeccably tailored suit.

“Of course, I’ll reason with them. We’re all civilized people here, don’t worry! Leave this to me. All you need to do is play your best in the match.”

But there was only one match left this season, and wasn’t he supposed to be a mafioso? Civilized, indeed... Mo Mo muttered inwardly, then watched as Mino Raiola strode into Peter Neuruller’s office. The very first thing he said left Mo Mo dumbstruck.

“Are you insane? Demanding a three-million-euro transfer fee for him? Who am I? Let me tell you, I’m Mo Mo’s agent, and I’ve seen your contract. Yet you pay Mo Mo such a pittance...”

Mo Mo’s face stiffened. So much for being civilized.

But never mind that—better to focus on training. Yesterday, he’d only gained a meager twenty points of training value, still far from improving his shooting skills.

Yet today was destined to be turbulent. Even Mo Mo didn’t expect that the first person to seek him out would be Karl.

“Why are you choosing to transfer out? The whole thing’s blown up now.”

Mo Mo was stunned. Blown up? Transfer out?

“You don’t know? Do you know a man named Mino Raiola?”

Understanding dawned as Mo Mo looked at Karl, whose expression was a mix of confusion and stubbornness.

“Karl, have you considered what your position will be once Karmon and Freddy Bobic recover?”

Karl was taken aback, but quickly replied, “A substitute, of course! When they’re not in form or get injured, we’ll get to play!”

Seeing Karl’s matter-of-fact look, Mo Mo knew this was the proper order of things. But as someone who had lived another life, with a system that—though not overpowering—served as his golden ticket, he had no desire to linger at a club where regular playing time was a luxury.

“Karl, you know, in my country we have a saying: ‘Better to be the head of a chicken than the tail of a phoenix.’”

Karl’s face was puzzled, as if he half-understood, half-did not. Mo Mo sighed, patted him on the shoulder, and walked away. Karl moved his lips, but in the end, said nothing.

The second to seek out Mo Mo was Dole. In fact, after running into Karl, Mo Mo realized today’s training would probably be a lost cause. Mino Raiola, at some point, had already set people to work stirring things up, starting with the power of public opinion. Mo Mo found it rather laughable.

After all, he was just a newcomer who’d played a handful of matches, scored a few goals, and only in the Bundesliga Second Division. As for fame and strength, such notions were pure fantasy. The only time he’d ever made the newspapers—maybe twice—was when both teams sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” together.

But this was no time for such thoughts; now he had to face the dark and burly Dole.

“Are you really going to transfer out?”

Seeing Dole’s somewhat indignant expression, Mo Mo didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. Dole said nothing further, turned, and walked away. Though he hadn’t spoken, Mo Mo could feel that Dole had said plenty in that silence.

Mo Mo simply stayed put, as if waiting for others to find him—and indeed, someone did. It was Freddy Bobic, the one who’d stood by him and mentored him in his confusion.

“Are you really leaving?”

Faced with Freddy Bobic’s question, Mo Mo found it hard to remain calm.

“Wasn’t it Peter Neuruller who first put me up for transfer?”

Freddy Bobic was never one for words, but this time, he spoke at length.

“Transfers aren’t as simple as you think. Choose well, and it could be a boon for your football career. Choose poorly, and your promise may be squandered.”

Mo Mo understood this all too well—just look at Ricardo Quaresma and Cristiano Ronaldo.

If you ask now, who among the two is better? One hundred percent would choose the latter. At most, one in a hundred might hesitate. But what if you asked when they first debuted?

In truth, Ricardo Quaresma was the more highly regarded prospect, the one first hailed as Figo’s successor, promoted to the first team a year before Cristiano Ronaldo.

Even their former coach Boloni said in FourFourTwo magazine, “Ricardo Quaresma was more gifted than Cristiano Ronaldo; everyone expected him to be the greater player.”

But where did their fates diverge? Here, one must mention Jorge Mendes. Though he is known for prioritizing superstar clients at the expense of lesser players, he made a pivotal choice for Ronaldo.

Many wanted Ronaldo, but even more wanted Quaresma. Yet, because of different choices, their career paths diverged sharply.

Jorge Mendes made a crucial decision for Ronaldo. Sir Alex Ferguson promised at least half the available playing time.

At the time, Manchester United’s offer was hardly the most lucrative. But Mendes chose United for Ronaldo. Compared to Quaresma’s move to Barcelona, it may have seemed less glamorous—but what were the results?

Ronaldo flourished at United, with steady playing time and under Ferguson’s guidance was transformed into a goal-scoring machine, eventually winning the Ballon d’Or. And Quaresma?

He went to mighty Barcelona, but under Rijkaard, lacked consistent playing time and fell out with his coach.

Both Quaresma and Ronaldo shared similar personalities then—showy, arrogant, prideful.

But one met the great Ferguson and was molded into a legend, while the other faded away, deemed the greatest flop.

Mo Mo kept this lesson close to his heart. That’s why, when he left Real Madrid, he chose Hannover 96—because Peter Neuruller had promised him half the playing time.

And the result? Neuruller was no Ferguson—just a fickle petty man. Mo Mo barely had a chance to play between the January transfer window and April, and now was being put up for transfer.

“I’ve made up my mind. I know what I want!”

Mo Mo’s gaze was resolute as he looked at Freddy Bobic, who met his eyes with a mix of emotion and a trace of sadness.

“In that case, work hard.”

Freddy Bobic turned and walked away, his figure growing desolate in the distance. He’d always had few friends—now, even fewer.

Not long after Freddy Bobic left, Mino Raiola strode over, his eyes full of indignation.

“Damn it! They say the season’s not over and won’t consider a transfer.”

Mo Mo took little notice of Raiola’s grumbling, lost in his own thoughts.

“Hey kid, what’s on your mind? Not thinking of backing out of the transfer, are you?”

Raiola’s tone was hardly gentle, but it carried concern.

“Nothing, just thinking. How did your talk go?”

Like a cat—or perhaps a pig—whose tail had been stepped on, Raiola was clearly disgruntled.

“We started out politely, discussing the three-million transfer fee. Can you believe it? He tried to argue with me! But could he win? I pressed him hard, and he couldn’t fend me off. Then he said, the season isn’t over, so they won’t consider a transfer! Damn that old fox.”

Mo Mo lifted his eyelids slightly. Civilized, indeed—he’d heard Raiola’s explosive voice just as he’d entered the office. Still, he was surprised Neuruller hadn’t gotten into a shouting match with Raiola.

“I may have to leave for a while.”

Mo Mo looked up, confused. Raiola seemed to understand, and explained:

“I need to make a trip to Munich.”

At this, Mo Mo understood. He nodded and turned to head for training; he thought surely no one else would come looking for him, and he needed to get back to work. But Raiola stopped him, pressing some money into his hand. Mo Mo looked puzzled.

“It’s for you—just in case you run short. And when you signed the transfer, did you even look at the contract? Well, never mind, it saves me the trouble.”

Mo Mo didn’t refuse. In fact, he’d noticed that despite being here for three or four months, he hadn’t received a cent in wages. His meals and lodging were all covered by Hannover 96, and he’d never given it a thought.

“Go on, then. I’ve got to train.”

He pocketed the money without ceremony. Raiola, despite his curses, seemed pleased—anyone could see the smile in his eyes. As Raiola walked away, Mo Mo turned, ready to resume training.

Just then, a figure appeared in the distance, as if he’d been standing there a long time. Mo Mo looked up—it was Peter Neuruller.

“I’ll give you half the playing time.”

Neuruller’s offer was blunt and direct. He had finally remembered what the young man before him craved most, what he cared about most. But who had kept him on the bench for two or three months?

Mo Mo didn’t take him at his word. Half the playing time? A beautiful lie.

“In the next match, will I get to play?”

Mo Mo’s tone was noncommittal. Neuruller frowned, but in the end, said nothing more, just nodded.

“Talk to my agent about the transfer. I’m just a striker; all I need to do is play my best.”

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