Chapter Twenty-Seven: The News Brought by Mino (A Memory)

In the final round of the German second division, Hannover 96 visited Playmobil Stadium and defeated Fürth with a score of 4-1. The last goal came in the seventy-third minute, assisted by Momo and finished with a header by Karl, sealing the victory. As the Fürth players' actions grew increasingly aggressive, both Momo and Karl were substituted in the seventy-fifth minute. After the match, Union Berlin beat Mainz 3-1 at home, ending up with 56 points—equal to Fürth—while Frankfurt and Babelsberg drew 1-1, remaining behind Fürth in the standings.

With this round concluded, the 2001-2002 German second division season officially ended. Yang Chen announced his transfer to St. Pauli during the summer window, but regrettably, St. Pauli suffered defeat in the final match and were relegated to the second division. Shao Jiayi also confirmed his move to 1860 Munich for a transfer fee of one million euros.

As for Momo’s transfer, it depended on Mino Raiola’s negotiation skills, yet Momo showed no concern. Others may not know Raiola’s methods, but how could Momo not? Besides, Momo wasn’t a major star, nor was he aiming for a giant club, making the process much more manageable.

It was the day after the second division season ended—May 6th, 2002. The announcement of the World Cup squad was fast approaching, set for May 31st. At this moment, Mino Raiola suddenly returned to Hannover.

“Mino? Did you finalize things with 1860 Munich?”

Momo looked surprised at the panting Raiola, wondering what had caused such urgency. Raiola, visibly excited and almost incoherent, burst out:

“Hey, kid! Hey! I’ve done something big! Guess what! World Cup! You! World Cup, you know? Your country! World Cup!”

His words tumbled out, barely making sense. The phrase “World Cup” was clear enough, but Momo couldn’t see how it related to him.

“Mino, slow down. What about the World Cup? I know our country qualified.”

Momo tried to calm Raiola, placing a hand on his shoulder, only to find it soaked with sweat. Momo couldn’t help but comment,

“Mino! Look at you! You’re drenched! Damn! Did you finish things with 1860 Munich?”

Raiola rolled his eyes, clearly unwilling to stand any longer. He brushed Momo’s hand aside and sat down, suit and all, right on the floor. Luckily, the season was over and most people had gone home, otherwise he’d have attracted quite a crowd.

“1860 Munich? Damn them! Who cares about Munich! I didn’t even go to Munich! Guess where I went?”

Seeing Momo’s expression—clearly not interested in guessing—Raiola, like a ruffled cat, widened his eyes and shouted,

“I went to China! Do you know China? I met Bora Milutinovic!”

For some reason, Momo couldn’t help but laugh. Damn, this guy’s acting was a bit over the top. China? Bora Milutinovic? Who was that?

Momo’s barely suppressed amusement made Raiola even more irritated. He grabbed Momo by the collar and shouted,

“You don’t know who Bora Milutinovic is? Don’t you remember the name of your national team coach?”

Only then did Momo realize—Bora Milutinovic! Of course! Online, people usually just called him “Milu,” much like how Zlatan is called “Ibra,” or how Yang Chen’s name is reversed abroad.

Momo’s face flushed. Something seemed to rush to his head—a feeling he couldn’t quite describe. This was interesting. He pulled Raiola’s hand away, grabbed his rumpled suit, and exclaimed,

“What did you say? Why did he want to see me? What did I do? Mino! Mino!”

Raiola was equally excited now, grabbing Momo back and shouting,

“What did you do? Who knows what you did! But you might make China’s World Cup 32-man roster! Money! It’s all about money! If you become an international, the Chinese market is huge!”

Momo was completely stunned. The 32-man roster? The World Cup? China’s World Cup? The golden generation of 2002—did he have a chance to play?

“Is this true? Damn, Mino, can’t you think of anything besides filthy money?”

Raiola slapped Momo’s back repeatedly, saying,

“Good kid! I knew I was right about you! If you really make the World Cup squad, three million euros for your transfer is a bargain!”

Momo was calmer than Raiola, though his emotions were unsettled. He thought of Wayne Rooney.

Momo didn’t think going to the World Cup was a good idea. He knew what challenges awaited, and he understood his abilities. In 2002, Chinese football was at its golden age—Momo didn’t believe he was better than anyone.

“Mino, if I make the World Cup, whose spot do I take?”

He wanted to go, but not at the expense of the national team’s strength. Momo would rather give up such a rare chance if it would harm the team. Truthfully, he wasn’t confident he could lead China to another World Cup—unless, one day, he became strong enough.

“Apparently, a guy named Gao Yao. But your positions don’t match. He’s got connections, but Milutinovic doesn’t like him.”

Raiola paused, his expression turning sour before he brightened again.

“But don’t you have a saying in China? ‘Money makes the world go round!’ If that kid will pay, why shouldn’t I? I won’t be stingy with a bit of money—it’s a big investment!”

Hearing this, Momo felt a strong resistance inside. He frowned at Raiola and said,

“No need. I won’t go to the World Cup. Besides, I have zero chemistry with the team—it won’t help. If he goes, maybe he can contribute.”

Raiola was unwilling, jabbing Momo’s head and speaking in a tone of exasperation,

“What are you thinking? Are you really Chinese? I thought you were supposed to be bureaucratic! Why are you like this?”

Momo stood up straight, shoved Raiola, his expression serious.

“Take off your tinted glasses, Mino! Let me tell you, our country has more kind-hearted, capable, and generous people. We Chinese are hardworking and honest. Enough about this! I have training now, Mino. Please focus on the 1860 Munich matter.”

Watching Momo run off, Raiola’s expression was ambiguous. He bowed his head, lost in thought, then suddenly muttered,

“Chinese people really are strange! This kid—so eager for the World Cup, yet so stubborn about this.”

He suddenly laughed, as if talking to himself or to someone else.

“Well, if that’s how it is, I’ll play the villain. That’s what an agent is supposed to do, isn’t it?”

Back then, Raiola wasn’t yet the infamous agent constantly demanding pay raises for his players. He hadn’t yet earned the title of “vampire,” nor had he reached his peak.

In the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup, China lost all three matches. The seemingly powerful golden generation suffered an initial 2-0 defeat to Costa Rica, who had originally been considered beatable, followed by other losses—details now forgotten.

But if you ask me what I remember—

Momo would tell you his Beijing friends said the city was filled with the sound of horns. The World Cup reached a 31% viewership rate. For comparison: the Evergrande AFC Champions League final had 4.9%; “Where Are We Going, Dad?” less than 4%; the evening news, 10%; even the Spring Festival Gala—with all channels forced to broadcast—only reached 30%.

Momo would tell you he watched the first match of the ten-team qualifying round outside a school shop. The 3-0 score is unforgettable—his hands were swollen after the match.

Victory after victory, Li Weifeng’s crucial goal, kneeling and pointing to the sky in tribute to his father, and the blue ribbon tied around his waist—etched in memory.

Even during evening study sessions, someone would suddenly start singing the national anthem, growing louder and louder. Everyone would ask, “Is the Chinese team playing? Did we score?”

First the entire floor, then the whole building, then the entire school. Everyone began singing songs for the motherland. At first, teachers tried to stop us, but once they heard, they let us be.

That year, whether you were a football fan or not, it was a memory that would never fade for anyone who experienced it.

As for the World Cup opener—I suddenly don’t want to talk about it.

Momo didn’t go to training; instead, he sat in a corner, remembering those moments, wondering if he could change anything—even just score a single goal.

Chinese football, we love you so much—do you know that?