Chapter One: The China List

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Mo Mo’s daily life followed a strict routine: training, training, and training. Each time he thought about the looming darkness that would engulf Chinese football after the World Cup, his heart felt tormented. Sometimes, Mo Mo wished he wasn’t someone who had been reborn; then he wouldn’t know so much, wouldn’t be burdened by knowledge he couldn’t change. That was the true agony. Just at that moment, Mino Raiola appeared once more.

Today was May 18, 2002. The deadline for the announcement of the final World Cup squad, May 31, was fast approaching. Mino Raiola looked weary. He had originally thought that simply winning over Bora Milutinović would suffice, but upon arriving in China, he realized that Milutinović lacked the authority to settle the matter. The candidates were not only who Raiola had assumed—Gao Yao—but also Li Ming. Gifts to Milutinović alone would solve nothing.

Yet, having come all this way, Raiola was not about to accept a wasted trip. He noticed that when faced with foreigners, the Chinese always appeared exceptionally modest, just like their exports: first-rate goods exported, second and third-rate goods kept for themselves. Raiola thought he understood the Chinese well enough, but once he truly immersed himself in their circles, he realized he had barely scratched the surface. No matter—there was a universal trait: a love for money, just like Raiola himself.

If Raiola had learned anything truly valuable during this time, it was one thing: there is nothing in this world that money cannot solve. Raiola settled everything, paving the way for Mo Mo. Those officials who reached out for favors left satisfied, patting their bulging wallets. Gao Yao was no match for Raiola’s financial power; euros were far more alluring than renminbi.

Yet when Raiola brought this news to Mo Mo, the boy didn’t react with joy—no triumphant shout of, “I’ve made the national team! My value has soared! I’m amazing!” Instead, he was weighed down by emotions that had no place on the face of a seventeen-year-old.

“Hey, kid, cheer up! You’re a national player now!”

Mo Mo looked up, studying Raiola, unable to fathom his motivations for all this.

“Mino, am I just a commodity? Or do you really believe that my joining the national team will strengthen my country? Or do you think what I need is this layer of gold plating? Tell me, Mino!”

It was an unreasonable accusation—or so Raiola thought. For heaven’s sake, he had gotten Mo Mo, a seventeen-year-old, into the World Cup! The World Cup! And yet the boy was still accusing him?

“Kid! You’d better show some respect! I got you into your national team! You’re going to the World Cup! Do you even know what the World Cup is?”

Mo Mo raised his head, his gaze layered with complex emotions.

“Mino, do you think I deserve to be selected for our national team? Do you think I’ll actually have a chance to play?”

He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. If he couldn’t even set foot on the pitch, how could he hope to change his fate?

“Hey, kid, what’s on your mind? Would I harm you? Do you know who your first opponent is? Costa Rica! It’s their first time at the World Cup. I looked at your group: except for Brazil, it’s pretty good! You might even make the Round of 16!”

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Mo Mo didn’t know how to explain it to Raiola. Costa Rica may have been making their debut, but Mo Mo knew all too well that China would lose 2–0, and in 2014 Costa Rica would perform miracles, eliminating Uruguay. They were a magical team, seemingly destined to shatter dreams.

Raiola saw Mo Mo’s expression and seemed to understand, offering comfort.

“Relax, I’ll negotiate with them and make sure you get some playing time. And I’ve watched your country’s matches—the team’s not bad. Not strong, but not the weakest among this year’s qualifiers.”

Looking at Raiola’s sincere face, Mo Mo suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He knew the greatest enemy wasn’t others—it was himself.

Before the World Cup qualifiers, commentators and the media were all hyping Milutinović, saying all sorts of things. Then, when China qualified for the World Cup, the media vanished, and the country was awash in red, everyone praising the team.

Mo Mo hadn’t been much of a follower of Chinese football, but surrounded by endless discussion, he too had been swept up, thinking the national team was formidable—maybe even the best in the world. The gap between wild hope and reality drove some people mad.

Some kept their reason, but others, overwhelmed by the disappointment, turned to criticism.

Truthfully, when he saw the draw, Mo Mo couldn’t stop grinning—it couldn’t have been better. Japan and Korea were avoided, the group stage was decent, and at least there was Costa Rica, who had never played in a World Cup.

At the time, everyone was saying: beat Costa Rica, draw Turkey, lose to Brazil—it’s fine, we’ll still make the Round of 16.

He remembered when China qualified: schools let out so everyone could watch, fireworks filled the sky. During matches, whether or not you were a football fan, you stood up to sing the national anthem with the players, feeling proud. But after three matches, that pride turned into curses.

As Mo Mo’s eyes reddened and grew moist, Raiola became confused.

“Hey, kid, what’s up? Why are you crying like a girl?”

Mo Mo turned away, facing Raiola with his back, and spoke as calmly as he could.

“Tell me, when do we leave for China?”

Raiola flashed a broad smile, slinging an arm around Mo Mo.

“The tickets are booked. Tonight.”

Mo Mo’s body stiffened noticeably, prompting Raiola to laugh heartily.

“Hurry up! My homeland Italy is in the World Cup too!”

Mo Mo nodded, lost in thought as he gazed at the system notification in his mind.

Congratulations, host, you have qualified for the World Cup. When you play on the field, you gain extra training points. In the group stage, you earn five training points per minute; in the Round of 16, ten per minute; in the quarterfinals, fifteen; in the semifinals, twenty; and in the final, forty per minute.

Don’t underestimate five points: if Mo Mo played the full ninety minutes, that’s 450 points; 120 minutes with extra time would be 600. There were also fixed bonuses for starting or coming off the bench.

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In the Bundesliga 2, a starting player would earn two or three hundred points per match at most; as a substitute, only a hundred. Even in the busiest months with eight starts and four weeks at the highest eighty points, a year would amount to thirty or forty thousand points—just a thousand or two per month. Now, three World Cup matches as a starter would yield the same as two months of the most intense schedule.

“Let’s go, Mino! I can’t wait!”

Mo Mo smiled slightly. He felt there were still mysteries to the system within him. If he started training earlier, would his daily training points increase?

While Mo Mo was dreaming in Germany, his name had already become legendary back in China.

Yet Mo Mo underestimated his compatriots. He thought he’d replace Gao Yao and become the subject of online debate—accusations of unworthiness, of shady dealings. But in truth, Chinese fans were remarkably tolerant after seeing the final squad.

An elderly man sat on a bench, stroking his beard, laughing heartily.

“Good, good, good! The head coach knows how to train the next generation! Look, seventeen and going to the World Cup! Must be the youngest player. We’ve got successors, we’ve got successors!”

A few university students whispered among themselves, clearly seasoned fans.

“Hey, did you hear? The last name on the list is a seventeen-year-old Chinese! Must be one of us '80s kids, right? Do you think he’ll actually play?”

Another, bespectacled and scholarly, frowned and glanced at the speaker.

“You! You should read more news. Hao Haidong is thirty-three this year, Yang Chen almost thirty, Su Maozhen will retire after the World Cup. If we don’t train young players now, who’ll be left in the future? Do you know how the Shu kingdom fell? No successors!”

The other was taken aback, then asked,

“So how do you know this seventeen-year-old is a striker?”

The bespectacled student adjusted his glasses, a mysterious smile on his lips. I stay up late doing homework and watching Bundesliga 2—should I tell you?

No matter what, Chinese fans had no major objections to Mo Mo’s selection. At least, he was better than Gao Yao. Though both had appeared out of nowhere, Mo Mo was now in Bundesliga 2 like Yang Chen.

Yang Chen had scored only five goals this season, while Mo Mo, though playing fewer matches, had netted nine goals and provided two assists, and would move up to the Bundesliga next season. When this news broke, any remaining doubts vanished.

Seventeen years old? Chinese? Nine goals and two assists in four or five Bundesliga 2 matches? Let him go to the World Cup to gain experience—it’s perfectly reasonable! If this young man develops well, China won’t lack strikers for the next fifteen years.

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