Chapter Twenty-Seven: The End (Fifth Update)

End of the postscript! It has to end. Watermark ad test, watermark ad test... Actually, according to my original outline, this match would’ve taken tens of thousands more words, but I can’t stand it anymore… Let’s wrap up the World Cup! The groundwork for daily life is laid. And one more thing—quick! Give me a few recommendations so I can recover some energy!

Everyone could clearly hear the cheers of the Chinese fans in the stadium, yet head coach Bora Milutinović still decided to make a substitution, and the player coming off was none other than Ma Mingyu, who had just scored a goal.

“The match has reached the 60th minute. The coach has chosen to make a substitution—number 3, Yang Pu, replaces number 9, Ma Mingyu. Ma Mingyu is clearly running out of steam,” Chen Nu commented, understanding fully—after all, stamina was a known weakness of the Chinese team. On the field, Qi Hong took over the captain’s armband. By the sixty-sixth minute, Shao Jiayi replaced Qi Hong, and Li Tie became the captain.

During this period, both sides traded attacks and defenses, but China could no longer muster any dazzling offensives. The reason was clear: forward Mo Mo had been completely locked down by number 14, Anderson Polga. Mo Mo was neither as strong nor as fast as his marker, and Anderson Polga was relentless, sticking to his assignment with utter determination.

It was almost as if he meant to follow Mo Mo to the ends of the earth, braving fire and sword at his side. Captain Marcos Cafu of Brazil said nothing about it, which left Mo Mo both indignant and baffled—was all this really necessary? Was he truly such a threat?

Under these circumstances, Mo Mo had no chances at all. The game went on, but now Mo Mo had been rendered as ineffective as Hao Haidong, another forward. Time and again opportunities appeared, but Mo Mo simply couldn’t reach them; Anderson Polga’s marking was more than sufficient.

“Ninetieth minute, and the score remains 4-1. China trails by three, but it doesn’t matter—we scored at least,” Chen Nu said, his voice weary but resigned. It was almost over. And then—

“This is it! A chance! Mo Mo’s chance!”

It was a straight pass from Yang Pu, cutting straight through the midfield to find Qu Bo up front. It was, without doubt, China’s finest straight pass of the entire match.

Qu Bo was flanked by two Brazilian defenders, one of whom was Anderson Polga. The two closed Qu Bo down, trying to force him out wide, but Qu Bo was quick. Suddenly, the Brazilian on his left slid in with a tackle—he got the ball, but with little force, only accelerating its pace.

Qu Bo was about to lose the ball over the end line. At that moment, he remembered something Coach Bora Milutinović had said in the locker room: “If you ever don’t know what to do—just send the ball to the center!”

Now was exactly that moment. Gritting his teeth, Qu Bo slid in, sending the ball across the face of goal.

At this point, Mo Mo was moving purely on instinct. When he saw Qu Bo about to go out of bounds, he’d almost given up hope, but to his surprise, the cross came, and Mo Mo was right there.

He couldn’t handle the ball properly—it was too high—so he fell back on an old trick. At the edge of the penalty area, he nodded the ball forward with his head, sending it flying toward the penalty spot.

“The duel! Mo Mo’s duel! This is Mo Mo’s signature finishing move!” Chen Nu cried out. Yes, Mo Mo was again in his 1v1 “duel”—a striker’s fair contest with the keeper.

Mo Mo, clad in China red, sprinted toward the penalty spot. Most goalkeepers aren’t especially quick, so Mo Mo was betting on that, but Marcos was no slouch either. With the ball rolling toward him, Mo Mo barely had a chance—unless—

“Mo Mo’s not going to make it! Is this going to be his first failed duel? No! Mo Mo!”

Mo Mo threw himself forward, and just as Marcos’s hands reached for the ball, Mo Mo’s head got there first.

“A header! Mo Mo’s header! Mo Mo!!!” Chen Nu shouted at the top of his lungs. Scoring a second goal might not have changed much, but ask every spectator—who didn’t want to see Mo Mo score again?

Alas, fate was unkind. The ball sailed over the crossbar and struck the woodwork.

At that moment, the referee blew the final whistle. Mo Mo’s heart tightened, for he suddenly remembered—the time when, after a match, the Chinese team had chased after the Brazilians for shirt exchanges, only to be collectively refused. Mo Mo scanned the field anxiously.

But the infamous scene didn’t repeat itself. Some players did try to swap shirts, but in a perfectly normal fashion.

The first Chinese player to attempt a shirt swap was Yang Pu, who had come on as a substitute. Shaking hands with Brazil’s number 6, Roberto Carlos, Yang Pu gestured to both their shirts, suggesting an exchange. Roberto Carlos pointed toward the locker room, indicating they could swap there.

This was generally a polite but indirect refusal. Yang Pu could only walk away.

As Roberto Carlos clapped to the crowd and walked off, another Chinese player, Xu Yunlong, approached. He hadn’t seen Yang Pu’s earlier exchange and, upon finding Roberto Carlos nearby, asked to swap shirts as well. The Brazilian’s response was identical—a gesture toward the locker room.

Most of the Chinese players lingered on the pitch, not actually leaving slowly, but rather following tradition—making a lap to thank the fans. Most of the Brazilians had already disappeared.

Brazil’s captain, Marcos Cafu, continued to clap to the stands. Roberto Carlos joined him, and together with Anderson Polga, they were the last of the Brazilian players on the field. After shaking hands with the three referees, they made their way along the center line toward the locker room.

Among the Chinese players still on the pitch, the most persistent was Wu Chengying. He approached Marcos Cafu and signaled that he wanted to swap shirts. Marcos Cafu, still smiling, repeated the same gesture as Roberto Carlos—pointing to the locker room.

Wu Chengying was unwilling to let the opportunity slip by—after all, such a chance might come only once in a career. He grabbed Roberto Carlos’s hand, but the Brazilian laughed and pulled away.

Watching all this unfold, Mo Mo felt a surge of anger. There hadn’t been a replay of the infamous chasing, nor the awkward sight of players stripping off their shirts only to be refused, but he was still furious.

Seeing the expression on Mo Mo’s face, Anderson Polga assumed he, too, wanted a Brazilian shirt. He smiled and said, “What, do you want a shirt as well?”

Mo Mo turned, eyes cold. “What, are you planning to refuse me too?”

Anderson Polga’s eyes widened. “Of course not! As long as you don’t throw my shirt on the ground and spit on it, I’m happy to swap!”

Mo Mo was puzzled. Anderson Polga, walking shoulder to shoulder with him toward the exit, explained, “Back when our captain went to China for a friendly and swapped shirts with one of your players (Li Ming) after the match, the shirt was tossed to the ground and spat on. The captain talked about it in the locker room.”

Mo Mo was stunned—spitting on a shirt is a grave insult on the pitch, worse than cursing someone’s family. In fact, Marcos Cafu had very nearly lost his temper with Li Ming back then.

So, was the reluctance to swap shirts out of fear of being humiliated in front of the world? Though still puzzled, Mo Mo was less resistant to the idea. As he started to take off his shirt, Anderson Polga quickly stopped him.

“Hey! Didn’t I say to swap in the locker room? What’s the rush?”

Seeing Mo Mo’s bewildered expression, Anderson Polga shook his head and said, “It’s cold! You’ve just been sweating—if you take your shirt off now, you’ll catch a cold!”

At that moment, Hao Haidong strode over, his tone rather sharp. “Mo Mo! What are you doing? You want to swap shirts too?”

Anderson Polga, not understanding a word, simply mimed heading to the locker room, which only made Hao Haidong angrier—another refusal, he thought!

Sensing Hao Haidong’s agitation, Mo Mo quickly explained everything, and the group decided to head to the Brazilian locker room to exchange shirts. This time, there were no refusals—the swap went smoothly, with both sides parting as friends.