Chapter Twenty-Eight: Mo Mo's Language

After everyone had changed out of their kits in Brazil’s locker room, Hao Haidong, a little disgruntled, said, “What’s the meaning of this! Are we supposed to go over there and swap jerseys with them? Are we supposed to worship them or something?” As he spoke, he seemed about to throw away Roberto Carlos’ jersey.

In fact, in his previous life, Mo Mo had always been curious about what had really happened. At the end of that match, most of the Chinese players and Brazilian fans were already leaving the stadium, though the Chinese team had the tradition of making a lap to thank the supporters.

But the very next day, inexplicably, all sorts of reports surfaced, claiming Brazil refused to swap jerseys with China. The tone was enough to enrage the patriots, who were furious at Brazil on the one hand and bitterly disappointed in the national team on the other—especially those who hadn’t even watched the match.

Rumors spread like wildfire: tales of the Chinese team being crushed by Brazil, no one daring to hold the ball, booting it away at the first sign of trouble, passes into impossible gaps, exaggerated to the point of absurdity. For a moment, Mo Mo almost believed it all.

Because of these irresponsible and sensationalist headlines, whenever anyone later asked about Chinese football online—especially the 2002 World Cup—the most common answers were: three matches, three losses, a 0:9 defeat, refused jersey swaps, and stories of Hao Haidong and Ma Mingyu going out of their way to beg for jerseys. Some even claimed the players stripped to their underwear, chasing the Brazilians around the field, only to be completely ignored.

Some took it even further. They’d post photos from Australia’s jersey exchange with China at the Asian Cup, insisting that only Ma Mingyu, as captain, was given the courtesy of a swap. Never mind that Ma Mingyu had actually been substituted out, or that Brazil wore short-sleeved kits with nothing underneath—so how did both players in the photo end up wearing yellow compression shirts? (Australia’s kit is, after all, similar in color to Brazil’s.)

Mo Mo couldn’t understand where all these contradictory stories came from. One moment, Hao Haidong was begging for a jersey; the next, he was throwing it away right after receiving it. At the very least, this proved he wasn’t the shameless beggar fans painted him to be. Hao Haidong was a man of pride; he would never do such a thing. Then it was Ma Mingyu who got the jersey, or else none of the Chinese players managed to swap at all!

“Isn’t this all a bit much? Swapping jerseys isn’t about worship or adulation. It’s a matter of sportsmanship, a gesture of respect.”

Suddenly, the room grew quiet. It had already gone silent when Hao Haidong threatened to throw the jersey away, but after Mo Mo spoke, it became even quieter. Everyone was waiting to see how Hao Haidong would react. He seemed to be pondering something, then he walked over to Mo Mo, patted him on the shoulder, and smiled.

“You’re right! I’ll keep it then!”

But as they spoke, the domestic media were sharpening their knives. During the qualifiers, they’d insisted China would never make it, only to see the team reach the World Cup and then scramble to praise them. Now, though, headlines like “China Thrashed by Brazil, Out of the Round of 16! Refused Jersey Swap in Embarrassing Fashion!” were already being drafted, ready to pounce on the team.

Abroad, however, the tone was different. They praised China’s defense, especially some impressive tackles. In fact, it was the 2002 World Cup that made China’s defenders famous. Didn’t anyone notice? The Chinese players who later joined foreign leagues were mostly defenders—fullbacks and center-backs—whose performances in that tournament left a strong impression.

As they walked on, the domestic authorities held meetings. Brazil had won twice, securing six points; Turkey had a loss and a draw, giving them one point; Costa Rica had two draws and two points.

This put China in the spotlight for the matches to come. The local media, unscrupulous as ever, were already predicting the worst for the national team. The upcoming fixtures were Brazil vs. Costa Rica and Turkey vs. China.

Depending on the results, if China beat Turkey or Turkey beat China, either team would finish with four points. If Brazil beat Costa Rica, or if Costa Rica pulled off an upset, then Brazil would top the group with nine points (even losing, they’d remain first), and Costa Rica would finish with five points and second place.

The key now was whether Brazil could beat Costa Rica. If Costa Rica won, both Turkey and China would be eliminated. If Costa Rica lost, they’d remain on two points, leaving the second qualifying spot to be decided between China and Turkey.

If China won, they’d advance with four points; if Turkey won, they’d go through with four points. If it was a draw, then goal difference would decide it between Costa Rica, China, and Turkey—and China would surely lose out.

At the very moment a certain newspaper was preparing the article “China Thrashed by Brazil, Out of the Round of 16! Refused Jersey Swap in Embarrassing Fashion!”, their boss stormed in and slapped the journalist, who was gleefully smearing the team, right to the floor.

“Did you even watch the World Cup? Are you blind or what?”

But none of that really mattered to Mo Mo. The leadership’s pep talk was so dull it nearly put him to sleep. He was even called in for a private conversation, but he wasn’t the least bit interested. The official, seeing Mo Mo’s attitude, could do nothing but wave him away.

“Mo Mo?”

Mo Mo turned. It was Anderson Polga.

“Hm? What are you doing here?”

Several teammates stood behind Anderson Polga. Mo Mo found it odd.

“Hey, my agent just told me Arsenal are interested. If nothing goes wrong, I’ll be joining them this summer!”

Mo Mo could see how elated Anderson Polga was. They weren’t particularly close, but Anderson was happy enough to speak with him as a friend. That said enough—Brazilian players all dreamed of Europe, where fortunes awaited them, and now Anderson’s dream was coming true.

“Congratulations,” Mo Mo told him sincerely. Just then, Ronaldinho sauntered over, feigning drama.

“Oh! So this is the guy who cost us that goal—Mo Mo?”

Everyone knew Ronaldinho was joking, as was Mo Mo. He stepped forward, rose on tiptoe, and met Ronaldinho’s gaze.

“That’s right! It’s me. What are you going to do about it?”

Ronaldinho’s response was to make a loud “mwah” kiss in the air. The others laughed. Then Ronaldo stepped up. His voice carried weight in the team.

“Come on, Mo Mo! Let’s go for a drink!”

Mo Mo hesitated, glancing around at the group of Brazilians. Compared to them, his own skin looked pale as paper.

“Is that really okay?”

Ronaldinho laughed. “Of course! By the way, your Portuguese is excellent.”

Mo Mo smiled modestly. If only they knew about his system...

A bar in Nishiku, Japan.

Mo Mo sat there, feeling out of place. Even in his previous life, nearly thirty years old, he’d never set foot in a bar—at most, a quiet lounge.

And, most importantly, this was Japan. Japan!

“Mo Mo, why are you so nervous? Don’t tell me you’re still a virgin!”

Mo Mo felt awkward. Even after living two lives, being asked that in public was a bit much.

“Uh… well… I’m not even seventeen yet…”

His answer sent the Brazilian players into fits of laughter. Ronaldo downed a large gulp of beer, and Anderson Polga shot him a look.

“Too weak, Mo Mo! You’re just too weak!”

Mo Mo found it all too much and was tempted to just leave. What were they eating? No wonder Ronaldo and Ronaldinho ended up gaining weight—this kind of food was hardly suitable for footballers.

“Uh… because… I really don’t know what to say!”

It was mortifying. In these circumstances, Mo Mo would never have come if he’d had a choice. But during his time in Japan, he’d found Japanese women to be humble and polite. Now, though, swallowing nervously, he felt flushed.

“Please, sir! Let go of me!”

At that moment, Mo Mo heard a voice. He wasn’t great at distinguishing languages—whatever he heard, his system would automatically translate it, and whatever he said would be understood in the listener’s language.

“Stop! Let go of that girl! Let me—no, just stop! That’s right!”

The Brazilian stars were baffled by Mo Mo’s sudden outburst. They couldn’t understand the girl’s words, only that her cries sounded enticing, whether from pain or something else—it was all the same. As one movie famously put it, if you can’t find a video, just put on women’s ice hockey, close your eyes, and listen to the sounds.

But no matter the situation, the well-fed Brazilian players were full of energy—especially Marcos Cafu, whose former club was notorious for fighting. And so, Mo Mo marched forth, leading a crowd of big, strong men on a mission to rescue the damsel in distress.

Ahem, to find out what happens next, stay tuned for the next installment! Please recommend this story.