Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Fans

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In the dazzling, surreal atmosphere of the bar, the influx of Brazilians who had come to Japan to support their national team meant that, although Mo Mo’s group was sizeable, their presence—mixed with Mo Mo, a Chinese man—led most people to assume they were simply a band of Brazilian football fans.

But when the conflict erupted, everyone’s attention suddenly shifted. Ronaldo! Ronaldinho! All those football stars were here!

The Japanese man who had been harassing the girl looked up. At first, seeing Mo Mo didn’t faze him—after all, Mo Mo was only 170 cm tall. But the group of tall, dark, imposing men standing behind Mo Mo clearly startled him, as if to say, “Oh no! That scared me to death!”

So, quite naturally, he slunk away in embarrassment. But his departure was of little consequence. Mo Mo’s loud shout had drawn everyone’s attention to the Brazilian football stars. Some of the onlookers were well-mannered, keeping their distance or snapping a few photos with their phones. Others were less restrained and rushed over enthusiastically.

The African brothers were clearly unprepared for this sudden commotion. Just as Mo Mo hesitated, wondering if he should step in to help, the girl from earlier grabbed his hand and used the chaos as a chance to dash out of the bar with him. Her hand was so soft—that was the only thing on Mo Mo’s mind at that moment.

“Where’s Mo Mo? What’s going on?” It was Anderson Polga speaking. They were utterly lost—none of them could understand a word of the rapid-fire Japanese being thrown around.

“What did that kid do? Captain, what should we do?” Ronaldinho’s voice was exaggerated, perhaps because at first they had understood Mo Mo’s shout to mean “stop!”—especially Marcos Cafu, who thought a fight was breaking out.

“Don’t move! Nobody move! Smile! Keep smiling! There are too many of them, we can’t win if it comes to a fight!” Marcos Cafu was clearly bewildered as well—just how many people were there? They definitely couldn’t win. And so, in the phones of many fans, a memorable scene was recorded: in the dim bar, a group of Black men lined up, baring their white teeth in forced smiles.

Of course, Mo Mo was unaware of any of this. He was running hand-in-hand with the girl who’d grabbed him, dashing through deserted streets until they reached a dark, secluded corner. Why had she taken him to such a shadowy place? Hmm?

“You’re Mo Mo, right?” Mo Mo caught his breath and looked at the girl, who could barely stand upright. He nodded.

“Yes! That’s me!”

She straightened up and stepped in front of him. Only then did Mo Mo notice her eyes—large, bright, and reflecting his own image.

“How could you go to a place like that?”

Mo Mo was momentarily stunned, then looked her up and down. She had a great figure, a slightly flat chest, was tall—about 170 cm—with tanned skin and a ponytail. She really didn’t look like someone who frequented bars.

“Ouch!” Mo Mo clutched his forehead, sure that a red mark had appeared. He sneaked a look at the girl, whose cheeks were a little flushed. She snapped angrily, “Where are you looking, kid? If you keep staring, I’ll give you another flick on the forehead!”

Fine! Could he tell her that, though he wasn’t yet seventeen, he had the soul of a wicked old man inside? Hmm! Her nose wasn’t very prominent nor too flat, her eyebrows were thick and arched, and her face was shaped like a smooth stone.

“You’re still staring!”

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Fine… Mo Mo fell silent and instinctively kept his distance. Who knew if she’d snap again if he got too close.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to ask how I know your name?”

Mo Mo glanced at her. Alright, he’d play along.

“Oh, right. How do you know my name?”

She gave him a playful sideways kick—not hard, almost joking. No way! A tomboy in 2002, years ahead of the trend? She was the very definition of one.

“Do you just ask whatever I prompt you to?” Mo Mo was tempted to leave; girls like this were the hardest to deal with.

“No, no! Could you… could you be a little gentler with me? Just use the tone you used with that sleazy guy in the bar.”

She shot him a fierce look, and Mo Mo wisely decided to shut up.

“Sorry, I have a bit of a temper. Actually, I play football too.”

Football? Mo Mo was taken aback. Women’s football? That didn’t seem right.

“Are you on the women’s team? Are you Chinese?”

She looked up, her expression saying, “Are you kidding me?”

“Can’t you tell what language I’m speaking? Huh? I’m not on the women’s team, I’m still at university. In Germany. Get it?”

Alright! Mo Mo thought he understood, but he wanted to tell her that he really couldn't tell what language anyone was speaking—because to his ears, everything in the world sounded like Chinese!

“Oh, I see. So you’re a fan of mine? You followed my matches in the German second division?”

That explanation made sense; Mo Mo thought that must be it. But the girl rolled her eyes and said, “Not at all! I’m a fan of Yang Chen. I want you to help me get an autograph from him, or maybe a jersey.”

At this, she waved her fist emphatically. “And don’t you dare corrupt Yang Chen! Do you hear me?”

Mo Mo felt like turning to stone. He’d scored two goals against Costa Rica—two!

“So, don’t you like me even a little? I scored in Costa…”

Before he could finish, she cut him off. “Two goals, right! But if you hadn’t replaced Yang Chen, maybe we would have won. Costa Rica handed you those chances; did you see their defenders? They even collided with the goalkeeper! Yang Chen is the best.”

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There was nothing more to say. The truth was, it had been Mo Mo’s rapid reaction and pressing that forced the Costa Rican defenders into panic and mistakes, but in this girl’s mouth, it sounded as if Mo Mo had just lucked into the goals at Yang Chen’s expense.

“What’s your phone number? Tell me!”

Mo Mo opened his mouth and obediently gave it. Seeing this, the girl didn’t press him further. She waved her fist in a friendly gesture and ran off happily. Mo Mo was nearly in tears—he hadn’t brought any money! Or his phone! How was he supposed to get back?

“Hey, kid! Are you a Chinese football fan? Did you get lost? Do you need a ride?”

Mo Mo turned around to see several fans in Chinese jerseys. He forced a smile and nodded. “Thank you.”

You think a couple of matches are enough for people to remember your face? Think again! They might have a vague impression, but putting a name to a face takes time.

After some trouble, Mo Mo finally made it back to the Chinese team’s hotel. Yang Chen walked over and said, “Where did you go after your meeting with the manager? The Brazilians were looking for you just now!”

Mo Mo lifted his eyelids and gave a wry smile. “Just a small mishap. Nothing serious. The Brazilian team? They got back so soon?”

If the Brazilian stars had heard this, they would have wanted to punch Mo Mo. With word spreading rapidly, if they’d stayed there any longer they’d have been done for! In the end, it was the Japanese police who had to escort them back.

“Really? If you’re fine, get some rest. Everyone was worried about you.”

Yang Chen’s tone was gentle. To the others, Mo Mo was like a younger brother or nephew. As Yang Chen turned to go, Mo Mo suddenly called out, “Hey, senior! Can I ask you for something? Could I have a signed jersey?”

Yang Chen turned, his expression one of pleasant surprise, as if only just now realizing he had a fan in Mo Mo. “No problem. Do you want it tomorrow or right now?”

Seeing Yang Chen’s enthusiasm, his eyes alight with curiosity, Mo Mo smiled. “Tomorrow is fine. I’ll head back for now.”

Standing in front of his room, before he could enter, he heard his phone ringing incessantly. Mo Mo was startled, hurried inside, and saw it was an unfamiliar number. He’d barely used this flip phone since buying it!

“Hey! You rascal! Why did you take so long to answer? Did you get the jersey?”

Ah, it was that girl! Mo Mo was startled, just about to reply, when the phone’s screen flashed and then died. He was near tears—what should he do if he didn’t want to deliver the jersey and autograph tomorrow?