Chapter Thirty-Nine: Epilogue

Everyone believed that with that kick, Yang Chen would break through Turkey’s goal, but everyone was wrong. Sometimes in football, a single shot can decide a match; other times, no matter how many times you shoot, the ball simply refuses to go in.

At the end of the first half, everyone was still lamenting that final shot—so close, but still not a goal. The Chinese team was never known for its attacking prowess. Their top striker, Hao Haidong, was already a seasoned veteran and had now been substituted. Both Yang Chen and Mo Mo, who fought it out in the German second division, were not the physically imposing, power-type forwards.

In the second half, in the 46th minute, Shao Jiayi came on for Wu Chengying, but in the 57th minute, he was sent off with a direct red card for stepping on a Turkish player in the penalty area. With one man down, the national team struggled even more to hold on.

Mo Mo had thought he could make a difference. In a way, he did—he scored a goal. Yet, nothing changed; China still failed to reach the round of sixteen. The domestic media’s praise instantly turned into “killing with compliments.”

At that moment, Mino Raiola arrived, ready to take Mo Mo to Germany. He didn’t even bother watching the rest of the World Cup, convinced that Italy had the strength to win it all. In reality, they fell to South Korea on the road to the semifinals.

Mino Raiola was a shrewd agent—perhaps even learning to change with the times. His cunning, greed, and knack for squeezing out every advantage were becoming more pronounced. Although Raiola was not Chinese, his sharp instincts told him there was something fishy going on.

Thus, Mo Mo managed to avoid a storm—or perhaps, a power struggle over the national team’s head coach.

“Hey, kid, do you think you’re a star striker now?”

These were the first words Mino Raiola spoke to Mo Mo when he appeared out of nowhere!

Mo Mo hesitated, trying to figure out Raiola’s intentions, but Raiola simply slapped him on the back and looked at him sharply.

“No, you’re not! You just scored two goals against Costa Rica... Hey! What are you doing?”

Mo Mo covered Raiola’s mouth with his hand, looking annoyed.

“I know! I know! I’m not getting carried away over two goals, even if it’s the World Cup. I’m just curious how the talks with 1860 Munich are going?”

Raiola clearly hadn’t expected Mo Mo to be so calm. When he saw Mo Mo score twice on TV at the World Cup, he was overjoyed. Not to mention, the national team jersey alone had raised Mo Mo’s market value, let alone the two goals.

“Hannover 96 has also made a good offer, wanting to extend your contract and cancel the transfer. But, as you know, a player’s value depends on playing time. 1860 Munich is willing to give you at least half the matches and pay a transfer fee of two million euros, plus a signing bonus of one hundred thousand euros—about eight hundred thousand yuan—for you personally.”

Here, Raiola paused, glancing at Mo Mo, as if expecting him to ask something. But Mo Mo remained silent, so Raiola continued, slightly exasperated.

“As for your salary, you’ll get a net annual wage of one hundred thousand euros, after tax! Plus goal bonuses and starting appearance bonuses.”

Germany’s taxes are steep, and Raiola had handled all these concerns for Mo Mo. Most importantly, the goal and appearance bonuses were a real surprise—this was truly a rags-to-riches moment for Mo Mo!

“Raiola! How did you pull this off? You’re amazing!”

Mo Mo widened his eyes at Raiola, who was clearly pleased with his handiwork and nodded in satisfaction.

“Hey, at first they were dead set against it. But, you made the national team, played in the World Cup, and then scored two lucky goals! Damn, how did you get so lucky, capitalizing on those mistakes?”

Mo Mo knew what Raiola was referring to and couldn’t help but protest.

“Hey! What luck? That was skill! Got it?”

Raiola chuckled, about to say more, when Mo Mo’s phone suddenly rang. Both of them were surprised—Raiola wondered who else would have Mo Mo’s number, and Mo Mo was curious why Li Qing would call him at this time.

“Hello?”

Mo Mo sounded cautious. Raiola, ever brazen, leaned in to eavesdrop. Mo Mo tried pushing him away, but Raiola’s size was no match for him.

“Are you alright?”

Raiola shaped his mouth in a silent exaggeration, mimicking a girl’s tone, and gave Mo Mo a look that said, “Kids these days.” Mo Mo felt a wave of frustration. Was this a universal thing, East or West? Couldn’t men and women just be friends?

“Yes! I’m fine. What is it?”

Mo Mo didn’t get it. Winning and losing were part and parcel of the game. He was still young and didn’t need to dwell on momentary success or failure. Besides, he believed that with his talent, the World Cup would become a regular stage for him.

“It’s nothing. What club are you joining next season? Still in Bundesliga 2? I’m studying in Munich, so I’ll look you up if I have time. That’s all. Bye.”

Well, girls’ thoughts were a mystery to him. How could her attitude change so quickly?

“Got yourself a girlfriend?”

As soon as Mo Mo hung up, Raiola leaned in with a knowing look, but Mo Mo’s eyes suddenly lit up, making Raiola uneasy.

“No, just a female friend. Raiola, let me ask you, do you think I have potential?”

The answer was obvious! Even Hannover 96’s head coach Peter Neururer had tried to keep Mo Mo. Raiola prided himself on his eye for talented players.

“Maybe not world-class yet, but your movement, composure on the pitch, and a bit of luck make me think you have real potential.”

There’s always a debate about forwards: is positioning (sense for finding scoring chances) more important, or finishing? Some say finishing is key, to avoid missing chances. Others value movement and positioning—to constantly create opportunities.

Raiola believed in the latter. Constantly creating chances was the mark of greatness, and Mo Mo was that kind of player. That’s why Raiola, already well-known among managers, came in person to see the young man cast aside by Real Madrid and unwanted by Hannover 96.

Raiola was convinced that everything has its value. The things everyone fights over are best kept at arm’s length. He preferred to unearth treasures buried in obscurity.

“I want to ask a favor of you, Raiola.”

Mo Mo’s expression was solemn, surprising Raiola. He couldn’t understand how a seventeen-year-old could look so serious.

“Go ahead! As long as it’s reasonable and within my power. If you want to join a top club, I can try Juventus—but getting you playing time, that I can’t promise.”

In this instant, Raiola’s mind went through countless scenarios, but ultimately he thought Mo Mo might just be getting ambitious, aiming for a big club. But wasn’t that unwise? Hadn’t Mo Mo learned from being shown the door at Real Madrid how brutal the big clubs could be?

“I hope you can scout for promising young Chinese players and send them to overseas clubs for training or matches.”

Raiola was momentarily stunned. Chinese prospects? The state of professional football in China left him indifferent, and he had no real roots there.

“If that’s too difficult, I hope you’ll keep an eye on these names. If there’s a chance, sign them to your agency: Wang Dalei, Zeng Cheng, Gao Lin, Huang Bowen, Zhang Linpeng, Zhang Xizhe, Yang Xu, Yu Dabao, Wu Lei, Zheng Zhi, Yu Hai.”

At this, Mo Mo smacked his own forehead. These were just the ones he could remember, players who’d left an impression on him in his later life. Wang Dalei and Zeng Cheng were etched in his memory because of their battles for the national team’s starting goalkeeper, especially Wang Dalei’s notorious own goals.

Gao Lin was memorable for once hurling his cleats at an abusive fan. Wu Lei stood out as “China’s Messi.” Zhang Linpeng and Zhang Xizhe were among the few who succeeded abroad. The others were remembered for similar reasons.

He used to remember far more names, but as time passed, many slipped his mind. It’s like classmates—you might have once been able to name them all, but years later, only a few leave a lasting impression.

Football is a team sport of eleven. Mo Mo was already thinking ahead, picking future teammates. He knew the chaos Chinese football would endure in the coming years, so he had to plan ahead.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ll have someone keep an eye out. But with such a large population, I can’t guarantee I’ll find them.”

Raiola would make no promises. His network in China wasn’t strong enough to find someone just by name. In fact, it was practically nonexistent.

“Thank you, Raiola! If you can’t find them, that’s fine. But I hope each year you’ll spend some time in China signing a few promising players.”

Raiola saw no change in Mo Mo’s expression, but inwardly he couldn’t help but chuckle wryly—it wasn’t that easy.

Mo Mo saw this and smiled easily. Well, that would do. After bidding farewell to Hao Haidong and the others, and having a chat with future teammate Shao Jiayi, he took his leave and set off for Germany. Bundesliga, here I come!