Chapter Seven: Adjustment

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PS: Stayed up late watching the Champions League! I support Real Madrid, but I hope Atlético Madrid wins. Watermark ad test. Watermark ad test. If Real Madrid wins, it’s just another trophy added to the cabinet, but if Atlético Madrid wins, it becomes legend. Revenge against Bayern, a comeback against Barça! Just thinking about it makes the blood boil!

Welbeck looked at Mo Mo, whose shoulders were covered in blue streamers and confetti, and felt a surge of emotion.

He had heard about this Chinese boy’s journey: kicked out by Real Madrid, benched and listed for transfer by Hannover 96, then, at the World Cup, becoming the youngest player ever to compete, breaking Pelé’s 1958 record (17 years and 239 days) as the youngest goal scorer in World Cup history.

Afterward, he caught the eye of veteran scout Fred from Munich 1860, and head coach Pacult approved the buyout. For two million euros—a rare splurge for cash-strapped Munich 1860—he transferred there.

Now, the fates of these two could be called similar, or perhaps entirely different, for Mo Mo had now won the favor of Munich 1860’s coach Pacult, while Welbeck found himself, just as Mo Mo had been at Hannover 96, a disposable tool: needed for a moment, then cast aside.

“We can see from the footage that Munich 1860 has now fully embraced Mo Mo. Even though we can’t hear what they’re shouting, it’s clear they’re boiling with excitement for him!”

Even without seeing Chen Nu’s face, one could sense the pride radiating from within him—after Yang Chen, at long last, another player had won the acceptance of Bundesliga fans.

The match continued, and two minutes later the referee blew for halftime.

“At the end of the first half, Munich 1860 and Rostock are level at 1:1. Now we can look forward to whether coach Pacult will make some tactical changes at halftime.”

In the Munich 1860 dressing room, Pacult indeed made tactical adjustments, but didn’t alter the formation. He drew number 9, Martin Max, back a little, turning him into more of a free man up front, much like Hao Haidong in the World Cup, often holding the ball with his back to goal.

Martin Max, the number 9, was now less a striker and more a support player to help ease the burden on number 10, Thomas Häßler.

Pacult then pulled Mo Mo aside, instructing him to play to his strengths, to find open space as before, and create outstanding opportunities.

This was, in truth, a measure of desperation: the squad was simply too old. The 4-1-2-1-2 allowed the players to conserve energy, attacking more through passing than running—vital for preserving the veterans’ stamina.

Halftime was short. The team ate some bananas, drank some water to replenish themselves, and headed out onto the pitch.

As they emerged, the fans of Munich 1860, seeing the yellow-skinned, black-haired Chinese man, could not help but raise their voices in a roar.

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“Once Blue, Forever Blue.”

This spoke directly to their hearts. Though Munich 1860’s glory days in East Germany were long gone, though they were now mocked as a team of old men, though they were no longer the “Blue Lions” who once claimed the double, and though they still bore the weight of heavy debts—

Still, “Once Blue, Forever Blue” touched the softest places within them.

The second half began, with Rostock taking the kickoff. Mo Mo, following his coach’s instructions, began searching for open spaces, but he soon noticed number 6, Kienz, keeping a close and persistent eye on him.

Mo Mo’s movement seemed erratic and unpredictable, and in truth it was—since the ball was always on the move, number 6, Kienz, soon abandoned his plan to keep his eyes fixed on Mo Mo.

This Chinese youngster was everywhere, running the full width of the pitch, even when Munich 1860 didn’t have possession. He would stroll about, sometimes retracing the same route again and again.

From the sideline, Pacult’s eyes betrayed a hint of anxiety. He saw that his halftime strategy wasn’t having the intended effect: number 10, Thomas Häßler, was still tightly marked, and number 9, Martin Max, was well contained by number 3, Jakobsen.

The two veterans were evenly matched in experience and fitness—a perfect pair of adversaries.

“The match has reached the fifty-first minute. Both sides have shown some flashes of quality, but attack-wise, they’re both toothless. The Munich 1860 fans seem a bit dissatisfied.”

Chen Nu said he understood the fans’ feelings. This season, a host of capable players left, relieving some financial pressure but leaving the supporters disgruntled. Had it not been for a series of transfer moves by the club, the chairman might have been ousted.

But now, in the first match of the season, as Munich 1860’s fans cheered their team on at Allianz Arena, they found not only had the defense failed to improve, but even the attack had been stifled.

“Now number 3, Jakobsen, is on the ball. Number 9, Martin Max, steps up to challenge—looks like the two are locked in a duel.”

Chen Nu’s tone was tinged with amusement. Throughout the second half, the two had gone back and forth many times.

“Oh? Number 9, Martin Max, wins the ball, but a Rostock player behind him pokes it away—number 3, Jakobsen, recovers possession! He passes to number 8, midfielder Lantz!”

Possession changed hands quickly, and then came a rapid sequence of passes. Number 8, after receiving the ball, didn’t dally. He spotted a gap and sent a piercing through ball that split open the Munich 1860 defense.

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“Oh! This—this is a pass as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel! Number 30! Number 30, Welbeck! He’s got the ball! Number 13, Cheney! Cheney slides in! Beautiful!”

It was a spectacle to behold. Number 8, Lantz, had delivered a surgical through ball that sliced through Munich 1860’s back line. Number 30, Welbeck, latched onto the ball and readied himself for a burst of speed.

Number 13, Cheney, was right beside him and didn’t hesitate—he went straight in with a sliding tackle!

“Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! How did he do it? Can anyone tell me how he did it?”

Number 30, Welbeck, was truly inspired. As number 13, Cheney, slid in from the side, Welbeck flicked his toe, chipping the ball over Cheney’s body, and then leaped cleanly over him!

“Number 5, Votava, rushes in! He tries to grab Welbeck! He can’t! Even if he could, it would mean a penalty and a booking! Now Welbeck is through, into the box—this is a one-on-one showdown! Simon Jentsch’s moment to shine!”

All around the Allianz Arena, the jeers never stopped. The earlier thrill of “Once Blue, Forever Blue” had vanished, replaced by a prickling sense of dread.

Damn it! Damn it! Who can stop him? Who can stop that damn number 30, Welbeck?

Munich 1860’s coach, Pacult, looked grim—this kind of performance, this kind of defense, was a bitter disappointment.

A chilling glint flashed in Welbeck’s eyes—ambition.

A hidden resolve shone in Simon Jentsch’s gaze—defiance.

How—how can I let you breach my goal again?