Chapter Eight: Goal!

All eyes were fixed on Welbeck’s crucial shot—would it go in or not? Both Welbeck and Simon Jank remained composed, but in the end, Welbeck was the first to buckle under the pressure. He was desperate for a goal, needing it to prove himself, to show the coach that he—Welbeck—was the best choice for Rostock.

Simon Jank’s pupils dilated as Welbeck finally took the shot. But from that angle? “Goal! Goal! The ball is in! Simon Jank couldn’t get to it! Welbeck’s shot flew directly into the top right corner. Jank reacted, but he was just a moment too late!”

Munich 1860’s head coach Pacult clasped his forehead in disbelief. Welbeck? Who was this player, to twice breach Munich 1860’s defense—even here at the Allianz Arena? Disgruntled, the fans surrounding them made their dissatisfaction clear. The players on the pitch were equally unhappy, but what could they do?

By the sixty-first minute, number 10, Thomas Häßler, watched the Rostock player marking him with a look of resignation. He was growing tired of futile efforts. It was time for a change.

“The ball falls at the feet of number 10, Thomas Häßler. Every time he touches the ball, it seems the attack ends—wait? Number 10 is feinting, again? He’s slipped past the Rostock defender!”

At that moment, Chen Nu sensed something momentous awakening. He watched as Häßler’s deft double feint left the slightly complacent Rostock defenders behind. “This is Munich 1860 on the attack! Number 10, Thomas Häßler, delivers a low cross from the byline!”

It was hard to believe that a 36-year-old like Häßler could suddenly burst forth with such speed. The Munich 1860 fans roared in approval, as if glimpsing the indomitable “Short-legged Tiger” of old; though only 166 centimeters tall, Häßler had always astounded.

It was a brilliant diagonal pass, but the protagonist was not Mo Mo. The man in the right spot was number 9, Martin Max!

“Martin Max! Surrounded by three Rostock players! Slide tackle! Beautiful!” It really was—Mo Mo saw it clearly. At that moment, three Rostock players formed a triangle behind Martin Max, and one of them, with perfect timing, executed a precise slide tackle.

The ball was indeed knocked away, but not far—it rolled towards the penalty spot. Martin Max didn’t try to draw a foul; he simply accelerated after the ball.

“Martin Max! Chasing down the ball—shoots!” Martin Max staggered, but still managed to reach the ball and unleash a powerful shot. Rostock’s goalkeeper stretched out both hands in a desperate attempt to block it, but the shot was too quick—he didn’t get a touch.

With a heavy thud, the ball smashed against the post and bounced out. “The Rostock crossbar is still rattling! Mo Mo? Mo Mo!”

Chen Nu’s voice faltered, then suddenly soared. When had Mo Mo gotten there? As a forward, Mo Mo’s positioning was already impressive; he was relentless in his pursuit of opportunity, always moving, always tracking the ball, and anticipating its path.

If Mo Mo could pass better, if he had stronger leadership skills, he might well become the next Thomas Häßler, a two-time German Footballer of the Year in 1989 and 1992. Even in a land of towering giants, he would have a place.

But what Mo Mo really had was a hunger for goals and victory. His mind was always set on how to get the ball, how to break through the opposition’s net. And now, another chance was before him.

The Allianz Arena was boiling, the crowd buzzing non-stop. Munich 1860’s supporters shouted, perhaps Mo Mo’s name, perhaps the team anthem, perhaps their rallying cry: “Once a Blue, always a Blue.”

But none of that mattered. Mo Mo felt he couldn’t manage a kick; the ball was a bit too high. Maybe for Zlatan Ibrahimović, it would have been perfect for a Taekwondo-style volley, but for Mo Mo, it was beyond reach. So, he made up his mind—he’d go for a header.

“The ball looks too high! Mo Mo? Mo Mo goes for the header!”

Mo Mo leapt, head thrust back, his not particularly tall or strong figure suddenly radiating power. He snapped his head forward, meeting the ball hard and sending it crashing toward the goal.

“Mo Mo!”

Chen Nu shouted, the fans shouted. Coach Pacult was shouting as well, perhaps for a goal, perhaps just in frustration—but none of that mattered now.

Everyone held their breath, some hoping for a goal, others dreading it. In the end, the latter got their wish.

“The ball soared well over the bar! Mo Mo’s header lacked precision.”

Martin Max ran over, ruffled Mo Mo’s hair, and so did several others. Such is football; most attacks come to nothing, and every goal is dearly won.

Rostock’s goal kick was quickly taken. The goalkeeper sent it long—danger!

No one expected it. “Munich 1860’s defense is full of holes!”

Pacult’s face darkened as he glanced at Shao Jiayi, but still hesitated to make a change.

Number 5, Wotawa, and number 13, Cheney, closed down Welbeck, maintaining their defensive line—they couldn’t retreat any farther, or they’d be inside the penalty box.

Just as Welbeck debated risking a breakthrough, someone flashed into his vision. So, when Wotawa and Cheney decided to step up and tackle, Welbeck passed the ball—and succeeded!

“Who’s that? Number 8, midfielder Lantz! Munich 1860’s defense is all over the place! They added more defenders, but their defense is even weaker?”

Chen Nu had studied Munich 1860—the previous season, they’d scored 59 goals, an impressive tally. If not for their poor defending, they could have finished sixth or even fourth. But after several key players left—Toppmöller, Bierofka, and others—they switched from a 3-5-2 to a 4-1-2-1-2. More defenders, yet less defense, less possession, and their once-proud attack had turned mediocre.

A hint of resignation flickered in Simon Jank’s eyes. No matter how great a goalkeeper, if he faces an endless barrage of one-on-one attacks, he’s bound to concede.

After Lantz broke through, he fired his right foot without hesitation—the ball hit the net.

Simon Jank collapsed, pounding the turf in frustration. He knew it was over. Arsenal in the Premier League had shown interest in signing him as David Seaman’s long-term successor, valuing his height and his prowess at dealing with aerial balls and one-on-ones. But now?

Coach Pacult gestured for Shao Jiayi to warm up. After the World Cup, some of the team’s veterans were in dreadful form, especially Harald Cheney on defense. It was time to push him back into midfield—having him defend was a liability. What good were thirty years of experience?

“Incredible! Rostock are leading by two at Munich 1860’s home ground! And now, Coach Pacult signals for a substitution—Shao Jiayi is coming on.”