6. A Legend Born from a Single Goal?

21:28

The term "old hand" refers to someone who may not stand out in any particular way, but who thoroughly understands the rules.

Bai Haonan's sliding tackle was executed from the side, his face twisted with diligent struggle, his toes pointed and pressed low as he slid past. The move lacked any sense of malicious intent; it appeared simply as a technical interception, and the opponent was tripped only because he moved too quickly. The referee, blowing the whistle from more than twenty meters away, judged it as an ordinary technical foul, not deserving of a card, and signaled for an indirect free kick while still jogging toward the scene.

The black player, who had been subjected to constant verbal abuse, finally snapped. He leaped up, pointing at his leg and rushing to complain to the referee!

Bai Haonan also got up, still wearing an innocent expression, though his lips kept muttering curses. He dared stand in front of the black player, shaking his head at the injury, indicating it had nothing to do with him.

With tens of thousands roaring in agitation, Bai Haonan's Jiangzhou-accented English insults faded after only a few meters. The referee, now eight meters away, stretched his neck to examine the wound but couldn't see it, as the angry black player shoved Bai Haonan aside to clear his view.

This emotional outburst was the result of a combination: the noisy environment, repeated provocations, the frustration of being outwitted despite confidence in his dribbling skills, and the burning pain of the wound. All these factors mixed together, sending blood surging to his head. Simple-mindedness and athletic build are often used to describe athletes—not a question of intelligence, for outstanding athletes are usually smart, but their straightforward nature makes them easily provoked.

Then, in front of tens of thousands, the scene unfolded: Bai Haonan seemed struck violently on the head, God knows how he sprang up, crashing heavily two meters away, rolling painfully as though his skull had been split open, his face contorted more hideously than a woman in labor.

Most spectators believed their player had been harmed. Furious shouts quickly merged into a wave of noise, and the fanatics near the away supporters’ section began hurling water bottles and other objects at the visiting fans!

Players from both sides rushed in, ready to brawl.

Several Blue Wind teammates knelt beside Bai Haonan, looking like they were about to mourn.

No matter how experienced the referee, in such chaos he had to act swiftly to restore order. Witnessing Bai Haonan’s performance, he waved the medical team onto the field, no longer needing to check the tiny bleeding wound on the black player’s leg. Without hesitation, he showed a red card and sent him off immediately.

Disputes during play are one thing, but violence after the whistle is another. The latter almost always draws a card, red or yellow, depending on the acting of the one who falls—attacks to the head are an invitation for the harshest penalty.

It seemed Bai Haonan, accustomed to being beaten by Old Chen in various situations, had mastered the language of the body. The referee chose to believe he had been struck, and the team doctor, Old Qin, secretly gave Bai Haonan a thumbs-up, the coaching staff’s approval.

Seconds later, Bai Haonan limped back into the match, now with his team playing eleven against ten. Within five seconds, he returned to normal, earning loud boos from the away supporters.

But the ratio of tens of thousands to a few hundred home and away fans only inspired the home crowd to overwhelm the dissent with synchronized chants, and these ever-changing cries never ceased until the final whistle.

With the new foreign striker gone, the visiting team’s attacking momentum disappeared instantly. The domestic teams’ reliance on one or two superstars was exposed; even with immediate tactical adjustments, the cohesion and drive of the visiting players faltered.

What is the true allure of football?

Many women wonder why smelly men, though their interests may vary, so easily fall in love with football. Studies suggest the answer is that football is the closest thing to war in a peaceful world.

It stirs the warrior spirit deep within men.

With so many players, no single person can solve all problems. Football is a team sport where morale, skill, and mindset are equally vital. Mastery is demanded with the least dexterous part of the human body—the feet—through complex ball control and long, energy-sapping matches that test every aspect of a player like a battlefield.

The coach is akin to a commander; even if he waves his flag and changes tactics, some soldiers on the field feel that leading one-nil, with an extra man, they might as well defend to the end. Others are indignant, eager to punish the schemer. The visitors were originally much stronger than the home side—how could they accept defeat now? Naturally, they pushed for a ferocious counter-attack, believing one-nil wasn’t safe and increasing their offensive.

The pre-match instructions were now in disarray. No matter how the coach shouted and gestured from the sidelines, it couldn’t match Bai Haonan’s constant exhortations on the pitch: “Go! Push forward, attack, attack them…”

Blue Wind, previously pressed into half-field defense, now reversed the tide, forcing the disorganized visitors back and launching repeated assaults.

Perhaps this unpredictability is why football is beloved by betting companies—it is riddled with factors beyond pure technique, and anything can cause the impossible.

Perhaps every preparation had been made before the match except for being pressed so hard by Blue Wind. The visiting players grew anxious; confusion in mentality manifested as frequent mistakes. The visiting coach, desperate, made two substitutions, but it felt hopeless.

The entire Blue Wind team surged forward like they were on stimulants, attacking relentlessly, shooting at every opportunity. Medically, this was a flood of adrenaline—comparable to doping. Unsurprisingly, around the eightieth minute, the winger seized the chaos and scored an equalizer.

The stadium erupted, drums and cheers threatening to shatter the sky. The spectators, delighted beyond measure, raised their voices even higher, pushing the home team’s spirits to the peak and overwhelming the visitors.

Meanwhile, the visiting team grew only more confused. Some felt the tide had turned and wanted to hold out for a draw; others refused to accept this outcome. The coach’s instructions were clear—go for the win. On the field, some players stalled for time, while others pressed forward in a frenzy.

This made them even less threatening; Bai Haonan glanced back to see only a single center-back behind him, with the rest pushing up. So, unusually, he advanced ten meters.

At this point, few realized that this substitute had truly changed the course of the team. He wasn’t the scorer, his passing stats, dribbling time, and shots were unremarkable. Aside from provoking a dispute that earned the opponent a red card, he seemed uninvolved, still the somewhat lazy, unremarkable defensive midfielder hovering ahead of the back line.

Yet, as ninety minutes approached, the visitors had retreated into their penalty area, unable to counterattack. Bai Haonan didn’t even notice he’d wandered past the center circle, absent-mindedly watching the two sides battle fiercely around the opponent’s box. The fans were so excited their hearts might burst, waves of cheers shaking the stadium, nearly tearing off the grandstand roof.

A panicked defender from the opposition booted the ball out blindly; the clock showed ninety minutes, with only a minute or two added. The visitors could almost see themselves grabbing a hard-earned away point.

Then a Blue Wind player threw himself at the ball, deflecting it. The red-and-white ball veered, soaring high but not far, dropping straight down. Bai Haonan saw five or six players from both teams rushing toward it; instinctively, he too moved closer, then mockingly questioned his own effort—there’s no way he could win it in the crowd—so he sidestepped.

Seven or eight meters away, just outside the opponent’s box, two players leapt for a header, their skulls colliding with a sickening crunch, both falling in pain. The ball dropped toward Bai Haonan.

It was pure instinct: thigh to control, cushioning the ball’s momentum, letting it bounce lightly. As it fell again, a nearby defender lunged desperately.

Bai Haonan later recalled his mind was empty in that moment—perhaps what people call clarity. His gaze locked on the ball, his entire being connected to it. He knew what the ball wanted, sensed its height and position. Twenty years of professional experience guided his actions: a gentle touch of the foot, and before the ball hit the ground, it slid past the defender, who, in his overzealous effort, couldn’t even commit a handball or grab Bai Haonan. The ball was gone.

All eyes watched as substitute number sixteen juggled the ball for the second time. It dropped perfectly to his right, at just the right height and distance. The footwork changed seamlessly, nothing wasted, rhythm and power aligned. With the outside of his foot, he struck the ball. A high-definition replay would show the ball instantly deforming, all the force transferred in a perfect strike.

The ball shot off like a cannonball, straight as an arrow, seemingly not even spinning. In that instant, time stopped for everyone—they could only turn to see the outcome.

With a sharp sound, the ball grazed the inside corner of the goalpost, yanking the white net taut. The keeper, leaping as high as he could, never expected a sudden rocket from thirty meters out, executed with a juggling dribble and without touching the ground—a stunning surprise!

Bai Haonan felt his whole body soaring, just like those childhood moments when he dreamed of flight. How many years since he’d scored?

The stadium seemed to freeze for an instant, then exploded in joy.

Even “deafening” couldn’t describe the ecstasy of this last-second, world-class goal.

Bai Haonan made no celebration, landing dazedly before being tackled and hugged by his teammates, pressed tightly to the ground, hearing only the distant roar of the crowd and the shouts of his teammates.

No matter how many years passed, Bai Haonan would never regret this goal. Even if it cost him his life, he would gladly pay.

If only for that fleeting moment.