Chapter 11: People in the Spotlight

To gamble or not to gamble? For Dai Zhiwei, this was never a question at all.

Why should a newborn calf fear the tiger?

Truth be told, although the Evergrande team was the undisputed powerhouse of the Chinese Super League, apart from foreign signings like Goulart, players with precise long-pass abilities were as rare as phoenix feathers.

It was clear that Feng Xiaoting was not one of those rare exceptions.

However, Feng Xiaoting’s pass gave Dai Zhiwei a different idea.

Dai Zhiwei met the ball head-on, deftly flicking it with his left foot so that it obediently arced behind him to the left. In the same motion, he spun swiftly to the right.

A classic feint—player and ball part ways!

Faced with Dai Zhiwei’s masterful back-heel flick and feint, Western Daigo was momentarily stunned, his mind short-circuiting; he could only watch as Dai Zhiwei chased down the ball with a roar.

The Kashima Antlers fans in the stands stared in disbelief, while their head coach was so astonished by Dai Zhiwei’s move that he leaned forward, shot up from his seat, eyes wide with shock.

After leaving Western Daigo behind, Dai Zhiwei found himself with open turf ahead. He knocked the ball far forward and burst into a full sprint, thundering toward the Kashima Antlers’ goal like a sprinter on the track.

Now, only the Antlers’ goalkeeper, Zeng Ruizhun, stood between Dai Zhiwei and the net, all defenders trailing helplessly in his wake.

Western Daigo quickly recovered and gave chase, but Dai Zhiwei was not someone he could catch.

Even if Dai Zhiwei’s dribbling speed wasn’t world-class, this time he was playing the ball long, accelerating to catch up, and repeating the process—a relentless cycle. At full throttle, Dai Zhiwei was an F1 racing car; Western Daigo, a humble little QQ.

The gap between them only widened.

Dai Zhiwei quickly closed in on the penalty area. The Kashima Antlers’ keeper, Zeng Ruizhun, had already abandoned his line, charging out to meet him.

At that instant, Dai Zhiwei recalled the guidance of Raisho Zheping in the system’s virtual space: “In football, when the goalkeeper comes forward or lowers his stance to block, the attacker can use a delicate touch to loft the ball over the keeper’s head and into the net. This technique is called a chip shot.”

Before Zeng Ruizhun could arrive, Dai Zhiwei, just outside the box, used the front of his left foot to slice under the ball, his calf swinging to lift it up.

Zeng Ruizhun saw Dai Zhiwei’s intent and instinctively dove at the ball with all his might.

But Dai Zhiwei’s shot left him no chance—it sailed over Zeng Ruizhun’s outstretched hands and found the back of the empty net.

For a moment, the entire Ibaraki Kashima Soccer Stadium was plunged into a stunned silence.

But Dai Zhiwei cared nothing for that. Overjoyed, he dashed toward the stands, tearing off his number 24 shirt and whirling it wildly above his head.

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!”

“It’s in! It’s in! A brilliant chip shot from outside the box!” The Chinese commentator Li Xin shouted, trembling with excitement. “Guangzhou Evergrande’s super-sub Dai Zhiwei has delivered a fatal blow to Kashima Antlers! He truly lives up to the name ‘super-sub’!”

Fans familiar with Li Xin were startled by his outburst; he was never one to shout or flaunt his passion as a commentator.

Usually, after a goal, his commentary was calm and restrained—many found him too lacking in enthusiasm.

Yet today, for Dai Zhiwei, he broke all his own rules!

Even the most critical fans had to admit—this goal was a masterpiece, save for the most twisted of trolls.

Now, Dai Zhiwei’s teammates rushed over in a frenzy. A draw would have satisfied them, but now they had actually beaten Kashima Antlers away from home—this was the stuff of dreams!

On the sidelines, Cannavaro and his assistants celebrated with delight. This result was beyond all expectations!

Cannavaro couldn’t help but think: Dai Zhiwei really is my lucky star!

As Dai Zhiwei celebrated, the Chinese media section at Ibaraki Kashima Stadium erupted.

“Oh my god! I need all the details on Evergrande’s number 24! Hurry!” A reporter called back home, urging them to gather every scrap of information on Dai Zhiwei.

“Oh my god! That’s Dai Zhiwei’s third goal this season, his third in just half a month! What a future he has!” The news made the media booth even more electric.

In stark contrast to Evergrande’s jubilation, the Kashima Antlers’ camp was in a state of utter despair. They had struggled from 0–1 to 2–2, and just when it seemed they might take the lead, they were struck down once more.

With only a few minutes left, the Antlers were left speechless and deflated.

After the celebrations, Cannavaro substituted in another defender, Li Xuepeng, for Rong Hao, shoring up the flanks. He had no intention of letting those hard-earned three points slip away.

No sooner had the substitutions been made than the fourth official held up the board: three minutes of stoppage time—three precious minutes left for the Antlers to fight.

Kashima Antlers launched a desperate all-out assault, knowing that another defeat would all but spell the end of their Asian Champions League campaign.

Their attack was so frenzied that even the two center-backs pressed forward.

They soon paid the price for their exposed defense.

In the second minute of added time, Dai Zhiwei received another long ball from the back. This time, he didn’t go it alone.

After acquiring Raisho Zheping’s off-the-ball movement skill, Dai Zhiwei’s sense of positioning and vision had improved tremendously. With a quick glance, he spotted his teammate surging forward.

Drawing the attention of practically the entire Antlers defense, Dai Zhiwei slid a pass through the middle. Zhao Xuri, perfectly timing his run, broke the offside trap and coolly slotted the ball past the keeper. Evergrande 4–2, victory sealed!

Two goals down, the Antlers’ last hope of a comeback was utterly extinguished.

In a sense, Dai Zhiwei, with one goal and one assist, had single-handedly “killed” Kashima Antlers.

Ten minutes later, in the mixed zone, reporters crowded together in a churning mass.

As most players from both sides passed by, they were only asked a question or two before being waved on.

Everyone was waiting for one man. They craned their necks toward the entrance, like ducks hanging from a pole.

At last, their quarry appeared, a small figure stepping into the suddenly dimmed entryway.

“Hey! Dai Zhiwei!”

“Over here! Dai Zhiwei!”

The Chinese reporters called out, hoping to catch his attention.

When Dai Zhiwei reached the heart of the mixed zone, the reporters held him back.

“Dai Zhiwei, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, go ahead!” Dai Zhiwei stopped, flashing the reporter a smile. At this moment, he truly looked striking.

He wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the reporters. Even if they tried to put him on the spot, he was confident he could handle it with ease—after all, in his previous life, he had been a football journalist himself, even if only an online columnist.

However, Dai Zhiwei clearly underestimated their enthusiasm.

With his permission, the reporters descended upon him like a dam bursting, a flood of questions surging toward the still-posing Dai Zhiwei.

“How does it feel to come off the bench and score the winning goal?”

Dai Zhiwei broke into a cold sweat. Why did the quality of questions from Chinese football reporters always remind him of Sister Dong Rina?

“Your move before scoring was reminiscent of Bergkamp’s famous turn. How did you come up with it?”

“Of course, the ‘Ice Prince’ is my idol! But I still have a long way to go before I reach his level,” Dai Zhiwei replied modestly.

Given the overall state of Chinese football, all domestic players could only take a humble approach—there were simply no achievements to boast about.

“You’ve scored three goals and provided one assist in three matches this season. Do you have the confidence to compete for a starting role?”

“That’s up to the coach,” Dai Zhiwei answered, well aware of how to deflect any question that might cause trouble for the team. “But I’ll always be ready to play.”

“Dai Zhiwei, do you think…”

A barrage of questions followed.

Dai Zhiwei silently wondered if the Chinese media had completely taken over the mixed zone tonight.

This was the first time Dai Zhiwei—the man who would one day be known as the focus who could feed ten tabloids, ten entertainment papers, and ten sports dailies all by himself—stood before the media spotlight.