Chapter 38: A Cold Splash of Reality for Myself

Once again, a thunderous roar erupted from the Yuexiu Mountain Stadium. In the eyes of the crowd, if this shot found the net, Guangzhou Evergrande would be finished.

Once more, Zeng Cheng charged out at the perfect moment, striving to defuse the peril, throwing himself in the line of fire to block Bokila’s shooting angle. Bokila’s strike ricocheted off Zeng Cheng’s outstretched left foot as he went to ground, but disastrously, the ball bounced straight back toward Bokila. Now, the only man near the ball was Bokila himself, with no defenders in sight.

Presented with such a gift, Bokila made no mistake. With a gentle nudge of his right foot, he sent the ball into the net.

“Goal! Bokila scores his second!”

“2-0! R&F lead the Evergrande team! R&F now hold an overwhelming advantage!”

Bokila, after scoring, laughed heartily as he embraced Jiang Zhipeng and the others who rushed to celebrate. On the sidelines, head coach Stojkovic clenched his fist and leapt into the air. They all knew how significant this advantage was.

Evergrande now stood at the edge of the abyss, with no room left for retreat. Only a wild, relentless attack and goals could keep their hopes alive.

After the restart, Evergrande threw themselves forward with all their might, urged on tirelessly by Cannavaro. Just as R&F’s defense looked on the brink of collapse under this onslaught, the match took a dramatic turn.

Michel, intercepting the ball at the back, sent a precise through ball threading under Zhao Xuyang’s legs. Bokila arrived in tandem with the ball, deftly slipping past his marker and charging toward the box, one-on-one with only the keeper to beat.

At this critical moment, with only Feng Xiaoting standing between Bokila and the goalkeeper Zeng Cheng, if Feng failed to intervene, Bokila would have an open shot on goal—a third for R&F seemed almost certain.

A 0-3 deficit would be tantamount to a death sentence for Evergrande.

As Bokila surged forward, lightning-quick, to breach the penalty area, Feng Xiaoting lunged but missed the ball, leaving Bokila clear. In desperation, Feng resorted to a tackle from behind.

Suddenly, Bokila, at full sprint, toppled dramatically at the edge of the penalty area, as if felled by a hunter’s bullet—a perfect “faceplant.”

“A red card! It has to be a red card!” The commentator’s voice rose to a fever pitch, almost shrill in excitement. “A deliberate foul from behind! Feng Xiaoting has brought down Bokila! Whether it’s a penalty is up for debate, but let’s see what the referee decides…”

“Red card! He’s shown the red! The referee has sent off Feng Xiaoting! Even as the entire Evergrande team swarmed the official to protest, there was no changing this disastrous outcome. The decision stood.”

Dejected, Feng Xiaoting accepted his teammates’ consolation and slowly walked off the pitch.

Feng’s red card was not unwarranted, but Evergrande could not accept it. With just forty minutes gone in the first half, they had already lost the lynchpin of their defense—their defensive core.

In the final minutes before halftime, R&F pressed forward relentlessly. With only ten men, Evergrande could barely hold them off. Fortunately, there was little time left, and R&F did not score again.

The teams went into the break with R&F leading 2-0.

As the referee’s whistle signaled the end of the half, Evergrande’s players fled to the dressing room, their faces etched with despair. All they wanted was for this nightmarish half to end.

Time slipped away, each second seemingly bringing Evergrande closer to defeat…

“Damn it!”

As Dai Zhiwei stepped into the changing room, he heard a teammate savagely kick a metal locker, the sound echoing violently. The outburst startled Dai Zhiwei from his own dejection, and he quietly took his seat.

“Hey, it’s alright, Tingzi, don’t let it get to you,” said Zheng Zhi, one of the team’s veterans, offering comfort to Feng Xiaoting.

“I’m fine, just a little frustrated,” Feng replied with a bitter smile, his expression reminiscent of a comedian forcing a grin. “It’s just this red card—it’ll mean at least a ten-grand fine.”

“Hey, you did your best…”

“Come on, Old Feng, what’s ten grand to you? Next time you’re buying at the club, I’ll settle for one less bottle of Royal Salute,” another teammate joked.

Dai Zhiwei had been toweling his sweaty hair, but on hearing these words, he suddenly froze, struck by a realization.

Did your best?

Club nights on the tab?

He realized that, somewhere along the way, he had begun to gravitate toward the habits of his domestic teammates. He, too, had started frequenting nightclubs. He, too, had acquired a model girlfriend and begun to live a life of idle luxury.

On the pitch, he, too, had started to think, “doing my best is enough.” In matches, he’d developed a habit of venting his frustration, giving a thumbs-up to teammates as a practiced gesture.

He, too, had grown lazy, enjoying life beyond football. He had grown accustomed to the identity of a “national team player.”

“No, no, no!”

Dai Zhiwei shook his head abruptly, biting his lower lip in agitation. Suddenly, he realized that he had begun to lose himself.

Amid media praise, the adoration of fans, and the indulgence of the coach, he was drifting. He had grown used to drawing a multi-million salary, having a model girlfriend, ambiguous female friends, and conquering on the field with talent and skill.

But the passion for scoring, the hunger for victory—those had faded since half a year ago.

Football had become a mere profession, no longer his dream.

“Am I getting arrogant?” he mocked himself inwardly. “Do I think this is the Premier League or La Liga? This is just the Chinese Super League, which so many stars wouldn’t even consider joining. Even if you rule here, what does it matter? Monkey king in a land without tigers, that’s all.”

“Dai Zhiwei, even with a second chance at life, you’re still just a short-sighted monkey.”

“Dai Zhiwei, did you really think you were somebody important?”

Smack! Smack!

Suddenly, Dai Zhiwei slapped himself hard across both cheeks.

“You’re no better than those idiots who only know how to say ‘If you think you can, go do it yourself!’”

…

Nearly ten minutes had passed since the second half resumed. During this period, R&F had been completely on the back foot, besieged by Evergrande’s ferocious attacks. If not for their solid defense and numerical superiority, Evergrande would surely have broken through by now.

“Over here!”

Goulart, after receiving Paulinho’s pass in the attacking third and sidestepping a defender’s challenge, heard Dai Zhiwei’s shout.

Looking up, Goulart immediately sent a through ball into the area, and Dai Zhiwei began to muscle past the R&F defenders as he chased it down.

“Danger!” the commentator cried, sensing the threat.

But Goulart’s pass was a bit too strong—too far for Dai Zhiwei to reach.

“Come on, just a bit faster!”

The Dai Zhiwei of the first half would have given up, knowing the shooting angle would be too tight even if he caught up. But this time, he refused to quit.

“Wow! Dai Zhiwei doesn’t give up—he’s caught up with the ball!” the commentator exclaimed, surprised by the sudden turn of pace.

Though Dai Zhiwei’s speed let him outpace Zhang Xiuxian’s tugging grasp on his shirt, R&F’s keeper Cheng Yuelei had rushed out to meet the ball. With no other choice, Dai Zhiwei fired at goal, but Cheng had already closed down the angle—the ball ricocheted off the keeper’s leg and out for a corner.

“In this second half, Dai Zhiwei’s been particularly active—this is already his third shot!” the Southern Sports commentator observed. “It seems Dai Zhiwei has no intention of giving up on this match!”

Then came the corner from Goulart, but it swung too close to the keeper. With the box crowded, Cheng Yuelei leapt above the throng to claim the ball, leaving Evergrande’s players frustrated as they trudged back.

“Don’t rush! Don’t rush!” Zheng Zhi called out, urging his teammates to stay calm.

From his position at the back, he saw that Goulart’s last two passes and Dai Zhiwei’s shots had all been hurried, lacking composure. This kind of anxiety would do little to help them score.

Dai Zhiwei realized it too, giving Zheng Zhi a thumbs-up to show he understood.

“We’re still too anxious,” Dai Zhiwei reflected. “Trying hard doesn’t mean charging blindly—only a fist drawn back can deliver a real blow.”

Zheng Zhi was right, but time was running out. Despite throwing everyone forward, opportunities remained elusive, and the clock kept ticking.

Dai Zhiwei continued to run energetically, repeating to himself, “Calm down, calm down! You can do this, Dai Zhiwei…”