I am Chen Mo. At the age of 26, the whole country was in an uproar on the night of the Asian Cup victory. But at the age of 27, I shaved my hair with my own hands in Manchester and watched her close her eyes. From escaping from the basement to standing at Old Trafford wearing Manchester United's No. 7, I have no system, no golden fingers, only 27 years of ascetic hard work.
I led the national football team to a historic victory in the group stage, but I was always one step away from reaching the end of the green field. They are geniuses, and I am a local talent; they rely on talent, and I rely on running, running constantly, forcing myself to become a bald beast.
Now, at the age of 35, I sit here with the first Portuguese word she taught me to write when I was 19 in my suit pocket. From the discriminated "Chinese boy" to the Red Devils Nuclear Weapons, and then to the founder of Laishulu - I finally understood that I escaped from that violent basement not to become Mr. Golden Ball, but to pull back the person I was kicking cans on the cement floor.
