I'm Chen Mo. The whole country erupted in celebration the night I scored the winning goal at the age of 26. At 27, in Manchester, I shaved my head with my own hands and watched her close her eyes. From escaping a basement to wearing Manchester United's No. 7 at Old Trafford, I had no System, no golden finger, only 27 years of relentless, monk-like grind.
I led the national team to make history by getting out of the group stage, yet we were always one step short of reaching the end of that pitch. They were geniuses; I was a grinder. They relied on talent; I relied on running, running without end, pushing myself until I became a bald beast.
Now, at 35, I sit here with the first Portuguese word she taught me to write when I was 19 still in my suit pocket. From a “Chinese kid” who faced discrimination, to the Red Devils' secret weapon, to the founder of Lai Shi Lu, I finally understand: I escaped that violent basement not to become a Ballon d'Or winner, but to turn back and reach out to the boy I once was, kicking a soda can across a concrete floor.
