Chapter 149: The Sun at Eight or Nine in the Morning

The Napoli players burst out of the locker room, their veins coursing with fiery passion. A derby match needs no urging from the coach, and with the wonderful news brought by Aurelio De Laurentiis, the players were already resolute—they were determined to win this game and celebrate such monumental tidings!

Indeed, it was truly monumental news—not an exaggeration by any means. The restoration of the club’s original name signified that this team, with a history spanning over a century, was finally shaking off the shadows cast by last season’s bankruptcy and reclaiming its place as the pride of Naples. The Napoli club was actually founded back in 1904 by a group of British sailors. However, in 1912, due to internal conflicts among players, non-Italian members left to form a separate team called “International Napoli,” much like the split between Inter Milan and AC Milan. Both teams competed separately in the 1912-1913 season. By 1926, the rift was healed, and the two clubs merged, marking the official founding year as 1926. Now, with the return to its original name, Napoli was once again the symbol of the city’s footballing glory.

Long Bisheng sat on the bench, watching his teammates charge onto the pitch like a pack of bloodthirsty wolves, his heart swelling with excitement.

He was young—young people are more easily moved by tradition, history, and glory. Napoli was rich in all these elements. Though currently a Serie C team, this did not prevent Long Bisheng from swiftly developing a profound sense of belonging to the club—a connection that even Yun Jia Tianyu could not offer him. It was like comparing a nation with just two hundred years of history to one with five thousand years of civilization; no matter how vibrant the young nation, it could never rival the deep, weighty, and nostalgic heritage of the ancient one.

As his excitement settled slightly, Long Bisheng focused intently on the match. The ample playing time he had earned recently had not inflated his ambitions unrealistically; rather, it deepened his understanding of the gulf between himself and seasoned professionals: experience and game sense. Some players at barely eighteen exhibit the calm and composure of a thirty-year-old veteran—that is a rare talent. Buffon, who became a first-choice keeper in Serie A at eighteen; the English golden trio of Shearer, Owen, and Rooney; and the extraterrestrial Ronaldo—these were prodigies of unparalleled caliber. Long Bisheng knew he was not one of them.

Therefore, he needed to accumulate experience—whether on the field, on the sidelines, or even in the stands. Every opportunity was a chance to learn. Feeling the difference of professional league play firsthand, closely observing the performances of seasoned players—he absorbed everything like a parched sponge soaking up water. For six years, he had followed this path, covering in half that time what others might take twelve years or more to achieve, earning himself a rightful place as a professional player. How much longer would it take before he met the demands of European football as a fully-fledged professional? That remained unknown. But given his diligence, perseverance, and humility, even with average talent, the likelihood of becoming a standard professional was high—especially since he possessed the height and physique envied by many.

Napoli’s overwhelming momentum met fierce resistance from Avellino. Though the match was held at the Stadio San Paolo—Napoli’s home ground—and despite Avellino’s history being negligible compared to Napoli’s glorious past, and their current Serie C1B standing thirteen places below Napoli’s, none of this dented Avellino’s confidence or courage on the pitch.

Because this was a derby—the Campania Derby.

In football, the word ‘derby’ says it all. In derbies, the distinction between strong and weak blurs; mighty Manchester United often stumble against the modest Manchester City. Arsenal’s most glorious years yielded little success against Tottenham. Barcelona frequently struggle against Espanyol. Juventus, even in their darkest days in Turin, never underestimated the fierce Red Bulls. The four teams from Milan and Rome clash in derbies that spark fireworks on the pitch. Rangers and Celtic’s rivalry encompasses faith and religion at its core.

Compared to these illustrious derbies, the Campania Derby might seem insignificant—but a derby remains a derby!

Avellino’s players, through relentless pressing and tenacious defending, repeatedly thwarted Napoli’s attacks. Yet Napoli’s players, equally spirited and driven by a clear objective, paid no heed. They launched wave after wave of attacks, fueled by unshakable confidence and superior ability, pinning the visitors deep in their own half. The attacking line of Sosa, Carajao, Pia, and Fontana moved with seamless coordination and relentless intensity, forcing Avellino’s defense to expend tremendous effort just to hold their ground.

But defense is always reactive—an unbreakable truth. Even the vaunted Italian national team, famed for their defensive prowess, cannot keep a clean sheet forever; their defense relies on support from the attack. After half an hour of relentless pressure, Avellino finally buckled.

When faced with absolute strength, the power of spirit has its limits.

Following a series of exquisite combinations upfront, Pia broke through Avellino’s flank, lofting the ball toward the far post. Carajao leapt fiercely, outjumping a taller defender to flick the ball into the center of the penalty area. Sosa, like a bomber diving in from the rear, surged forward and executed a powerful gliding header!

The Avellino goalkeeper barely managed a feeble wave of his hand before the ball thundered into the net!

“A beautiful goal! Robert Sosa! Our top scorer! He truly deserves the number ten jersey!” the commentator exclaimed with fervor.

The sixty thousand fans at San Paolo roared Sosa’s name in unison! The Argentine forward stormed to the sideline, waving both arms wildly toward the stands, and with his gesture, the stadium’s energy soared to new heights.

Long Bisheng cheered with his teammates but found his mind replaying Sosa’s every movement during the goal—when Pia made his breakthrough on the wing, Sosa had dropped two steps outside the box, stretching the opposing defense and relieving pressure on himself; then, as Pia crossed, he darted into the box with lightning speed, completing the fierce, commanding finish.

Such a goal ignited the crowd’s passion and lifted the team’s morale. Meanwhile, Long Bisheng’s own few goals earlier in the match felt somewhat tepid—much like his own reserved personality—lacking the sparkle to captivate.

Perhaps he needed to change.

Football itself is a game brimming with passion. Too much calmness on the pitch only breeds boredom among fans. Moreover, a mild temperament need not contradict fiery displays on the field. Countless players are gentle and refined off the pitch, yet transform into wild lions once the whistle blows. Brother Chu Ran was right: a forward cannot be too rational or too calm; one must possess a touch of madness. A wild striker often brings catalytic energy to the team—something a calm forward cannot provide.

After the celebrations subsided, Long Bisheng returned to his seat. Beside him, Amodio noticed his thoughtful expression and, thinking Long was downhearted by a rival’s strong performance, offered some comfort: “Long! Don’t be discouraged. You’ve had plenty of playing time already. Look at me—Fontana keeps me on the bench most of the time!”

“Hm?” Long Bisheng snapped back to reality and smiled at Amodio. The young Uruguayan midfielder was the team’s joker, with a status not much higher than Long’s. Though Fontana was thirty-five, his skill, free-kicks, and playmaking remained unmatched in the squad. This season, Fontana was in such fine form he rarely missed a game, leaving Amodio with scant chances to start. Yet now, Amodio was comforting Long Bisheng—a kind-hearted kid.

Laughing, Long said, “It’s okay, Nicolas. I’m just thinking about other things… Nicolas, we don’t need to worry because we are still young and have many opportunities ahead. There’s a saying in China: ‘The world belongs to them and to us, but ultimately, it belongs to us because we are the morning sun at six o’clock.’”

Without waiting for Amodio to fully grasp the meaning, Long patted his shoulder and turned back to watch the game, his heart brimming with hope. Though he wasn’t yet on Sosa’s level, he still had ample room to grow—he was young, and Sosa was getting older. Youth always triumphs over age.

Puzzled, Amodio pondered Long’s words for a moment before turning to his compatriot Boriacino and asking, “What did Long just say?”