Chapter 38: I Am a Professional Commentator

“We won, we won, Xiao Jie won!”

At the same moment, Zhao’s mother and the others, who were watching the match on television, burst into cheers, the air filled with an atmosphere of joy.

“Zhao Jie’s mother, didn’t I say so? Those two commentators were just talking nonsense. See, Xiao Jie won, didn’t he?”

Just now, they’d been listening to the commentators with their hearts in their throats, truly believing for a moment that Zhao Jie was about to lose.

“Yes, yes, Xiao Jie’s made it to the top sixteen. Tomorrow is the quarterfinals, right? Xiao Jie will get to be on television again.”

For ordinary people like them, just appearing on television once was enough to make them proud.

Zhao Jie had indeed won, but the online world was buzzing with the emergence of more “keyboard warriors.” In just half an hour, the social media accounts of the two commentators had crashed under the weight of the response.

There was nothing to be done; the two commentators had been too blatantly biased. Had Gabumon won, their professionalism would have been beyond question, but now that Gabumon had lost, their expertise was being called into doubt by many.

Footage of the match was quickly edited and uploaded, and view counts surged across all platforms.

“Gabumon is about to end it…”

Netizens were relentless, and as the video went viral, more and more people left comments under the commentators’ social media.

“Was it a loss? Was it really a loss?”

“So this is what counts as professional commentary? I could do this too, since you can’t analyze the match anyway.”

“Here’s a joke: ‘ending the match’—that’s what you call this?”

“Mr. Zhao, I used to really enjoy your commentary, but this time I’m so disappointed. The two Digimon were evenly matched, yet you insisted Gabumon had the advantage. The match had only just begun, and you already declared one side defeated. Where’s the impartiality in that?”

One scathing comment after another flooded Zhao’s private messages and social media, leaving him and his co-commentator bewildered.

“Mr. Zhao, Xiao Ming, you’ll sit out the next match and let someone else take over.”

Hearing this, Mr. Zhao, dressed in a tailcoat, was stunned. What was happening? The commentary had been going fine—why were they telling him to rest? He wasn’t tired; he could keep going.

“Mr. Zhao, all the major online platforms are scolding us right now.”

Beside him, Xiao Ming tugged gently at his sleeve and whispered. Xiao Ming was a newcomer trained by the company, brought along this time to gain some experience under the veteran commentator’s guidance. Things had been going smoothly until everything went awry just before noon.

“They’re scolding us? Let me see what’s going on.”

Momentarily dazed, Mr. Zhao quickly took out his phone to check his messages. After just a few seconds, his expression darkened.

“Mr. Zhao, what should we do? The entire internet is saying we’re unprofessional,” Xiao Ming said anxiously.

He’d thought following a respected veteran would make his path easier, never expecting to encounter such a situation.

“Why panic? I’ll just post an explanation on social media,” Mr. Zhao glanced at his young colleague. Most of the criticism was directed at him—what did this little nobody have to be afraid of?

“Is it really that simple?” Xiao Ming looked at his senior in disbelief. The whole internet was in an uproar—was his mentor really so formidable?

“Xiao Ming, you’re new to commentary. Some things you’ll learn in time. This is no big deal.” With a sincere pat on the shoulder, Mr. Zhao thought to himself, In all my years, I’ve weathered many storms. This is nothing but a drizzle.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

Soon after, a post titled “I Am a Professional Commentator” appeared on Mr. Zhao’s social media.

Just after commentating the match, I went to eat. My friends mentioned I’d gotten into trouble, so I was curious and checked social media. To my surprise, it was about my commentary.

First, I am a professional commentator. Over a decade ago, I was already commentating on games. I have been commentating on Digimon matches for more than five years now, covering national and world tournaments—over a thousand matches in total.

You’re welcome to question my commentary, but I will not change my views, nor will I alter my opinions because of your comments or suggestions.

In my view, the match in question was clearly in Gabumon’s favor; Agumon merely got lucky to win.

I dare to predict that Agumon will definitely lose in the quarterfinals.

And finally, you have no right to question me. Unless you can prove that you are more professional than I am, stop making a fuss on my social media.

That is all.

With Mr. Zhao’s post, the topic of “professional commentary” shot to the top three on the trending charts, and the keyboard warriors surged back into battle.

“Ha, unless you can prove you’re more professional than me, stop making a fuss here. Mr. Zhao is really something—won’t admit he’s wrong even when he is.”

“So this is what ‘ending the match’ sounds like? The winner was just lucky? Isn’t luck also part of one’s skill?”

“To sum it up: I’ve been in this industry over ten years, commentated a lot of matches, I’m very professional, and I am not wrong.”

“Mr. Zhao is right—I also think Agumon just got lucky.”

“Exactly, what’s there to argue about? Mr. Zhao has been commentating for so many years, and now he’s trending because of a rookie cup. Wang Feng must be crying in the bathroom.”

“…”

His post also emboldened some of Mr. Zhao’s supporters, who pushed back against the criticism.

Amidst the storm raging online, Zhao Jie remained oblivious. He couldn’t hear the commentary during the match, and afterward, he was focused on preparing for the next round.

But soon, his best friend Liu Cheng called. After some small talk, Liu Cheng got to the point.

“Ajie, do you know that something big happened online because of you?”

“Something big?” Zhao Jie was puzzled—what could he have done to cause a stir?

“It’s about your match, you know? The commentator was clearly favoring the other contestant, but you won. Now he’s being scolded for being unprofessional. And he refused to accept it, posting a long message saying your win was just luck,” Liu Cheng said, grinding his teeth on the other end of the line.

“Oh.” Zhao Jie replied indifferently. If they said it was luck, so be it—maybe it would even lull his next opponent into complacency.

“You’re not angry?”

“Would it help if I were?”

“Uh, I guess not.”

“Exactly. And besides, this doesn’t really have much to do with me. I just need to play my best.”

Even so, Zhao Jie eventually looked up the commentary video out of curiosity, wondering what exactly had been said about his match.