Chapter Nineteen: Tuition

“What? One semester’s tuition is fifteen hundred?”
When Long Yuyun first dialed the number for the football school, he thought their service seemed quite professional—the call was answered by a gentle-voiced female operator. Yet as soon as Long Yuyun explained his purpose, this gentle receptionist quoted a figure that left him utterly stunned.
“Miss, are you sure you haven’t made a mistake? The tuition for a regular university is about the same, and my son is only nine years old,” Long Yuyun asked incredulously.
“Of course I haven’t,” the woman replied patiently. “Our fees are indeed higher compared to elementary schools, but among football schools, ours are relatively low. Can you guarantee a university graduate will find a job with a hundred thousand yuan annual salary? If a player succeeds, reaching that salary is easily achievable. That’s the difference—we offer real value for your money.”
Her words left Long Yuyun feeling dazed and uncertain. Though shrewd and capable, he’d spent his life in the relatively straightforward world of the military and failed to notice the flaws in her argument. He began to feel her claims were reasonable.
The woman's words sounded logical, but in truth, she sidestepped the most crucial question: What if your child doesn’t make it as a footballer? Moreover, nothing proved that attending this school would offer any real opportunity to connect with professional football.
Since the professional league began booming, countless children like Long Bisheng had pursued the dream of becoming players, and just as many fathers like Long Yuyun searched for schools that could set their children on that path. Unfortunately, the hastily established league lacked proper supporting facilities—the very formation of the league had exhausted the football association’s energy, and clubs hadn’t yet built robust youth training systems. Genuine football schools were rare; most so-called “football schools” were makeshift operations, hiring a handful of sports school graduates as teachers and masquerading as legitimate institutions.
Pei Wei, the owner of Yun Jia Tianyu, had once harshly criticized these schools for destroying the hopes of Chinese football. Not only did they ruin the prospects of their students, they discouraged many children aspiring to become professionals. Families spent all their savings, but the children received no proper training; once the deception was revealed, they’d lost the chance to gain skills at regular schools—the most precious time of their lives!
Sadly, the school Long Yuyun had found was one such fraudulent establishment.
But he had no idea. He never imagined such a thing could exist—a wholly unlicensed private school openly advertising everywhere. So he told the phone operator he needed time to consider.
She sounded regretful but remained polite, bidding him farewell. Before hanging up, she casually mentioned their admissions were limited, and many had already applied. If he waited too long, even money might not secure a spot—after all, theirs was a “proper football school.”
Her words didn’t pressure Long Yuyun. Even if he lacked experience with the outside world, he knew better than to believe such claims—if there were so many eager applicants, would the operator still be so cordial? She’d have her nose in the air by now! Thirty years of living hadn’t gone to waste.
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“Fifteen hundred per semester…”
Hearing her husband’s report, Yin Xiuping showed no particular change in expression, nor did she use it as an excuse to prevent their son from pursuing football. “But with our salaries and allowances, we can afford the tuition.”
Long Yuyun was a major, deputy battalion level—a rank he’d earned thanks to his service in the elite reconnaissance battalion. Otherwise, his rank would easily qualify him to command a full battalion elsewhere. His monthly salary and various allowances totaled over a thousand yuan, and while his wife’s rank wasn’t as high, her combined monthly income was nearly a thousand as well. Life in the garrison compound was frugal, and they rarely cooked at home. Although Long Yuyun’s broad social circle and generous personality meant they hadn’t saved much, they could still cover their son’s tuition at the football school each semester.
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” Long Yuyun mused. “The child will need a monthly living allowance, won’t he? The school certainly won’t waive that. And since he’s playing football, there’ll be expenses for jerseys, shorts, shoes, and who knows what else…”
Only then did Yin Xiuping realize she’d been too optimistic. She’d assumed it would be like attending the local elementary school—pay the tuition and not worry for the whole semester.
“So, how much do you think it’ll cost each month?” she asked, getting straight to the key question.
“Probably…” Long Yuyun pondered, oblivious as the cigarette burned down to his fingers. “Your entire monthly salary will go to him… and even that might not be enough.”
Yin Xiuping lowered her head in silence. Long Yuyun felt a pang of guilt, knowing his estimate was rather conservative. In reality, their son’s expenses at school would require more than just his wife’s salary. At home, they could always make do, but living away—even a single missing coin could drive even the toughest man to despair.
If he’d been more frugal in the past, their savings would be far more than the meager ten thousand yuan they had now. He’d been an officer ever since graduating from military school. His benefits weren’t as generous as those of civilian officials, but they were comfortable, and in the army, food and clothing were often free. Had he not been so extravagant, always picking up the tab when out with comrades…
Long Yuyun reflected with embarrassment. In fact, compared to other officers at their level, the couple was relatively well-off, particularly in Xinjiang, where conditions were tough and benefits better. They had no elderly relatives or other dependents, which allowed Long Yuyun to develop his generous spending habits.
If only he’d been a bit more prudent… Long Yuyun couldn’t help but reproach himself.
ps: Had dinner at the office today, got home late—please forgive me.