Chapter Seventy-Eight: Winter Has Arrived

For Yun Jia Tianyu Club, the year 2001 was a time of great fortune. After enduring the pains of a roster overhaul and missing out on the league championship for two consecutive years, Yun Jia Tianyu exploded onto the scene this season. Young players like Qu Yue, Li Fang, Zheng Zhi, and Zhang Yiming had quickly matured, inheriting the mantle from their predecessors. Veterans such as Zhu Guosheng and Wu Jiang remained unwavering, while Ai Lin, who had once been demoted for his mistakes, regained both form and confidence. Foreign signings like Weah and Grosso continued to shine, and the newly naturalized Brazilian duo, Adriano and Deco, showcased formidable talent. Yun Jia Tianyu surged ahead, clinching the league title with a round to spare.

Complementing the first team's outstanding performance, five squads from Yun Jia Tianyu triumphed at the national youth football academy invitational tournaments organized by the Chinese Football Association, claiming three championships. Once again, the adage “Yun Jia Tianyu’s youth development is the best in the nation” was proven true.

The club’s brilliance on the field was matched by joyous events off it. The greatest of these was undoubtedly owner Pei Wei’s wife, Su Mei, finally giving birth to a son. For Pei Wei, an orphan with neither relatives nor kin, the arrival of an heir meant his legacy could continue—a significant matter for any Chinese family.

Of course, such things had little direct impact on the boys at Yun Jia Tianyu Football Academy. If anything, they only fueled dreams of one day playing for the club, spurring them ever onward toward their goal of becoming professionals.

Long Bisheng was one of them.

Since returning from Beijing, he had become even more diligent and busier than before. In addition to dragging Li Jie and the others into physical duels, he added half an hour of basic drills to his daily routine—dribbling, ball control, passing—movements he had repeated countless times but still performed each day. Across the academy, few persisted with these monotonous, tedious exercises outside scheduled practice; Long Bisheng was among the most resolute.

Perhaps it was thanks to the many hours spent playing alone as a child, but his dribbling and passing were always proficient. This was the only technical aspect in which he met the academy’s average standard. Yet, while he could weave through cones and deliver accurate short- and medium-range passes in training, in actual matches he struggled to dribble past opponents or provide perfectly comfortable balls for teammates.

It was this stark contrast between his training and match performances that convinced Long Bisheng his fundamentals were lacking and that he needed to work even harder. In truth, he simply lacked match experience. Someone once remarked that footballers need only do two things: appear in the right place at the right time, and deliver the ball to the right spot in the right way. Simple as it sounds, there are hardly any players worldwide who can do both consistently.

Even those who manage it for just over half a match are undisputed stars.

Long Bisheng, unaware of this, stubbornly believed his failure to replicate training moves in matches was due to inadequate basics. Dai Guangming’s advice was not wrong, but he failed to notice that Long Bisheng’s foundation was already solid; his confusion during games was nothing more than a lack of formal match experience.

Though he played many intraschool matches, they were no substitute for real, high-stakes competition. Schoolmates would not defend with life-or-death tenacity or foul ruthlessly—these games lacked the intensity of official contests.

In fact, Long Bisheng ought to have noticed that, in the past two years of school games, he was not as inept in attack as he had been against Shanghai in the invitational. Sometimes he even managed to beat a man and shoot. Naturally, he assumed the school matches were of a lower standard—after all, the invitational brought together the nation’s elite.

Long Bisheng overlooked one thing: the various squads at Yun Jia Tianyu Football Academy were as strong as any in the country, and the level of its intraschool teams would be considered top-tier nationwide. The overall quality of these matches was not inferior to that of the invitational.

The gulf in his performances between these two similar levels of competition was determined by the difference in match intensity.

Time quickly slipped into December. Winter had arrived, and with it, winter for Chinese football as well.

The year’s three major events—the Jia-A League, the World Cup qualifying group stage, and the final round of World Cup qualifiers—had all concluded. The Chinese national team breezed through the final round, securing a place in the World Cup with three matches to spare and an unblemished record. Compared to the nerve-wracking, desperate campaign four years prior, this qualification journey was utterly uneventful.

Aside from the fact that, with Japan and South Korea hosting the World Cup, two direct rivals were absent, China’s dominant progress was more a testament to their own strength. After all, their group had included traditional nemeses like Iran, Qatar, and Uzbekistan, all of whom had inflicted bitter defeats on China before. To emerge victorious in every match against such opponents was proof enough of their prowess.

For Chinese fans, it was a sweet winter. With no more games to watch, they could still savor the exhilarating moments gone by, storing up excitement and energy to cheer for their clubs and national team in the coming year.

Long Bisheng, too, was storing up his strength. Winter did not diminish his training regimen in the slightest—he remained the most industrious student in the school. On bad weather days, he simply moved his practice indoors; the facility was well equipped, and the training effect was no lesser than outdoors.

Dribbling past a row of obstacles, Long Bisheng stopped and breathed heavily.

The gym was empty save for him. It was Sunday morning, and everyone else was resting in the dorms. Even his roommates, worn out by recent exertions, had not come. While he was absorbed in training, Long Bisheng had felt nothing. But now, at a standstill, the solitude of the cavernous gym pressed in on him.

With a sigh, he drew the ball toward himself, flicked it up, and juggled it ten times or so. After so much basic training, his juggling was no longer hazardous; at least, with others present, he hadn’t accidentally kicked the ball at anyone in a long time.

After a short while, he stopped. The morning’s session had left him exhausted. From his first day at the academy, he had hardly rested. Though still young and bursting with energy, he was still growing and not yet at his physical peak. Ding Yu had admonished him repeatedly: if you feel truly tired during training, rest at once, or you may harm your body.

He found a clean spot and sat, eyes fixed on the ball. Why couldn’t he dribble as naturally as Dai Guangming and the others, as though the ball were part of his body? Ding Yu had praised their “feel for the ball”—so why didn’t he have it?

Already, Dai Guangming’s group could imitate stars’ tricks with flair—Marseille turns, pendulum dribbles, backheel flicks—enough to dazzle in real matches. They already had quite a following among the girls, and whenever they pulled off such moves in the school league, the sidelines erupted in shrieks and applause.

Truthfully, Long Bisheng envied them. To win cheers even now—imagine the ovation awaiting them as professionals!

Since he had chosen to be a target man, he must accept the consequences.

Lost in thought, his eyes fell on the ball. He glanced about furtively—he was alone.

His heart thudded. Since no one was around, why not try those fancy tricks himself? He had watched Dai Guangming perform them many times, but whenever he attempted them, the others would laugh themselves silly, so he had stopped trying in public.

Now was the perfect opportunity. With no one to see, he could fail without embarrassment.

“Marseille turn!” he called, running forward two steps. His left foot tapped the ball, his burly frame clumsily spun a full turn and a half; as his left foot landed, his right came down on the ball, dragging it sideways—

With a sharp “smack,” his foot slipped, missing its mark, and he crashed to the floor.

Clambering up awkwardly, he brushed off his aching backside, his face flushing. Again, he glanced around—thank goodness, no one had seen. Otherwise, even a child’s mother would have been mortified.