1.65 Meters - Chapter 1: The Shortest Guy on the Podium

Chapter 1: The Shortest Guy on the Podium

When they called my name for the Best Striker award, the entire crowd fell silent for a full three seconds.

Then I heard someone laugh.

“Lin Ye, height: one meter sixty-five.”

When the host read those words aloud, there was even a hint of hesitation in his voice, as if he himself couldn't quite believe it.

I stood up and walked toward the podium.

The aisle was narrow, with people sitting on both sides. Some turned sideways to make room for me. Others crossed their legs and didn't move at all.

I lowered my head and looked at the narrow gap.

I squeezed past beside his knees.

He didn't move.

I heard someone next to him whisper,

“Him?”

I didn't look back.

The trophy was quite heavy.

The metal base was cold.

When I raised it, a few camera flashes went off below.

Not many.

I was short, and even with my arm raised, I was barely taller than the runner-up's shoulder.

The runner-up was a forward who was a full head taller than me.

He looked down at me.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

I didn't look at him.

I searched the far left side of the stands and found my mother.

She was holding up her phone, recording.

Her eyes were red.

My father stood beside her, both hands in his pockets, his face stern.

But the corners of his mouth were pulled too tightly.

I was about to step down from the podium when Coach Ma's voice came from the first row below.

“Wait a moment.”

He stood up.

Suit.

Tie.

Hair perfectly combed.

He pointed at me and said to the referee,

“Was the Best Striker award given to the wrong person?”

The referee froze for a moment.

“Coach Ma, the points have been calculated correctly. Lin Ye has twelve goals, the most.”

“Twelve goals?”

Coach Ma laughed, his voice loud enough for several rows around him to hear.

“Him?”

“He's one meter sixty-five.”

“How did he score twelve goals?”

“With headers?”

“Or did you make a mistake in the statistics?”

The entire venue fell silent.

I stood on the podium, still holding the trophy.

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on me.

Some were sympathetic.

Some were there for the spectacle.

Some were laughing along with him.

I knew Coach Ma.

I still remembered what he shouted from the sidelines during the final—

“Don't bother marking that shorty. He can't win a high ball.”

Now he was standing below the podium, questioning my Best Striker award in front of hundreds of people.

The referee looked troubled.

He flipped through the statistics sheet and read it again.

“The goal records are all documented.”

“Every goal has video.”

“Coach Ma, there is no mistake.”

Coach Ma snorted.

“Then check his age.”

“Check what kind of shoes he's wearing.”

“Maybe he changed his age and wore height-boosting shoes.”

“Don't let him fool all of you.”

People in the crowd began whispering among themselves.

I lowered my head and looked at the soccer shoes on my feet.

The uppers had been worn white.

The soles were almost completely flat.

I'd worn these shoes for two years.

There was a hole on the inside of the collar.

After every training session, the bottoms of my feet were black.

I placed the trophy on the podium.

The sound wasn't loud.

But in the silent venue, everyone heard it.

I crouched down and began untying my shoelaces.

Coach Ma froze.

“What are you doing?”

I said nothing.

I untied the laces and took off my right shoe.

Then I turned it over, sole facing upward, and showed it to everyone.

There was no hidden layer.

No height-increasing insert.

Just an ordinary pair of worn-out turf shoes.

Then I took off my sock.

The whole venue became even quieter.

There was a strip of cloth wrapped around my ankle.

Underneath the cloth was a two-kilogram sandbag.

It was tied tightly, leaving a red ring around my ankle.

My heel and the outer side of my foot were covered in blisters.

Some had burst.

Some hadn't.

The skin and flesh stuck to my sock.

When I pulled it off, I didn't even frown.

“I'm not wearing height-boosting shoes,” I said.

I took off my left shoe as well.

I put both feet together, soles facing outward, toward Coach Ma.

“I run with these tied to my ankles every day.”

“Morning, I wear them.”

“Afternoon, I wear them.”

“Training, I wear them.”

“Matches, I wear them too.”

“I've been running like this for three years.”

Nobody in the crowd said a word.

“You asked how someone who's one meter sixty-five scores twelve goals?”

I looked at Coach Ma.

“I use these.”

I untied one of the sandbags.

I held it in my hand.

It was heavy.

I extended it toward Coach Ma.

“Would you like to try?”

Coach Ma's face turned bright red.

His lips moved twice, but no sound came out.

The person beside him tugged on his arm.

He took the opportunity to sit back down.

His eyes turned away.

I tied the sandbag back on.

Put my sock back on.

Put my shoes back on.

Then I stood up and raised the trophy above my head again.

This time, the camera flashes exploded all at once.

I heard someone shout my name.

First one or two voices.

Then more.

“Lin Ye!”

I didn't smile.

I held up the trophy and looked toward my mother.

She covered her face and cried.

My father still had a stern expression.

But he raised his right hand and gave me a thumbs-up.

I nodded at them.

As I walked down from the podium, Su Qing rushed over from the reporters' section.

Her school newspaper press badge swung back and forth around her neck.

She shoved a recorder toward my mouth.

“Lin Ye, say a few words!”

I glanced at her.

“What should I say?”

“Just tell us how you're feeling right now!”

“Best Striker!”

“Hat-trick!”

“And you just publicly slapped someone in the face—”

She quickly corrected herself.

“I mean, publicly proved yourself!”

I thought about it.

“Nothing much,” I said.

“How can you have no feelings?”

“When you took off your shoes, the whole venue was stunned.”

“Didn't you see Coach Ma's face?”

“I saw it.”

“Then what did you feel?”

“His face turned red.”

Su Qing froze.

Then burst out laughing.

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

I continued walking toward the exit.

Su Qing followed beside me, still holding up the recorder.

“You have to say something.”

“You've come all this way.”

“In primary school, you played badminton and people said you couldn't even reach the net.”

“In middle school, they called you too short to play.”

“In high school, you played soccer and the coach kept you on the bench…”

I stopped and turned to look at her.

She immediately shut her mouth.

“You did quite a bit of research.”

“I'm a school newspaper reporter, after all.”

She grinned.

“So how did you actually do it?”

I shifted the trophy into my left hand.

With my right hand, I moved my wrist.

The skin where the sandbag had been wrapped felt a little itchy.

The blisters had probably rubbed open again.

“Just one thing,” I said.

“What?”

“Every time someone says I can't do it, I don't argue.”

“I don't explain.”

“And then?”

“Then I put the ball in the net.”

Su Qing opened her mouth.

The recorder remained suspended in midair.

She didn't speak for a long time.

I kept walking.

When I reached the entrance to the tunnel, I turned back and looked at the field.

The scene from the final was still vivid in my mind.

Coach Ma had stood on the sidelines and shouted at his defenders,

“Don't bother marking that shorty!”

Then I scored my first goal.

He panicked.

“Stay on him!”

I scored my second.

He stopped shouting.

I scored my third.

When the final whistle blew, he was crouching on the sideline with his head buried in his hands.

I turned around and walked out of the stadium.

Later, Su Qing wrote a report for the school newspaper.

The headline was:

“The One-Meter-Sixty-Five Best Striker.”

She wrote a paragraph at the end.

I read it.

I didn't say anything.

She wrote:

“Lin Ye says that he doesn't explain himself. He simply does the work. It sounds simple, but among the hundreds of people in the stadium, he was the only one who truly did it. His feet were covered in blisters, sandbags were tied around his ankles, and every time people looked down on him, he answered with his next goal. His height isn't his weakness. It is the ruler he uses to measure the world. At one meter sixty-five, he is just tall enough to see clearly the things that those who look up still cannot see.”

My mother cut that article out and stuck it on the refrigerator.

My father took one look at it and said,

“Too long.”

But he didn't tear it down.

(End of Chapter 1)100Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF6nSjsVJr7

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