1.65 Meters - Chapter 4: High School — “You're Too Short to Play Striker”

Chapter 4: High School — “You're Too Short to Play Striker”

On the day of the high school team selection, I stood by the field for forty minutes.

Coach Liu went through the players one by one.

First-years.

Second-years.

Third-years.

They stood in three rows.

He walked slowly.

His eyes scanned each player just as slowly.

When he reached me, he stopped.

He looked down at me, then glanced at the list in his hand.

“Lin Ye?”

“Here.”

“One meter sixty-five.”

He said the number as casually as he would have read out someone else's name.

Several players waiting for the selection laughed.

Not loudly.

But everyone heard it.

Coach Liu closed the list and looked at me.

“You're too short to play striker.”

I said nothing.

“There are only a limited number of spots on the school team.”

“Go home.”

I didn't move.

He frowned.

“Anything else?”

“I want to try.”

“Try what?”

“Playing striker.”

He looked me over.

The corner of his mouth moved slightly.

It was hard to tell whether he was amused or simply impatient.

“You're only a first-year.”

“You'll have more chances later.”

“Go practice first. Come back in your second year.”

“Then you won't think I'm too short in second year?”

He froze.

Several players nearby froze too.

Someone whispered,

“Is this guy crazy?”

Coach Liu stared at me for two seconds.

Then he flipped to the last page of the list and wrote a name in the corner.

“Fine.”

“I'll give you a chance.”

He put the cap back on his pen.

“But you'll start as a substitute.”

“If you can't get onto the field during practice matches, just run laps with the others.”

“Okay.”

“I haven't finished.”

He looked at me.

“If you can't keep up, leave on your own.”

“Don't make me kick you out.”

“Okay.”

On the first day of training, he made me run laps with the third-years.

The third-years ran ten laps.

He made me run fifteen.

I didn't ask why.

I finished all fifteen and stood at the side of the field, breathing heavily.

Then he told me to pick up the balls.

After I finished, he told me to act as a practice defender for the starting striker.

In other words—

He wanted me to get hit.

The starting third-year striker was 1.85 meters tall.

More than a full head taller than me.

He weighed thirty kilograms more.

He received the ball with his back to me.

The coach told me to push against him from behind.

I stepped forward.

He stuck his backside out.

I was sent flying nearly two meters.

I rolled across the grass.

Then I got back up, brushed the grass off my clothes, and stood behind him again.

He did it again.

I flew again.

The third time.

The fourth.

The fifth.

Some people laughed.

Some shook their heads.

Someone shouted,

“Stop training, shorty. You can't hold him!”

I ignored them.

I got up and pushed again.

On the ninth attempt, he finally couldn't move me.

He turned around and glanced at me.

He muttered something under his breath.

I couldn't make it out.

Coach Liu stood near the center circle with his arms crossed.

His expression hadn't changed.

After training ended, everyone left.

I stayed behind to practice shooting.

There was an old goal in the corner of the field.

Several holes had been torn in the net.

I lined up the balls I'd collected.

One by one, I shot.

Laces.

Inside of the foot.

Outside of the foot.

Near post.

Far post.

Center.

After ten shots, I ran to collect the balls.

Then ten more.

When it became too dark to see the ball, I used the flashlight on my phone to illuminate the direction of the goal and kept shooting by feel.

Wang Hao was the second person to stay behind.

He was a second-year midfielder.

He wasn't tall either, just over 1.70 meters.

But on the team, he was considered a technical player.

He sat at the side of the field and watched me for more than ten minutes.

Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore.

He stood up and walked over.

“This kind of training is useless.”

I stopped and looked at him.

“You're shooting at an empty goal.”

“In an actual match, someone will be defending you.”

He walked in front of me and kicked the ball at my feet.

“Come.”

“I'll defend you.”

“Get past me.”

I stopped the ball and looked at him.

“If you can't get past me, don't even think about getting on the field.”

He crouched down.

His center of gravity was low.

His eyes were serious.

I looked at him.

Then suddenly accelerated.

I moved the ball from my right foot to my left.

My body swayed to the left.

He shifted his weight with me.

The ball hadn't moved.

I used the outside of my right foot to knock it to the right.

Then I went around him.

He turned and chased.

I'd already taken my shot.

The ball rolled into the far corner.

He stood behind me, hands on his hips, breathing heavily.

“When did you learn that?”

“Middle school.”

“How many times have you practiced it?”

“Every day.”

He stared at me for a while.

Then suddenly smiled.

“Okay.”

“You've got something.”

From that day on, Wang Hao became my passing partner.

Every day after training, he stayed behind to practice with me.

One hour at a time.

He passed.

I shot.

He defended.

I dribbled past him.

Neither of us was tall.

But our coordination became more and more precise.

One week before the league began, the starting striker pulled his thigh during training.

Coach Liu cursed from the sideline.

Then he looked toward the substitutes' bench.

His eyes passed over my face.

They stopped for two seconds.

Then moved away.

“Wang Hao, you're going in.”

Wang Hao stood up.

“Coach, let Lin Ye play.”

Coach Liu frowned.

“He's too short.”

“He scores more than I do.”

“You've seen him play in a real match?”

“I defend him every day.”

“I can't stop him.”

Coach Liu said nothing.

The sideline fell silent for a few seconds.

Everyone on the substitutes' bench looked at the coach.

I sat at the far end.

The sandbags around my ankles were hidden beneath my football socks.

No one could tell they were there.

“Fine.”

Coach Liu finally spoke.

“Lin Ye, you're going in.”

“If you don't play well, take yourself off.”

I stood up and took off my jacket.

Our first match was against No. 3 Middle School.

Their defender was 1.80 meters tall.

When he saw me come onto the field, he smiled.

Less than ten minutes later, he wasn't smiling anymore.

Wang Hao intercepted the ball in midfield and sent a through pass.

I slipped between two defenders.

Controlled the ball.

Took the shot.

Goal.

The 1.80-meter defender turned around and looked at me.

The smile was gone from his face.

Before the end of the first half, I scored again.

There was chaos after a corner.

The ball bounced to my feet.

I stabbed at it before anyone else could react.

The ball rolled along the inside of the post and went in.

When the halftime whistle blew, Coach Liu stood on the sideline with his tactics board in his hands.

He didn't move.

He just stared at me.

He didn't take me off in the second half.

Final score:

2–0.

I scored both goals.

My teammates rushed over and patted me on the head.

Wang Hao picked me up and spun me around once.

I struggled free from his arms and turned to look toward the sideline.

Coach Liu was writing something on the team list with his pen.

He looked up.

Our eyes met for one second.

Then he closed the list and walked away.

That night, I returned to the dormitory and untied the sandbags from my ankles.

Two kilograms each.

I'd been wearing them for three years.

My ankles had developed a ring of old calluses.

They felt hard to the touch, almost as though bones had grown outside my skin.

My phone lit up.

Wang Hao had sent me a message:

Training tomorrow?

I replied:

Yeah.

He sent another message:

How long are you planning to keep wearing those sandbags?

I thought about it.

Then typed:

Until no one says I'm short anymore.

I put down my phone and stared at the ceiling.

Outside, the field lights were still on, shining over that old broken goal.

The goal was 7.32 meters wide.

2.44 meters high.

I was 1.65 meters tall.

The goal was taller than me.

But I had never once felt that it was out of reach.

(End of Chapter 4)80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ54k7aq72Y2

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