1.65 Meters - Chapter 8: Provincial Team — “Then Let's Look at the Number of Goals”

Chapter 8: Provincial Team — “Then Let's Look at the Number of Goals”

The provincial team trial camp was on the outskirts of the city.

It took three hours by bus to get there.

I stood at the entrance with an old bag on my back.

Inside were the pair of worn-out soccer shoes and two sandbags.

The security guard checked my trial notice, made a phone call, and let me in.

The training center was huge.

The grass was new, bright green, completely different from the half-bare field at my high school.

Several players wearing provincial team jackets were sitting beside the field.

Each one was taller than the last.

Each one had longer legs than the last.

When they saw me walk over, their eyes all landed on me at once.

Then they looked at each other.

Nobody said anything.

But I understood what they meant.

The trial had three parts:

Fitness.

Technical skills.

Physical competition.

I ranked in the upper-middle range in the fitness test.

I ranked in the top three in the technical test.

During the practice match, I was placed on the substitute team.

Our opponents were the starting squad.

The center-back on the starting squad was 1.88 meters tall.

When he saw me standing opposite him, he smiled.

I knew that smile too well.

The match began.

I made three runs in behind.

I received two through balls.

I scored two goals.

The third goal was ruled offside.

But the linesman said to me,

“Good goal. You were only half a step off.”

The 1.88-meter center-back stopped smiling.

He started following me closely.

In the second half, he didn't let me score again.

But I won a penalty.

My teammate converted it.

3–1.

The substitute team won.

Coach Zhou stood on the sidelines and said nothing the entire time.

He was in his fifties, with graying hair.

He held a notebook and occasionally wrote down a few words.

When the match ended, he closed the notebook, looked at me once, and walked into the office building.

I waited for two hours.

Two hours later, a staff member called me inside.

Coach Zhou sat behind his desk.

My profile was spread out in front of him.

He looked up at me and pushed up his glasses.

“Lin Ye?”

“Yes.”

“One meter sixty-five.”

“Yes.”

He closed the file and folded his hands on the desk.

His voice was completely matter-of-fact.

“You can't play professional football.”

“Go home.”

I said nothing.

“Your technique is good.”

“Your awareness is good too.”

He continued,

“But professional football is another matter.”

“At 1.65 meters, you'll be at a disadvantage physically.”

“You won't win many aerial balls.”

“You'll burn more energy than taller players.”

“You can't make it.”

He pushed my file toward the edge of the desk.

The meaning was obvious.

“Coach Zhou.”

I spoke.

“Hmm?”

“Did you watch the match just now?”

“I did.”

“I scored two and won a penalty.”

“I know.”

He nodded.

“That's why you're sitting here.”

“Otherwise, I wouldn't even have met with you.”

“Then do you think I can score goals?”

He looked at me for two seconds.

“You can.”

“In high school, you can.”

“In university, you can.”

“In amateur leagues, you can too.”

“But professional football is different.”

“How is it different?”

“The opponents are different.”

“The pace is different.”

“The intensity is different.”

“The runs you make and the way you attack the ball won't work the same way in professional matches.”

“Defenders won't give you that kind of space.”

“Then I can train.”

“You can't train that away.”

He shook his head.

“Your physical condition is something you're born with.”

I put my bag on the floor.

Then crouched down and opened the zipper.

Coach Zhou frowned as he watched me.

I took out my soccer shoes and placed them on the desk.

Then I took out the two sandbags and placed them beside the shoes.

“These are the sandbags I've worn for three years.”

“Two kilograms each.”

“I run with them every day.”

“The blisters on my feet still haven't fully healed.”

“You said some things can't be trained.”

“I've trained for three years.”

I pushed the sandbags toward him.

“In primary school, I played badminton.”

“They said I couldn't even reach the net.”

“I won the city championship.”

“In middle school, I played soccer.”

“They said, ‘You're so short. How could you possibly win?’”

“I scored four goals.”

“During high school selection, they said I was too short to play striker.”

“I won the Best Striker award.”

I looked at him.

“You said professional football is different.”

“Then let me ask you one thing.”

“In professional football, does scoring still mean kicking the ball into that goal?”

He looked at me.

His eyes blinked once behind his glasses.

“Yes.”

“Then that's enough.”

I took the sandbags back and put them into my bag.

“The goal is still 7.32 meters wide and 2.44 meters high.”

“No matter how short I am, the goal doesn't get smaller.”

“If you don't let me into the provincial team, that's fine.”

“I'll go back and keep training.”

“Keep scoring.”

“When I score fifty goals in a year, you can tell me again that I can't play professionally.”

I zipped up my bag and stood.

“Coach Zhou, thank you for giving me the chance to trial.”

I turned toward the door.

When I reached it, he spoke.

“Wait.”

I stopped.

“That sandbag of yours.”

He said,

“You've worn two kilograms for three years?”

“I have.”

“Have you treated the injuries on your feet?”

“No.”

“I let them heal on their own.”

He was silent for several seconds.

I could hear him going through my file.

The pages rustled.

“There is a reserve squad with the provincial team.”

“Training starts next month.”

“There is no official contract.”

“No salary.”

“No food or accommodation.”

“If you're willing to come, come and give it a try.”

I turned around and looked at him.

He lowered his head and wrote something on my file.

He didn't look at me.

“But there's one thing.”

He raised his head.

The tip of his pen pointed toward me.

“The reserve squad has a seventy percent elimination rate.”

“There is an evaluation every month.”

“If you don't pass, you're out immediately.”

“Are you sure you want to come?”

“I'm sure.”

“You're not even going to ask about the conditions?”

“No need.”

I said,

“As long as I get to play.”

Coach Zhou looked at me for a while.

The corner of his mouth moved slightly.

I couldn't tell whether it was a smile or something else.

He lowered his head and wrote a few words in his notebook.

Then he closed my file and put it into a folder.

“Next month, the first.”

“Eight in the morning.”

“Don't be late.”

“Okay.”

When I walked out of the office building, it was almost dark.

The training center's streetlights came on.

They illuminated the neat white lines stretching across the new grass.

I stood beside the field and looked for a while.

Then I put down my bag, took out the sandbags, crouched down, and tied them around my ankles again.

When I tightened the cloth, the wound hurt again.

I stood up and walked toward the field.

The security guard shouted from behind me,

“Hey!”

“Your trial is over.”

“Why are you going back in?”

I didn't turn around.

“To train.”

When I reached the goal, I lined up the balls I'd collected.

Ten balls.

Ten different positions.

Laces.

Inside of the foot.

Outside of the foot.

Near corner.

Far corner.

Center.

It became dark.

I couldn't see the goal anymore.

But I remembered exactly where it was.

I kicked ten.

All ten went in.

Then I went to collect the balls.

Lined them up again.

And kicked another ten.

The security guard didn't call out again.

He stood at the entrance to the guardhouse and watched for a while.

Then he turned and went inside.

By the time I reached the tenth set, another figure had appeared beneath the streetlights.

Coach Zhou was standing beside the field.

He held an enamel mug in his hand, steam rising from it.

He didn't walk over.

He didn't call out to me.

He simply stood there and watched.

I finished the final set.

When I went to collect the balls, I saw he was still there.

I nodded at him.

He nodded back.

Then he turned and walked away.

The enamel mug bumped against the railing.

It made a single ringing sound.

That night, I called my mother.

I told her the provincial team's reserve squad had asked me to come for training.

She was silent on the other end for several seconds.

Then she asked,

“Do they pay?”

“No.”

“Do they provide food and accommodation?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing it for?”

I looked at the rows of white lines on the field.

The streetlights illuminated them as they stretched endlessly into the darkness.

“For a goal,” I said.

“I can reach it.”

(End of Chapter 8)97Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnG9aXIRMVB

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