1.65 Meters - Epilogue: I'm Still One Meter Sixty-Five

Epilogue: I'm Still One Meter Sixty-Five

In the third month of the provincial team's reserve squad training camp, I scored twenty-seven goals.

Coach Zhou didn't praise me.

He never mentioned my height again either.

After every training session, he simply stood by the field, holding that enamel mug, watching me practice shooting.

Sometimes, when he left, the mug would still be sitting on the railing.

Underneath it would be a small note.

“Practice headers tomorrow.”

I wasn't good at headers.

He knew it.

I knew it.

Everyone knew it.

A 1.65-meter player trying to win headers was like asking a bench to jump up and reach a chandelier.

But I still went.

Every morning, I arrived at the field half an hour early and found Wang Hao.

He had eventually joined the reserve squad too, playing midfield.

I asked him to send high crosses into the box so I could practice competing for headers.

In the first month, I won the ball in the air about ten percent of the time.

The second month, thirty percent.

The third month, fifty percent.

Coach Zhou stood on the sidelines watching.

He didn't say anything.

But his enamel mug moved from the railing into his hand.

Then from his hand to his mouth.

He was drinking tea more and more often.

On the final day of training camp, we played an internal practice match.

Starters against substitutes.

Coach Zhou blew the whistle.

I started for the substitute team.

Our opponent was a 1.86-meter center-back, the tallest player in the reserve squad.

Before kickoff, he looked down at me and smiled.

“You again.”

“Mm.”

“I'm not letting you score today.”

“Mm.”

In the first half, I made three runs in behind.

Two were offside.

One was stopped by the goalkeeper.

The 1.86-meter center-back stayed tight to me, keeping an elbow against my shoulder.

Whenever I received the ball, I lost it.

During halftime, Coach Zhou stood on the substitute team's side and looked at me.

“Can't handle him?”

“I can.”

“How?”

“I won't fight him.”

He looked at me.

Then didn't ask anything else.

In the sixtieth minute of the second half, Wang Hao received the ball in midfield and looked up for me.

The 1.86-meter defender was positioned in front of me, one hand resting against my waist.

Wang Hao didn't send a high ball.

He played a low through pass instead.

I accelerated.

The 1.86-meter defender turned.

I was half a step faster.

The ball rolled toward me.

I didn't stop it.

I let it pass through my legs with my left foot.

The ball went between his legs.

He tried to brake.

I went around him.

One-on-one.

The goalkeeper rushed out.

I placed my shot toward the far corner.

The ball rolled along the grass and into the net.

The 1.86-meter defender stood there with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily as he watched me.

I didn't look at him.

I ran back.

As I passed the sideline, Coach Zhou was holding his enamel mug.

The rim of the cup was still three inches from his mouth.

He had frozen.

He was looking at me.

His eyes blinked once behind his glasses.

Then he lowered the cup and wrote something in his notebook.

The final whistle blew.

The substitute team won 2–0.

I scored one.

Wang Hao scored one.

Coach Zhou closed his notebook and walked over to me.

“Reserve squad evaluation in one month,” he said.

“Pass it, and you join the official squad.”

“Fail, and you leave.”

“Mm.”

“That sandbag of yours.”

“Still wearing it?”

“Still wearing it.”

He lowered his head and looked at my ankle.

My soccer socks covered it, so he couldn't see the sandbag.

But after three years of wearing it, the shape of my ankle had already changed.

It was a full circle thicker than an ordinary person's.

The bones around the joint protruded outward.

“Take it off,” he said.

I looked up at him.

“That little thing on your feet.”

“You've done enough.”

He drank the last sip of tea from his enamel mug.

“From now on, rely on this.”

He pointed at my chest.

“Don't rely on those two kilograms of sand.”

I said nothing.

That night, when I returned to the dormitory, I sat on the edge of my bed and untied the cloth around my ankles.

When I removed the sandbags, the ring of old calluses around my ankles was still there.

So were the marks left by the straps.

Three years had passed.

My skin would never return to the way it had been.

I placed the sandbags beside my pillow and stared at them for a long time.

Then I stuffed them into the very bottom of my wardrobe.

The next day at training, I didn't wear the sandbags.

When I started running, my ankles felt unnaturally light.

It was like stepping on cotton.

For the first twenty minutes, all my runs were half a step too fast.

Whenever Wang Hao sent the ball toward me, I'd already gone past the intended position.

He shouted,

“Slow down!”

“What's the rush?”

I couldn't slow down.

I'd spent three years running with two kilograms tied to my ankles.

Suddenly taking them off had changed my body.

It was no longer the body I'd had before.

Coach Zhou stood on the sideline and watched for a while.

Then he turned and walked away.

But the corner of his mouth moved slightly.

I knew I hadn't imagined it.

One month later came the reserve squad evaluation.

Three practice matches.

Goals.

Assists.

Running distance.

The three categories were weighted and combined into one score.

I scored five goals.

I provided three assists.

My running distance was the highest on the entire team.

When Coach Zhou posted the rankings on the bulletin board, I stood outside the crowd.

I didn't squeeze my way in to look.

Wang Hao pushed his way out and slapped me on the shoulder.

“You passed.”

“Mm.”

“Don't you want to know what rank you got?”

“What rank?”

“First.”

He smiled so hard his eyes disappeared.

“You fucking came in first.”

I didn't smile.

I lowered my head and looked at my ankle.

There was no sandbag anymore.

It felt empty.

But the calluses were still there.

I crouched down and touched that ring of hardened skin.

It felt like touching a piece of bone that didn't belong to me.

That night, I called my mother.

“Mom, I made the provincial team.”

There was silence on the other end for three seconds.

Then I heard her crying.

She cried loudly while shouting at my father,

“Your son made it!”

“Did you hear me?”

“He made the provincial team!”

My father said something in the background.

I couldn't make it out.

My mother scolded him,

“All you ever say is ‘Oh’!”

“Your son made the provincial team!”

Then I heard my father take the phone.

He was silent for two seconds.

“Do you have enough money to spend?”

“I do.”

“Is the injury on your feet healed?”

“It is.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not.”

“I don't wear the sandbags anymore.”

He was silent for a while.

“Then that's good.”

He hung up.

I sat on the dormitory bed and looked out the window.

The lights at the training center were on, illuminating the field.

The goal stood in the distance.

Its white crossbar gleamed beneath the lights.

I stood up, walked to the window, and reached my hand out toward the goal.

I couldn't reach it.

But I smiled.

Because I knew that tomorrow morning, I would still be standing in front of that goal.

The goal was 7.32 meters wide.

2.44 meters high.

I was 1.65 meters tall.

The goal wouldn't become smaller just because I was short.

And I wouldn't become unable to reach it just because the goal was big.

(End of the Story)

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