Du An rarely read newspapers.
As for football papers, he had never read a single one before his grandmother collapsed.
Because of that, he read whatever he could get his hands on at Kirkby, constantly soaking up football knowledge.
Page two of the Daily Mail carried an article about the growing wave of foreign investment sweeping the Premier League.
With the new season underway, Aston Villa had been bought by American businessman Randy Lerner, West Ham United had been taken over by an Icelandic consortium led by Eggert Magnússon, and the influx of foreign capital into Premier League clubs was accelerating rapidly.
Adding in Chelsea, Manchester United, and Portsmouth, which had already changed hands earlier, a quarter of the twenty Premier League clubs had now fallen under foreign ownership.
Foreign money was pouring in while domestic capital retreated, leaving the entire English football world on edge.
Arsenal manager Arsène Wenger had spoken out publicly.
"The growing number of foreign-owned clubs in the Premier League is not a good thing. It deprives clubs of control over their own destiny."
"If the day comes when all twenty clubs are owned by foreigners, English football will be in grave danger. Traditionally, a club’s spirit is instilled first and foremost by its owner, who should be the club's number one, most passionate supporter. If the owners are foreign and the players are foreign, how are domestic English players ever going to break through?"
"Managing Arsenal, I can deeply feel its English essence."
Reading this report, Du An immediately thought of Liverpool.
The supporters' panic was hardly unfounded; the wave of Premier League privatization had never slowed down.
Liverpool was currently mired in takeover turmoil of its own.
The current owner, David Moores, had earlier approached the Prime Minister of Thailand, Thaksin Shinawatra, attempting to sell a stake in the club, but negotiations eventually broke down without a deal.
Now, a major Dubai investment group was engaged in deep discussions with Moores. Liverpool could change hands entirely at any moment, falling into the hands of foreign investors.
"They're mucking about! This bunch of foreign money will ruin Liverpool sooner or later, and they'll ruin English football along with it!"
Beside him, Anderson noticed what Du An was reading.
The old-school supporter scowled, his face twisted in contempt and fury.
He pointed at Wenger's quotes and bluntly shot back, "Wenger talks a big game, putting on that holier-than-thou act! Just you wait and see—in Arsenal's Champions League squad next week, you probably won't find a single homegrown English lad!"
"He babbles on about protecting domestic football, but deep down he loves foreign players more than anyone! Young English academy lads never get a sniff of the pitch under him. How many has he brought through over the last few years? Barely any!"
Born in the 1940s, Anderson had witnessed the rise and fall of English football with his own eyes.
From childhood, he had been instilled with the belief that England was the birthplace of modern football.
It was a source of immense pride for him.
He was proud to be an English supporter, and proud to be a Liverpool fan.
Yet now, watching the local football culture slip away piece by piece and domestic investment forced out step by step, his heart burned with indignation.
He had even watched the broad decline of the country as a whole.
Yet there was nothing he could do. That was precisely why he held such fierce hostility toward foreign capital, especially American investment.
"If the FA doesn't step in and regulate this, in just a few years the entire Premier League will be completely monopolized by American owners! They'll import the whole NBA playbook—entertainment first, money first—and turn pure football into a cash grab! When that happens, without faith, without heritage, without homegrown tradition, real English football will be stone dead!"
Ethan chimed in with an exaggerated shout. "It's sickening! Those FA bureaucrats don't do a damn thing—they've definitely taken heaps of money under the table!"
Anderson spat with even greater venom. "The bloody FA only cares about collecting cash!"
Then he looked at Du An and Ethan, trembling with rage.
"You two are victims of Hillsborough. You know what it means after everything you've been through."
"I don't know how much you know about what the FA and the government did to Liverpool, but I want to tell you. After all these years, my whole body shakes with rage every time I think of it!"
"First came Heysel. It clearly wasn't our Liverpool fans who started the trouble that day, but what did Thatcher and her lot do?!"
"Overnight, every English club was dragged down! Five years! Five whole years banned from European football! And Liverpool was slapped with an extra two years on top—seven in total!"
"Seven years! Do you know what that means? A dynasty that conquered Europe, choked off right in its prime! They claimed they were cleaning up football, but they just made us the scapegoats, tossing the supporters of an entire city under the bus to save face for British politicians!"
"Fuck Thatcher! Rot in hell!"
Anderson had completely lost control of his temper.
From the kitchen, Mrs. Anderson bellowed, "They're just boys! What on earth are you barking about?!"
Hearing his wife's shout, Anderson shrank back slightly.
He shrugged at Du An and Ethan, then carried on.
"And then? Before we could even catch our breath, along came Hillsborough..."
"Most folk don't know the truth of that day at all. Our children, our fathers, our brothers—ninety-six living souls crushed against the fences, faces turning blue, chests crushed flat. And what did the police say?"
"They said we were drunk, stealing wallets, attacking the police! And the FA backed them up! That official report was a pile of waste paper, scrubbing every scrap of testimony that looked bad for the police!"
"And then The Sun! God, that vile rag! Slandering our dead supporters as hooligans, thieves, pissing on their own people! Do you have any idea what it felt like for those grieving families to see those headlines? It was worse than dying!"
"And what's the most hateful part? Those people knew the truth all along, yet they covered it up and dragged it out for nearly twenty years without clearing our names. Why?"
"Because from day one, all they cared about was saving their own skins, even if it meant trampling ninety-six lives into the dirt! Maybe they planned their exit strategy from the start—stall and stall until everyone responsible retired or dropped dead, and only then come out with an apology, saying they'd finally give Liverpool the truth. By then, no one would ever have to pay for it. A clean, quiet burial. And even though I know that's what they'll do, I can't do a single bloody thing about it!"
"That's why every time I sing 'You'll Never Walk Alone,' I roar it with everything in my lungs. That's why I want to be sick every time I see those suits walking into Anfield! Because of those two disasters!"
"After Heysel, they smashed our European dynasty. After Hillsborough, they killed our loved ones and then spat on their graves. Utterly bloody disgraceful!"
After venting with all his might, the bitter resentment inside Anderson finally subsided.
Neither Du An nor Ethan interrupted. They understood what those two tragedies meant to Liverpool.
Just as Anderson said, they were living through the aftermath of the Hillsborough disaster themselves.
A moment later, Anderson seemed to recall something. "Du An, if you ever run into reporters when you make it, just tell them where to go. Not a single one of those bastards is innocent. They'll invent anything and sell out anyone just for clicks and headlines. If it gets them attention, they'd churn out a twenty-episode soap opera about their own mum and the black bloke next door!"
Ethan couldn't help laughing. "They're definitely creative enough for that!"
Du An smiled as well, nodding at Anderson. "If I get the chance, I'll give them an earful."
Anderson chuckled, not taking it too seriously. "Especially those bastards from The Sun!"
After dinner, Du An and Ethan said a warm goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson and walked back to their own home along the familiar streets.
The next day, Ethan went out early on some errand of his own.
Du An didn't pry.
Dressed in his Liverpool training kit, he headed out for his own practice.
Unlike his usual running, this time he brought a football, juggling it continuously as he walked.
A flick with the toe, a cushion with the instep, over and over again.
The pavement was narrow, and whenever a pedestrian approached, Du An naturally adjusted his rhythm, keeping the ball entirely under control. He worked relentlessly on his touch, striving to make the football feel like an extension of his own body.
He juggled all the way, steps never ceasing, the ball never touching the ground.
Without realizing it, he had traversed several blocks.
As he passed a newsstand, the proprietor caught sight of the lad in the Liverpool shirt, juggling as he walked, and took an immediate interest.
He called out loudly, "Oi! Lad in the Liverpool shirt! Take a break from training! Grab a paper before you go!"
Without breaking his rhythm, Du An glanced over at the newsstand.
He shook his head, signaling that he wasn't buying.
Waving a fresh copy of a sports paper, the owner persisted. "Take one, you'll want to see this! England Under-17s have reached the World Championship finals for the first time in history! An absolute first! You really don't want to have a look?"
"Keep training hard at your age, and next year you might just get a chance to play in the World Championship yourself!"
Du An had no interest.
He kept juggling and walked on.
The owner didn't mind either, figuring the lad was just broke and couldn't even spare a penny for a paper.
Chapter 22