Extra Training

After dinner, Du An returned alone to the academy dormitory and looked over his special training schedule. The routine was packed to the brim. He had to arrive an hour early for morning training to focus on on-ball fundamentals: stationary dribbling and direction changes, shielding the ball with his back to hold off defenders, switching between inside and outside instep touches, and more. It seemed designed primarily to address his weak ball retention and limited range of passing options. The afternoon extra sessions focused mainly on defense. The schedule listed positioning drills, judging the timing of tackles, and lateral shifts to provide cover. Its main purpose was to fix his lack of awareness within a defensive system. In addition, three extra long-passing sessions were woven into the week, centering on lofted balls, curving passes, and the like. There was also a non-mandatory recommendation: whenever possible after returning to his room in the evening, he was to set aside time to watch video clips of star players. These compilations were meant to heighten his feel for the tempo of a match. Everything was laid out in clear, meticulous detail. Every drill had been designed specifically to target his current weaknesses. After reading it through, Du An felt neither resistance nor intimidation. He understood full well that football was how he earned his living now. His weekly wage of one hundred and ten pounds wasn't handed out for nothing. If he wanted to earn a proper professional contract, he had to shore up every single one of his shortcomings! Otherwise, how was he supposed to catch up? Others had started training at six or seven, while he was six or seven years behind them! He refused to be an academy player who merely coasted by on raw talent. If he was going to do this, he would do it to the absolute best of his ability. As he was studying the paper, the dormitory door was pushed open. Connor walked in with two cans of soda, tossed one to Du An, and greeted him with a grin. "Still studying something over there?" Du An simply shrugged and offered a slight smile. Connor sat down beside him and said with a chuckle, "Let me tell you something: the way you smoked Griffiths on those penalty laps this afternoon has already spread beyond the under-sixteens. The U15s and U18s are buzzing about it too. Everyone's laughing their heads off at Griffiths!" Du An didn't pursue the banter. Instead, he looked at Connor and asked the question that had been turning in his mind all afternoon. "You play defensive midfield too, don't you? What do you think makes a true leader of a team?" Connor was taken aback, not expecting the sudden question. He scratched his head and thought about it for a moment. Then he said as if it were obvious, "A leader? That's gotta be the best player on the team, the one who can carry the heaviest load. "The kind of player who scores goals, wins matches, steps up in crucial moments to drag the team forward, gets all of Anfield screaming until their voices crack, and forces the opposition to bust a gut trying to game-plan against him." Connor's eyes lit up as he spoke. "Just like Gerrard." "Gerrard..." Du An murmured the name under his breath, and the figure he had watched from afar at Anfield on Saturday floated back into his mind. "Don't tell me you really don't know much about him?" Connor laughed. "Come to think of it, he's your senior from the same school. Came out of Bishop John Catholic School, dyed-in-the-wool Reds supporter from childhood, worked his way up from Melwood to first-team captain, and now he's the banner of Anfield." Du An already knew all that from the information he had looked up. As the two of them were talking, a soft knock came at the door. Flanagan poked his head in and called out, "Du An, there's a phone call for you! It's your brother Ethan. He's still on the line, hurry up!" Du An thanked him and hurried out of the room, heading toward the communal landline at the end of the corridor. He picked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear. "Hello, Ethan." The boy's clear, bright voice immediately chirped from the other end, chattering away about the little happenings of his day. He talked about doing well on his morning math quiz, playing half a match of street football with his classmates in PE that afternoon, and how Mrs. Anderson had baked an apple pie that evening that was sweet enough to choke on... Once he finished rambling about his own day, he couldn't wait to press further: "How did your training go today, Du An? Are you tired? Did the coach yell at you?" Du An couldn't help but smile, then steadily recounted the day's events to his brother. He spoke of the morning tactical class, his first intra-squad scrimmage in the afternoon, assisting a teammate's goal, the clash with Griffiths, and utterly running the other boy into the ground during their penalty laps. Ethan burst into peals of laughter, chanting over and over, "Well done!" Even through the phone, Du An could easily picture him doubled over with laughter. Yet as he laughed, the line suddenly fell silent. Du An quieted down as well. After a few seconds, Ethan's voice dipped low. "Du An, I miss you... and I miss Grandma too... When is Grandma going to get better?" Hearing his words, Du An froze. Gripping the receiver, he took a quiet, deep breath to steady his emotions, trying his best to keep his voice calm and even. "She'll get better. I'm coming home to see you this weekend, and we'll go to the hospital together to visit her. Be good at school, don't cause any trouble for Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, and everything will be all right." "Okay," Ethan answered in a subdued mumble. "Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are getting ready for bed, so I'll hang up now. Good night, Du An." "Good night." A flat dial tone hummed from the earpiece. Du An stood gripping the receiver for a good while before slowly setting it back in its cradle. The corridor lights were dim and yellowish, and the night pressed heavy outside the window. He walked back toward his room, one step at a time. Every time they spoke on the phone or saw each other when he went home on weekends, Ethan always peppered him with questions about football. That was a dream his brother longed for but never had the chance to touch. Yet he himself had been given this opportunity. Ethan's love for football, along with those expectations placed upon him, was part of what drove him to keep pushing forward. Taking a deep breath, he turned and stepped back into the dormitory. A smile returned to his face. He fell back into casual conversation with Connor. The following morning. A blanket of morning mist cloaked Kirkby Training Ground. Du An arrived early at the pitch. Just then, he saw Coach Aslett walking over with a stack of training cones in one hand and a mesh sack of footballs in the other. "You're here," Aslett said, dropping the balls by his feet. "Heighway told me about your extra training program. For the first week, I'll come out every morning to work with you and teach you the basic movements. Once you get the hang of them, you'll have to do the extra sessions on your own according to the schedule. Can you handle that?" "Yes," Du An said, nodding. The extra training began with the most fundamental dribbling. Aslett didn't jump into complex maneuvers right away. He only had him practice pushing the ball in a straight line with the inside of his foot, naturally demanding that the movements be fluid and that he maintain total control over the ball. "Your passes are accurate because you judge the ball's landing point well, but dribbling is different." Standing to the side, Aslett watched him run two lengths and called out corrections: "Ease off on how hard you touch the ball. Don't think about forcing it. Your touch needs to be soft and natural. Keep the ball tucked against the arch of your foot, and follow it with short, choppy strides. Right now your stride is too long; the moment you run into contact, you'll knock the ball right away from yourself." Du An adjusted according to the coach's instructions, shortening his stride and lightening his touch as he shuttled back and forth along the white chalk line again and again. At first, the football beneath his feet was somewhat unruly. Occasionally it strayed off course, but after a dozen or so runs, it gradually settled down. The ball remained glued to his feet, and his rhythm grew smoother and smoother. At the same time, the blue bead slowly condensed a wisp of blue light. Though faint, it accumulated steadily. Sensing the change, Du An trained with even greater vigor.