The Shop

Paul seemed to read Du An's thoughts. He continued with frank honesty. "You've only just joined the youth academy, so it might not have fully hit you yet. In professional football, hard work alone isn't nearly enough. Talent is the real threshold. "I grew up carrying the Dalglish name. Every football fan in Liverpool was watching me, hoping I'd follow in my dad's footsteps. "But talent doesn't lie. My ceiling was right there for anyone to see. I bounced around Premier League reserve sides for years without ever coming close to making a single official senior appearance. "To be blunt, most of the clubs that took me on were just doing it for the name." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Half the reason they signed me was my dad's fame, hoping to drum up attention and sell a few tickets. "When it came down to real ability on the pitch, I couldn't even nail down a regular starting spot. I couldn't cut it in the Premier League, so I headed to the Scottish Premier League. Couldn't cut it there either. Now I'm in MLS, and I still can't break into the lineup. "Over the last couple of years, as I've gotten older, my reactions and burst of pace have dropped off. I can barely hold onto a spot on the bench. "So rather than waste my time drifting along on the pitch, I'd rather hang up my boots early and do something else. At least that way, I won't spend my whole life living in the shadow of this name. "I have to be honest with myself." A brief hush settled over the room. Dalglish had sat silently through it all, not once interrupting. He simply reached out and gently patted his son on the shoulder. He had always understood this. He had never interfered in Paul's choices. If Paul wanted to play, he played; if he wanted to stop, he stopped. Over his lifetime, Kenny had seen every sort of young footballer imaginable. He had long anticipated his son's decision, and had long since chosen to respect it. Marina sighed softly and let the matter rest. Turning toward the kitchen, she said, "Alright, alright, enough of that. Dinner's almost ready. Go wash your hands and let's eat." Paul smiled at Du An and flashed him an encouraging thumbs-up. Soon, dinner was served. A home-cooked meal was laid out across the dining table: beef stew, roasted potatoes, and blanched vegetables, filling the room with an appetizing aroma. Marina asked casually about school and daily training routines, speaking with the gentle warmth of an ordinary elder. "If you ever run into unfair treatment at Kirkby, or anything you can't sort out, just talk to Kenny," she told Du An with a smile. "He has a few connections around the club and can lend a hand." Du An nodded in appreciation. "Thank you, Mrs. Dalglish. Everything's going well so far. The coaches and teammates have all been very supportive." Paul chimed in from the side, bringing up Grandma Mason's condition. "I spoke to a few doctors I know back in Houston. There are several neurology clinics over there that specialize in coma arousal therapy. If treatment here in Liverpool moves too slowly, you might want to look into London. If circumstances allow, the States could be an option too. I can help set up the contacts." Dalglish gave a slight nod. "I'm inquiring about medical resources as well." Hearing this, Du An didn't stay silent. "We don't have any savings right now," he said. "Now that I'm in the youth academy, I'm earning a weekly wage. I'll save up slowly." The table fell quiet for a second. Dalglish didn't press the subject of money. Instead, he smiled and steered the conversation elsewhere. "Alright, let's not dwell on that. Du An, don't head back tonight. Marina has already made up the upstairs guest room. Stay the night, and tomorrow I'll take you two somewhere—a shop. I think you'll find it interesting." Du An looked puzzled. "A shop? What kind?" Paul grinned and cut in, "Let me guess, the HJC shop?" Dalglish smiled and nodded. "Spot on." Ethan's eyes lit up, and he blurted out, "The Hillsborough Justice Campaign? The memorial shop for the Hillsborough campaign?" "That's the one." Dalglish's tone always grew a shade heavier whenever Hillsborough was mentioned. He explained steadily, "It's a little merchandise shop run by the HJC. They sell commemorative badges, wristbands, scarves, stickers, and the like. All the proceeds go toward funding the families' legal battles and supporting community relief efforts. "The place is entirely staffed by volunteers, many of whom are bereaved family members from the disaster. They recently started a dedicated collection for your grandmother, and a portion of their revenue is earmarked for her." He looked at Du An. "If you have free time on the weekends, you could pick up some odd jobs there. It pays a bit—not a fortune, but enough to bring in a little extra for your family." Du An nodded. From reading the newspapers lately, he knew all too well that the entire Liverpool community was locked in a long, grueling battle for justice—fighting to uncover the truth for the ninety-six who died in the 1989 Hillsborough disaster. For well over a decade, countless people across Liverpool had weathered police lies and media smears, campaigning tirelessly without ever backing down. It wasn't blind fury; it was an unwavering commitment to truth and dignity. He wanted to see it for himself, not just for his grandmother, but for all those profound things that lay beyond the realm of football, things he couldn't quite put into words. *** Late that night, the two brothers shared a bed in the tidy guest room. Ethan rolled over and whispered into the dark, "Du An, are you awake?" "Yeah," Du An answered softly. After a few seconds of silence, Ethan's voice came out muffled. "I'm a bit scared." Du An turned his head. "Scared of what?" "I'm scared that after you give it everything, you'll end up like Paul, never getting to step onto the pitch at Anfield. My biggest dream right now is to see you wearing a Liverpool shirt, playing at Anfield with my own eyes." Du An froze for a moment. After a brief pause, he answered with the weight of a solemn promise: "Don't be scared. I'll make it onto that Anfield pitch. That's your dream, and it's mine too." A long silence settled over the darkness. It lasted so long that Du An assumed his brother had fallen asleep, until a quiet whisper floated through the room: "Thanks, Du An." Nothing more was said that night. *** The following morning, after finishing a traditional English breakfast prepared by Marina—bacon, fried eggs, toast, and baked beans—the four of them got ready and headed out. Dalglish took the wheel with Paul in the passenger seat, while the brothers sat in the back. On the road, Du An learned why Paul had returned to Liverpool from the United States. It was the early October international break, which meant leagues across the globe were paused to make way for national team fixtures. Paul naturally hadn't been called up to any national squad, so he had time off to travel back from America. Over the next few days, England had two Euro 2008 qualifying matches: a home fixture against Macedonia, followed by an away match against Croatia. Resting his hands on the steering wheel, Dalglish scoffed when the topic came up. "England? Not a chance. How to fit Gerrard and Lampard together is a puzzle no manager has ever managed to crack. Two world-class stars crammed into midfield, yet they can never gel. Doesn't matter who's in charge. "All these years, they choke whenever it counts. Don't expect any pleasant surprises from England—only frights." Chatting about the national team, the car wove through Liverpool's familiar, weathered neighborhoods. Rows of red-brick terraced houses drifted past the windows. Before long, Dalglish pulled over to the curb and pushed open his door. "We're here." Du An looked up. Sitting along the street was a modest shopfront bearing a prominent HJC sign above the door. In the display window stood rows of red commemorative badges and scarves. Pasted across the glass door was a banner: "Justice for the 96."