Three Kittens

Du An snapped his head up, confusion in his eyes. "You have your own talent, and you have your own place to be," Dalglish said, looking at him with patient explanation. "What you need to do is put on the Liverpool shirt, step onto the turf at Anfield, and win victory after victory for this city. "Seeking justice and demanding the truth isn't something that falls on the younger generation. As long as those of us who lived through it haven't died out, we will see this through to the end and give everyone the answers they deserve. "Your battlefield is on the pitch." "He's right." Paul's voice suddenly came from the side. Unnoticed, he had walked over and now looked earnestly at Du An. "You have to give everything you've got to make it onto Anfield. That's what matters most." Du An froze. Paul chuckled softly. "I've been listening for a while. My dad rarely talks this much to me." Marina smiled and shook her head from the side, not interrupting them. Dalglish truly didn't say this much to his own children, because he never burdened them with excessive expectations. Yet Marina could clearly sense the immense hopes her husband held for Du An. Paul's smile faded, his tone turning serious. "You have to play your best. You need to understand that Liverpool players and supporters share the closest bond in the entire world. The fans spend their hard-earned money to back the team, placing their dreams on its shoulders. As a Liverpool player, you have to shoulder that responsibility—to fight for this city and bring trophies back to Anfield. "More importantly, never rest on your laurels." He glanced at Dalglish, then back at Du An, and continued, "My dad used to tell me stories about Ronnie Moran all the time. "One year, right after the team won the league title, on the first day back after the off-season, Ronnie walked into the dressing room carrying a box full of everyone's championship medals. He dropped the box on the table and said just one thing: 'If you think you've earned one, take it. But remember, for the new season, you haven't won a bloody thing yet.'" Du An nodded. He knew about Ronnie Moran, a legend in Liverpool's history. As a player, he had captained the side, leading the club to the Second Division title in the 1961–62 season to return to the top flight, and in 1963–64, he lifted the First Division championship trophy under Shankly. In the summer of 1966, Shankly invited him to join the coaching staff, kicking off Moran's coaching career and making him one of the core figures of Liverpool's Boot Room. He was Shankly's most trusted right-hand man. He also kept a habit of writing a daily training diary; after every match and every training session, he would record the players' condition, tactical nuances, and his own reflections. That "Moran Diary" had since become Liverpool's sacred coaching bible, passed down through generations. "That's exactly it." Dalglish laughed, taking over the conversation. "Heighway told me about your training progress. You're doing remarkably well. To improve this fast while keeping up with your studies is rare. Keep up this momentum. I hope by the time you turn fifteen, you can truly step onto the pitch for Liverpool's U18s." "I will!" Du An nodded in response. Jumping up to the U18s at fifteen was a daunting leap, but he was not afraid. They chatted about a few other things, from the daily routine of the youth academy to old Boot Room stories, and soon dinner was served. Marina had made roast chicken with a garden salad. The atmosphere around the table was relaxed. Ethan chattered away, asking all sorts of fun questions about playing football back in the day, and Paul answered every one with a smile. After dinner, Dalglish drove the two brothers home. The car stopped below their building. As Du An opened the door to get out, Dalglish called out to him again. "Train hard. I'm waiting to watch your first official match. When that day comes, make sure you let me know—I'll be there in the stands." "Yes," Du An nodded earnestly. "I will." *** The next morning at nine o'clock, Du An arrived punctually outside the HJC shop. Sarah was already there, wiping down the shelves with a rag. Hearing the door open, she turned and smiled. "Punctual, aren't you? Come on, help me mop the floor first, then wipe down the counter. We open right at ten." Having spent the previous day together, the two were far more familiar with each other. Du An took the mop and threw himself into the work, his movements noticeably quicker and nimbler. Sarah chatted with him from time to time, explaining the shop's rules and telling him about regular customers. Du An listened quietly, chiming in with an occasional response. At ten o'clock, the shop opened promptly. Customers trickled in one after another, much like the day before. Du An stood beside the counter, fetching items and ringing up sales with far more ease than yesterday. Listening to the patrons talk about matches and the upcoming Hillsborough hearing the following week, his understanding of this city and this club deepened step by step. Dalglish was right: his battlefield was on the pitch. The expectations of the supporters and the weight of the city would all ultimately come down to those ninety minutes on the pitch. At three in the afternoon, Du An finished his shift on time. He pulled his football out of his backpack, set it at his feet, and with a light flick of his toe, popped it into the air. Juggling the ball, he headed for home. The football rose and fell between his instep, knees, and shoulders in a steady, unbroken rhythm, without missing a single stride. The wind swept past his ears, carrying the autumn chill of Liverpool. Du An cast aside every stray thought, holding onto just one conviction: one day, he would stand upon the turf of Anfield. *** October 9, 2006. Monday. At the Kirkby Training Ground early in the morning, the dawn mist had not yet fully dispersed. Carrying his training bag over his shoulder, Du An walked into the dressing room. The moment he pushed open the door, he was greeted by a roomful of clamor—far more agitated than usual for a Monday morning. Nearly half the squad was huddled together, loudly cursing yesterday's Euro qualifying match. England had hosted Macedonia at home, dominating throughout and taking twice as many shots as their opponents, yet they couldn't break through the goal to save their lives, limping to a frustrating 0–0 draw. It was so pathetic that supporters everywhere were seething with rage. "Rooney managed to sky a one-on-one! I could've finished better than him!" "All the midfield did was pass sideways back and forth—zero penetration! Playing Gerrard and Lampard together is like they've never met!" "McClaren's substitutions are bloody rigid too. He should've brought Defoe on way earlier to cause havoc, but waited until the eightieth minute! What was he doing before that? McClaren's worse than Eriksson. We'd be better off keeping Eriksson!" The shouts and complaints bounced off the walls. "Du An, over here!" Connor called out, spotting him right away and waving from a bench. Once Du An walked over, Connor asked casually, "Did you watch the match yesterday? Wasn't it infuriating?" Stowing his training bag into his locker, Du An shook his head. "Didn't watch it. Busy over the weekend—didn't have time." He didn't elaborate; the truth was that their TV at home had long since had its pay channels cut off, so they couldn't watch anything anyway. He had never mentioned this to anyone; there was no need. Next to them, Flanagan leaned in, curling his lip in disgust. "Good thing you didn't watch it—saved yourself the headache. If they keep playing like this, the Three Lions might as well rename themselves the Three Kittens. Couldn't even beat Macedonia at home—disgraced themselves in front of all Europe." At his words, several boys around them nodded in agreement, and the grumbling grew even louder. Connor grinned, throwing an arm around Du An's shoulders, and deliberately raised his voice, shouting half in jest and half in earnest, "What's there to worry about! Give it a few years, and won't the burden of the England national team fall on us anyway!" The moment the words left his mouth, the entire dressing room erupted in laughter. What teenage boys never lacked was reckless, boundless confidence. The frustration that had filled the room just moments ago vanished into thin air, swept away by the banter. They laughed and joked. Someone patted his chest, declaring he would be the national team's starting striker; someone else shouted that he'd be captain. Du An smiled along with them. The national team, Anfield—those distant goals seemed to draw just a little closer amid the laughter.