The Clinic

Du An followed Sarah out of the shop, where a taxi was already waiting by the curb. Once they were both inside, Sarah turned to explain their destination. "We're heading to the L5 postcode. Besides the memorial shop, the HJC runs a free football clinic over there. Well, I call it a clinic, but think of it as an after-school football club—giving kids in the community a chance to learn to play for free. "That's one of the poorest areas in Liverpool, but it's also where the club's most diehard supporters live. A lot of the kids can't even afford a proper football; they're kicking balls that might date back to the last time Liverpool won the league. We found a few coaches with academy backgrounds to work with them on weekends so they can get a real taste of the game. Since you're from Kirkby, you can lend a hand today and take them through the basics." Du An froze for a moment, pointing at himself. "Me? I don't know how to coach kids." "What's there to be afraid of?" Sarah chuckled. "Your skill is more than enough. When those little ones start out, they can barely dribble. Just teach them the most basic ways to trap and pass. You don't even have to say much—just show them." The taxi wound through the neighborhood. The buildings grew older and the streets narrower. A dozen minutes later, the car pulled up beside a community pitch. The ground was a modest artificial turf. In places around the edges, the soil underneath showed through, and the goalposts were mottled with rust. Yet the pitch was brimming with energy. A young coach with stubble on his chin and two volunteers were leading more than a dozen six- and seven-year-olds in drills. The scene looked chaotic and completely disordered, but the children were running until they were dripping with sweat, their laughter and shouts blending into a continuous roar. Seeing Sarah approach, the coach jogged over with a warm smile. "Sarah, you're finally here! These little rascals are about to drive me mad." His name was Liam Roach. He looked twenty-five or twenty-six, short and stocky, walking with a slight, unnatural hitch in his right leg. "This is Du An. He's training with the U16s at Kirkby right now and came to lend a hand today," Sarah introduced, then turned to Du An. "Liam came through Liverpool's youth academy too. A genuine senior of yours." "Ah, don't bring that up." Liam waved a hand with a self-deprecating laugh, tapping his right knee. "It's embarrassing to talk about. Not even six months after moving up to the U18s, I tore my cruciate in a warm-up match. That was the end of it—never even brushed against the professional ranks." He shrugged, his tone matter-of-fact. "Had nothing to do after retiring, so I came here to coach the kids. At least all those years in football didn't go to waste." "Making it to the U18s is already incredible," Du An said earnestly. He knew how fierce the competition was at Kirkby. Reaching the U18s meant beating out thousands of others. Liam laughed heartily and clapped him on the shoulder. "All right, thanks for helping out today then. Why don't you take them through some basic drills while I take the older kids for a small-sided game?" Du An nodded and walked toward the edge of the pitch. He wasn't much of a talker by nature and didn't try to shout instructions like a drill instructor. Instead, he simply set a ball by his feet and had the children mirror him, beginning with a demonstration of trapping the ball with the inside of the foot. He didn't say many words, but his skill spoke for itself. The football seemed glued to his feet, and he turned even simple keepy-uppies into dazzling displays of control. The cluster of young boys watching him went wide-eyed. They gasped in awe, their eyes filled with utter adoration. Du An had them follow along. When someone made a mistake, he stepped over to gently adjust their posture; when someone got it right, he gave an approving nod. He offered no unnecessary chatter throughout, yet the children listened with rapt attention. These kids all came from local supporter families, dressed in a mismatched assortment of kits. Many wore oversized vintage Liverpool shirts handed down from their parents, the sleeves hanging past their wrists. Among them was a skinny little boy wearing a red shirt several sizes too large. His face was round, and he had attempted the trap more than a dozen times, each touch sending the ball rolling far away. The more he struggled, the more flustered he became. His eyes slowly welled with tears, his lower lip quivering on the verge of crying. Du An noticed him, walked over without a word, and crouched down. He lifted the boy's foot, gently resting it against the ball, pressing on the inside arch of his foot. "Receive it here," he said in a low voice. "Cushion it. Don't block the ball—absorb the pace softly. Imagine your foot is a hand, drawing it back..." His calm words quieted the boy. Sniffling, the boy tried once more as instructed. He gently took the pace off the ball with the arch of his foot, and it settled beside him. While not a flawless trap, the improvement was undeniable. "I did it!" The boy broke into a beaming smile, tear tracks still wet on his cheeks, his eyes sparkling like stars. On the sidelines, a few parents were watching the session. One man in a Liverpool training jacket, likely one of the fathers, saw Du An help the boy succeed and flashed him a broad grin with a thumbs-up. There were no polite pleasantries—just the simplest, purest recognition from an ordinary fan. Du An was taken aback, then nodded back in return. A distinct feeling stirred within him. This was the first time he had earned recognition simply by helping someone else, granted by an ordinary Liverpool supporter he had never met before. The children's carefree laughter rang ceaselessly across the open pitch. Du An watched the tiny red figures darting back and forth, looking at the faded shirts passed down through generations, and a smile reached his own face. Sarah had brought him here on purpose. Once again, he understood what Dalglish had told him. "Football has never been the pain itself." "It does not create hardship; it carries it." It was the shared language of this city, a passion passed from parents to children, and a joy to be found on a pitch no matter how hard life became. Du An threw himself back into coaching the children. He found himself genuinely enjoying it. Because before becoming a professional player, he had first become an older brother someone needed. Just like Ethan leaned on him? Perhaps so. For the rest of the session, Du An poured his heart into working with the kids. Usually a boy of few words, he gradually opened up under the barrage of innocent, eager questions from the chatterboxes around him. He no longer just demonstrated movements. Whenever a recurring error surfaced, he slowed his pace, patiently explaining how to apply force and gently reminding them during drills to watch the ball's trajectory. When a child did well, he made a point of offering praise. The children grew remarkably attached to him, sticking close by his side and chattering away merrily. A few bolder youngsters stepped forward to introduce themselves, prompting more and more to announce their names until a chorus of childish voices overlapped. Du An took care to remember each name, then told them, "My name is Du An. I play in the Kirkby academy." The moment the words left his mouth, the children erupted in excitement. Kirkby was a sacred hall of football in the hearts of every young Liverpool fan—the gateway to Anfield! The little boy in the oversized shirt, the one he had taught to trap the ball, tilted his round face up. His eyes sparkled brightly as he asked in a childish voice, "Du An, will we get to see you play at Anfield one day?" The children all looked up at Du An together, their clear, innocent eyes brimming with the most genuine hope. They didn't know how much toil it took to climb from Kirkby to Melwood. Nor did they know how many had fallen along the way. In their eyes, reaching Kirkby meant reaching Melwood, and reaching Melwood meant stepping onto the pitch at Anfield. Du An looked down at those young faces, looking at the faded kits on their shoulders, and warmth surged in his chest. All the monotony, exhaustion, and pressure from training vanished. Du An gave no brush-off. His gaze swept over every single child, and he answered with solemn resolve: "You will. I will definitely stand on the pitch at Anfield. When that day comes, you can all come watch me play—I'll buy your tickets. "Remember me. My name is Du An."