Substitute

It was already late into the night when Du An returned to the dormitory. The corridor was quiet. Only his room was still lit, where Connor sat cross-legged on the bed, head down, wiping his football boots as if caring for a prized treasure. Du An remembered Connor mentioning that these boots were the only gift a girl next door had ever given him. As Connor grew, they had begun to pinch his feet slightly, yet he still couldn't bring himself to switch to a new pair. Du An figured it would probably take that neighbor girl giving him another pair before he would ever change them. "Back?" Connor looked up, saw him, and grinned broadly. "Congratulations, mate! You're finally playing in an official match with us. Your progress is ridiculous—I've never seen anyone as talented as you. Play well tomorrow and show those Tranmere lads what we're made of." "It's not that easy," Du An said with a smile, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I'm only on the bench. Don't even know how long I'll get to play." "What's wrong with being a sub? Getting on the pitch is what matters." Connor tossed the rag aside and leaned in to ask, "Be honest, are you nervous?" Du An thought about it. He shook his head at first, then gave a slight nod. "Not too bad. More excited than anything." "Excited is right, and being nervous is totally normal." Connor leaned back on his bed with an easy grin. "Before my first official match, I was so nervous in the tunnel that I threw up on the spot. If you ask me what happened during the game now, I can't remember a single thing. All that's left in my head is the teammate next to me handing me tissues while I puked. It was mortifying." Du An couldn't help laughing out loud. He hadn't expected the usually high-spirited Connor to have such an embarrassing past. The two chatted for a few more minutes. Soon, the lights were turned off. The dormitory sank into darkness, broken only by the moonlight filtering through a crack in the curtains, casting a thin sliver of light across the floor. Du An lay flat on his back, eyes wide open, without a trace of sleepiness. His mind was entirely consumed by tomorrow's match. Even though he was only a substitute, when would the coach send him on? Would he get twenty minutes, or a full half? Would his first touch be too heavy? Would he pass straight into an opponent's feet? What if he made a mistake right after coming on and dragged the whole team down? Countless thoughts tossed and turned in his head, leaving him more awake the more he dwelled on them. His heart thumped hard in his chest, loud enough to be heard even through the blanket. He had no idea how long he lay there before drowsiness finally crept over him. In a haze of slumber, he had a dream. In the dream, he stood on the pitch at Anfield, surrounded by a boiling sea of red, the singing of "You'll Never Walk Alone" vibrating against his eardrums. A teammate passed the ball over. He adjusted his stride as he met it, drew his foot back, and unleashed a long-range shot. The football traced an arc through the air, crashing straight into the top corner of the net. The very next second— Anfield erupted! Tens of thousands of supporters chanted his name in unison: "Du An! Du An!" Red scarves fluttered in the air, and an earth-shattering roar enveloped him like walking on clouds. He ran toward the stands, searching for Ethan's figure. But as he ran, the ground beneath his feet suddenly gave way. Du An snapped his eyes open. Dawn was just breaking, and the dormitory was dead quiet. Connor's breathing was slow and even. Du An raised a hand to touch his forehead; surprisingly, a thin sheen of sweat had broken out. Training the next morning was light—just a simple warm-up and passing drills to keep their bodies loose. Coach Aslett gathered everyone together for one final tactical briefing: "We're sticking with the 4-4-2. Play solid and steady. Spread wide on the flanks before whipping in crosses, and keep the ball moving in midfield to control the tempo. Don't go charging forward the second you get possession. Anyone playing recklessly will hear from me the moment they come off..." Standing in line, Du An appeared to listen attentively and went through the motions, but his mind had already drifted far away. When Connor came over to chat, Du An either took ages to respond or offered an offhand "Yeah," completely missing the point. His heart felt like a trapped rabbit darting around wildly in his chest. One moment he wished the match would hurry up and start; the next, he feared he might mess up when his turn actually came. Torn between hope and dread, every minute dragged by agonizingly slowly. He didn't eat much at lunch either. His stomach felt tight and heavy, leaving him with little appetite. At one-thirty in the afternoon, the entire squad assembled pitchside right on time to warm up. The late-autumn wind had a chill to it, but blowing across his face, it did nothing to cool the simmering heat inside Du An. Connor stretched his legs while giving him a rundown on their opponents: "You know Tranmere Rovers, right? The club from Birkenhead next door. They play in League One and have over a century of history, founded way back in 1884. In 1984, an American lawyer bought them out, making them the first foreign-owned club in England. They had their glory days—reached the League Cup final in 2000 and the FA Cup quarter-finals three times. Because we're so close, our youth sides play friendlies against them all the time. "This youth squad of theirs is mostly U18 players mixed with a few U16s. They're physically stronger than us and a bit rougher on the ball. Overall, our U16s still have the upper hand in quality, but we'll have to be careful in the physical battles." Du An listened, nodding from time to time, but his eyes kept darting toward the stands. He was waiting for someone. Finally, a few figures appeared in the sparsely populated stands. Mrs. Anderson held the railing as she made her way forward, Grandpa Anderson beside her, while Ethan bounced up and down, waving at him with all his might. Beside them stood Dalglish in a dark coat, who gave him a subtle nod as well. The moment their eyes met, the anxiety that had hung over Du An all morning suddenly melted away. He felt much more grounded. Raising a hand, he waved toward the stands, then turned back to his warm-up, his movements noticeably sharper and more energetic than before. The warm-up soon drew to a close. The players gathered by the touchline, where Coach Aslett gave the starters a few final instructions before clapping his hands. "All right, let's get out there." The starting eleven lined up and walked onto the pitch, where the referee and the opposition were already waiting at the center circle. Two o'clock sharp in the afternoon. Tweet! The referee blew his whistle, and the match officially kicked off. Du An sat on the hard bench, pulling his coat tight around him. He watched his teammates making runs, passing, and pressing, his eyes following the ball back and forth. At the thought of being called upon, he suddenly realized his calves were trembling slightly, completely out of his control. He bit his lower lip to suppress the inexplicable panic, and remembering Connor's embarrassing story about throwing up from nerves during his first match, the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. At least he was managing to sit there calmly—doing better than Connor had back then. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than his stomach violently churned. A wave of acid surged up his esophagus, and his throat tightened instantly. Du An clamped a hand over his mouth, thinking, Oh no. How was he getting the exact same reaction? He hurriedly grabbed the water bottle by his feet, unscrewed the cap, tipped his head back, and gulped down two mouthfuls of cold water. The icy liquid slipped down his throat, subduing the churning acidity in his stomach just a bit. Leaning back against the dugout partition, he closed his eyes and deliberately slowed the rhythm of his breathing. A deep inhale, then a slow exhale. Over and over, he told himself: Don't be nervous. It's just a normal match, no different from regular training. His heart was still racing, but it gradually settled a little. His mind had been so focused on getting himself under control that he hadn't paid close attention to the action on the pitch. Only the thud of the ball being struck, the referee's occasional whistle, and the shouts ringing across the pitch reached his ears. All of a sudden, a collective gasp erupted across the pitch. The substitutes on the bench also began clapping and shouting in excitement. Du An snapped his head up. Ben Parsonage, playing on the wing, was sprinting wildly along the edge of the penalty area with his arms outstretched in celebration. The starting players swarmed him, mobbing him with hugs and high-fives, their laughter and shouts blending together, while the players on the bench jumped to their feet, applauding vigorously. Liverpool U16s had scored first!