Number Seven

Dalglish had no intention of stopping. A look of remembrance flickered in his eyes. In that fleeting moment, Du An thought he caught the glint of tears. "...I've always had immense respect for the managers who made Liverpool great. The day Shankly invited me south for a trial and welcomed me so warmly is a memory I'll never forget for the rest of my life." "Only later did I understand why so many players were willing to break through every obstacle just to play for him. Shankly had a special kind of magic, like musk on a deer, that made everyone follow him willingly. Even if you were sitting in a room with the door shut, the moment he arrived, you'd immediately know: Shankly is here. Everyone had that instinct." Here Dalglish paused and sighed, letting the emotional moment fade without dwelling on it. The great man had long since passed. Yet Du An could clearly feel Dalglish's deep reverence for Shankly. Smiling once more, Dalglish looked back at Du An. "During that first stint at Liverpool, I spent some time on trial and finally got my first chance to play in a match against Southampton's youth team." "It was the first time I'd ever put on a Liverpool shirt to play football. I was bursting with confidence, convinced winning would be a breeze. But that wasn't how it went. We conceded first. While trailing 0–1, I got a golden chance to equalize, right on the doorstep of the goal." "I brought back my left foot to shoot, but a diminutive defender named Jimmy Bowman darted in from the flank and nicked the ball away." Dalglish shook his head, as if returning to the frustration of that very afternoon. "Even now, I still remember the rage I felt back then. I hated Jimmy Bowman for ruining my chance. I felt that if not for him, I definitely would have scored my first goal for Liverpool, and an equalizer at that." "Only after cooling down did I realize the truth: I'd chosen to shoot with my weaker left foot, and that made me half a step too slow." "When the match ended, I walked out of Melwood with my head hanging, my mind consumed by that missed chance, feeling as though I'd ruined everything." "Yet that's the thing about Liverpool. Nobody pointed fingers. My teammates all came over, clapped me on the shoulder, and comforted me." "At the end of it all, Shankly walked over and said something to me—" He paused, meeting Du An's eyes. "He said, 'Maybe you should buy your teammates a meal. After all, they won the match for you.'" With those words, Dalglish pulled two fifty-pound notes from his pocket and held them out to Du An. A warm smile lit his eyes. "I think Shankly had it right. Today your teammates held on to protect your victory. You, lad, ought to treat everyone to a meal." Looking at the banknotes proffered before him, warmth flooded Du An's chest. From start to finish, Dalglish hadn't once mentioned the red card or preached any grand lessons. He had simply sat there, casually recounting events from forty years ago, talking about the nerves of a fifteen-year-old boy, the missteps of a debut, and the bitter regret of a missed chance. Yet it was these quiet, intimate memories that acted like warm water, gently melting away the remorse clogging his chest. It was only a red card. Du An suddenly thought that decades from now, when he truly stood at Anfield holding a trophy high, looking back on today, this would be nothing more than a tiny bump along a very long road. Dalglish had journeyed south all alone at fifteen, and in his first match, he too had missed a sitter right in front of the net. At the very least, Du An had set up an assist today. He hadn't come away empty-handed. At that thought, the corners of his mouth curved into a smile, and he pushed the banknotes back. "Thank you, sir, but I can't take this money. I receive a weekly wage now, so treating the lads should come out of my own pocket. Really, thank you, Mr. Dalglish." "Good lad." Dalglish didn't press the matter. Chuckling, he tucked the notes back into his pocket and clapped Du An on the shoulder. "Setting everything else aside, that long ball today was truly magnificent. That kind of vision, that kind of timing—on any given weekend at Anfield, it would bring forty thousand spectators to their feet." "Always remember, the people in the stands buy tickets and come through the turnstiles because they love football. They love a pass played with absolute perfection, and they love a match that makes them forget every trouble in the world." He rose to his feet, reached out, and pulled open the dressing room door. The afternoon sunlight poured through the opening, spilling across the floor. "Go on, then. Go enjoy the win with your teammates." Du An nodded, stood up, and walked out. The late-autumn sunlight bathed his face in gentle warmth. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, and the heavy weight that had pressed upon his chest was completely lifted. Looking back in the years to come, this match would be nothing more than an ordinary step along the road. Out on the training pitch, the players were stretching in small groups, chatting away with boisterous excitement. Connor was quick-witted and sharp-eyed. He was the first to spot Du An at the doorway and immediately waved, shouting, "Du An! Get over here! We were just saying, if it weren't for that long ball of yours today, there's no telling if we could've cracked such a tough nut!" Ben waved to him as well, wearing a cheeky grin. "Hey, Du An, how about I buy you a meal? Let's strike a deal—set me up with a couple more passes like that next time, and help me bag a hat-trick, what do you say?" A chorus of laughter erupted among the surrounding teammates. No one mentioned the red card, as if that little episode had never happened at all. Walking over, Du An joined in their laughter. "No need for you to treat. Dinner's on me tonight, to mark my first official match." "Brilliant!" Connor was the first to clap his hands. "In that case, we won't be holding back!" The training pitch filled with lively chatter and clamor, the boys' laughter brimming with vibrant youth. Not far away, Heighway and Aslett stood side by side, watching the lively scene, unable to suppress their smiles. "That's Liverpool for you," Aslett murmured with feeling. "A club earns the title of a giant not merely by how many trophies it wins, but by this very spirit." Heighway couldn't help but reflect on his own playing days for Liverpool. He had witnessed the lingering warmth of the Shankly era, lived through the glorious heights under Paisley, and stood by the club through its darkest troughs. Across decades, generation after generation of players had come and gone, managers had arrived and departed, and championship trophies in the cabinet had gathered dust only to be polished anew. Yet some things never changed. To outsiders, Liverpool was defined by Champions League trophies, songs echoing across Anfield, and the chant of 'You'll Never Walk Alone.' Only Liverpool people truly understood that what was etched into their bones was never the silverware alone. Liverpool would always endure, not merely because the stadium stood forever, but because of the red souls who refused to bow their heads even if they lost everything. Without anyone noticing, Dalglish had walked over. Standing beside them, his eyes settled on the lean young lad in the crowd, and he suddenly spoke: "Tell me... do you think a defensive midfielder could ever wear the number seven shirt?"