Youth

Heighway laughed at the remark and turned to Dalglish. "Kenny, are you planning to have him take up your mantle? The number seven shirt—that's your number." "Why not?" Dalglish chuckled, his gaze still resting on Du An out on the pitch. The affection in his eyes was unmistakable. When he had first noticed Du An, it was, at bottom, because of Hillsborough—a Liverpool legend's heartfelt sense of debt toward the bereaved families. And a desire to help. Yet after these two-plus months, he had genuinely come to regard the boy as his own family. Nominally, he was already Du An's guardian. It was not just that Du An had an endearing personality. Crucially, none of his four biological children possessed Du An's footballing talent. Of course, Du An was still nowhere near ready to play for the first team, but his performances showed Dalglish a Liverpool character etched deep into his bones. And Heighway had spoken of how hard Du An worked in training every single day. It all made Dalglish more delighted and surprised the more he watched. On the training pitch. After messing around with his teammates for a while, Du An wiped his sweat and headed toward Heighway's office. Heighway had already told him that Ethan and the others were waiting for him there. Pushing open the door, he saw the Andersons and Ethan sitting inside. Evidently, after Dalglish left, Heighway had made a point of inviting them over to wait. "Du An!" Ethan was the first to leap up, his eyes shining like stars. "That pass you made just now was unbelievable! Good lord, I've only ever read about balls like that in the newspapers, and now I saw it with my own eyes—and you're the one who played it!" Grandpa Anderson stroked his beard with a proud laugh. "We nearly shouted ourselves hoarse up in the stands! Good lad—keep playing like that, and sooner or later we'll see you starting at Anfield." Mrs. Anderson sat to the side, smiling gently, her gaze lingering on Du An's face with complete tenderness. Their own children had settled in London and rarely came home more than a few times a year. Without realizing it, they had long since come to dote on these two bereaved boys as their own grandsons. Looking at the three of them, Du An felt a warm glow inside. He knew they were deliberately avoiding any mention of the red card to spare his feelings. He spoke up of his own accord: "That pass did turn out alright. It just felt right in the moment, so I hit it on instinct. And Coach Heighway just told me that after my birthday, I'll officially join the U16s. I'll get to play official matches every week from then on, and my weekly wage will go up a bit too." "Brilliant!" Ethan pumped his fist with a cheer. After chatting about everyday things for a few minutes, Du An mentioned that he was taking his teammates out for dinner that evening to celebrate his debut. The moment Mrs. Anderson heard this, she reached into her bag for her purse, intending to press some money on him. "Keep that little wage of yours for yourself. Grandma will pay for the treat." "No need, Grandma." Du An stayed her hand and shook his head, firmly refusing. "I can earn my own money now, and I'm the one who wants to treat them. It's only right that it comes out of my own pocket." Unable to sway him, Mrs. Anderson could only smile and put her purse away. She reminded him not to stay out too late and to be careful. In the evening, Du An and seventeen or eighteen teammates piled in grand procession into a classic fish-and-chip shop near Kirkby that had been in business for over thirty years. At this time of year, dusk fell early. The warm yellow lights inside made everything feel cozier. The aroma of fried cod seemed to coat the windowpanes in a light mist. Stepping inside, one found yellowed vintage Liverpool posters alongside plenty of new ones, with Liverpool motifs everywhere you looked. Du An told his teammates to order. Yet everyone ordered much the same thing, seemingly trying to save Du An some money on purpose. Seeing the smiles on his teammates' faces, Du An said nothing, quietly tucking the gesture away in his memory. Each order was the classic: a thick cut of cod with chunky chips and an ice-cold can of Coke. It came to five pounds and three pence a portion. For eighteen people, the total was nearly ninety-seven pounds—just shy of a hundred. Though it cost nearly a week's wages, Du An didn't feel the slightest sting of regret. No sooner had they sat down than Connor eagerly took a massive bite of fried fish. The golden batter crunched loudly. Squinting in pure satisfaction, he mumbled through a full mouth, "Fish and chips really can't be beaten! Are those canteen nutritional meals even meant for human beings? Boiled chicken breast and boiled broccoli—after eating that for half a month, I feel like I'm about to turn into a hen and lay eggs." Laughter and murmurs of agreement broke out around him. They all fell on their food ravenously, as if they hadn't eaten in three days. Flanagan sat in a corner, quiet, but with his head down he wasn't eating any slower than the rest. He came from a well-off family, but his parents were exceedingly strict, so he rarely got to eat such greasy, salty food more than a few times a year. The more forbidden the flavor, the more delicious it tasted. "Honestly, I think an athlete's greatest talent is having no taste buds," Ben said with a laugh around a chip. "How else could anyone swallow that bland rubbish day in and day out?" The table erupted into laughter, the clinking of soda cans blending with the rowdy chatter of youth. It warmed the cold evening considerably. As they ate, the conversation drifted further and further afield. Some talked about the weekend's Premier League matches, arguing until their faces flushed—one argued that the tall striker had unstoppable physical presence, while another swore Drogba was the best center-forward in the Premier League. Some talked about girls at school, claiming the cheerleader captain at the neighboring girls' school was gorgeous, prompting winks, nudges, and ribbing from the group. Topics like that always made these hormone-fueled boys flush with excitement, and it brought total harmony—the arguments vanished, there was no more bickering, only knowing grins all around. Others slammed the table as they dreamed aloud about the future, talking of moving up to the U18s together, breaking into the reserves, making the first team, fighting shoulder to shoulder at Anfield, winning the Premier League and the Champions League, and letting all of Europe hear "You'll Never Walk Alone." At fourteen or fifteen, even their bragging carried a steaming, unfiltered sincerity. Outside the window, streetlights flickered on one after another along the road, but the laughter inside never ceased. Du An sat in the middle of the crowd, clutching half a piece of fried fish. Looking at the spirited faces around him, he suddenly understood what Dalglish had meant. Liverpool was never a one-man team. It was generation after generation of boys, carrying the same red dream, marching forward in relentless succession, who held this club up. Taking a swig of soda, Connor swept his eyes over the teammates gathered around. "Seriously, though, we can't slack off. Lads like Adam and Martin are already a step ahead of us in the U18s, so we can't sit around either. Let's all push hard to reach the U18s and catch up with them! We'll keep playing side by side in the FA Youth Cup and the Academy League—playing national competitions, no more friendlies!" The teammates chimed in with enthusiastic agreement. After the boisterous banter, the meal drew to a close, and the long-lasting clamor gradually subsided. Seeing that everyone had eaten their fill and had a good time, Du An got up to settle the bill. He walked over to the counter and reached for the wallet he had readied beforehand, only for the shop owner to smile and raise a hand to stop him. Wiping down a glass, the owner said, "No need to pay, lad. Someone's already settled your bill in advance." Du An froze in shock, utter astonishment written across his face. "Settled? Excuse me, but who paid it for me?"