The Novel

"Material?" Du An knitted his brows, not following. Sarah climbed down from the stepladder, clapped the dust from her hands, and explained with a smile, "Jack has been writing a novel about the impact of the Hillsborough disaster on the victims' families, weaving several different stories together. He's been watching you for a while and wants to base one of the chapters on you." Du An was completely taken aback. He pointed at himself. "Me? What's there to write about me?" "Plenty," Jack said with a hearty laugh, pushing up his thin-rimmed glasses. "I sat in that fish and chips shop for nearly half an hour last night. Just seeing you laughing and joking with your teammates told me everything I needed to know. Among the Hillsborough victims' families, you're easily the second-best footballer." "Who's the best?" Du An asked instinctively. "Need you even ask?" Sarah chimed in, smiling. "Steven Gerrard, of course." Du An froze in surprise. "Gerrard is a bereaved family member too?" He had only ever known Gerrard as the Liverpool captain, the talisman of Anfield. He had never heard of this connection. "He really is." Jack pulled over a nearby chair and sat down, opening up. "Among the ninety-six who died, there was a lad named Jon-Paul—Gerrard's cousin. Jon-Paul was only ten years old at the time, and his greatest dream was to become a professional footballer. After the disaster, Gerrard fell into a slump for a long time. He didn't want to touch a football at all. Only later did he resolve to carry on down that path in place of his cousin. That was the very same year he entered Liverpool's youth academy." Du An listened in stunned silence. He had always assumed Gerrard was a favored son of fortune, a prodigy pampered from childhood. He had never imagined they shared such a similar starting point—both driven to make football a path they had to walk because of family. "He had plenty of embarrassing moments as a kid, too," Jack continued with a chuckle. "You've probably all seen that old photograph of him as a boy wearing an Everton kit, posing with trophies. Plenty of Liverpool fans who didn't know the truth branded him a traitor. But it wasn't like that at all. In 1987, when he was just seven, his uncle took him to Goodison Park for an event, talked him into slipping on an Everton shirt, and had his picture taken with two trophies—the Division One championship and the Charity Shield. When his dad saw it after he got home, he nearly beat him black and blue. His dad was a diehard Liverpool supporter, after all." Sarah's eyes went wide. "That really happened? I had no idea." Du An shook his head as well. "He said so himself in an interview." Jack shrugged, clearly surprised neither of them knew, then went on. "Not just that. When he was young, he nearly ruined his foot. He was running around during a kickabout and a garden fork pierced right through his big toe. It was a nasty injury. The attending physician even told him they might have to amputate." "If they'd gone through with the amputation, his footballing career would have been finished right then and there. In the end, Coach Heighway stepped in, pulled some strings, and found specialists for conservative treatment, which managed to save the toe." Du An had never known Coach Heighway shared that history with Gerrard. "Nobody thought he was a genius when he was a boy," Jack continued. "He was skinny as a bean sprout. The Liverpool youth coaches thought he had no future and let him go outright. "When he was fourteen, he traveled all over for trials, even going to Manchester United. Although he later always insisted, 'I was born to hate United,' he really did go there on trial. "Back then, Michael Owen, who was slightly older, had already joined the FA's National School of Excellence. The whole country had its eyes on him as the rising star, and Gerrard spent years chasing after Owen's heels. "After bouncing around several clubs, he finally returned to Liverpool's academy in 1994. It wasn't until November 1997 that he signed his first professional contract. By that point, Owen was already an undisputed starter for the first team, challenging for the Premier League Golden Boot and preparing to play in the '98 World Cup." Jack spread his hands. "So you see, legends aren't born that way. Everyone has to grind their way up step by step." The shop fell silent for a few seconds. Sarah rested her chin in her hand, her eyes sparkling. "Jack, you know way too much." "How else am I supposed to write a novel?" Jack smiled. "To gather all this material, I dug through years of bound volumes of the *Echo*, went over every single one of his interviews, and filled half a notebook with notes alone." He turned to Du An, his tone turning serious. "I can't afford Gerrard, and I don't want to rehash stories that the papers have already done to death. "You're different. I want to tell your story—from a grieving family member unable to step out of the shadow of loss, to walking into the Kirkby academy, building your footballing journey step by step. I'll give you five hundred pounds for the rights. What do you say?" "Once it's done, I plan to submit it to the *Liverpool Echo*. I won't twist the truth." He paused, then added, "Don't worry, I'd never send it to that bloody rag, *The Sun*." Five hundred pounds. Du An did some quick mental math. That was roughly an entire month's wages. It could solve so many practical problems. And it seemed he didn't even have to do anything to receive the money. Without hesitation, he nodded. "Deal." "Brilliant," Jack smiled. "No rush. Tend to your business first. Once I've sorted out the outline, we'll sit down and talk through the details." Sarah leaned against the counter, looking at them with an amused curve to her lips. The morning drifted by slowly. Sarah checked through inventory sheets behind the counter, while Du An watched the shop, exchanging a few words when regulars dropped in and leaving strangers be if they didn't ask for help. The shop was peaceful. Jack spent the entire morning in the back office with the door half-ajar. The faint scratch of pen on paper drifted out from time to time; whether he was sorting his outline or organizing interview notes, no one knew. The brass bell above the door chimed now and then. Local fans would stop by to buy a pin or pick up a scarf, chat briefly about the weekend's league fixtures, and be on their way. Time passed as placidly as the clouds drifting past the window. Shortly after eleven o'clock. The shop door was flung wide with a bang, letting in a gust of wind that shattered the quiet. Dunn strode inside, beads of sweat on his forehead. The moment he crossed the threshold, he asked urgently, "Sarah, where's Jack?" "In the back office." Sarah pointed toward the inner room, frowning. "What's happened? What's the rush?" Dunn didn't bother explaining. He took two strides to the office door and pushed it open without knocking. "Jack, come with me, lend a hand! A fight broke out at the Stanley on the corner—nobody can pull them apart! If this keeps up, someone's going to get killed!" Hearing that, Jack immediately stepped out from the office, his coat slung over his arm before he even had time to put it on. He hurried out the door right behind Dunn. Behind the counter, Sarah and Du An looked at each other, both startled. Du An's brows drew together slightly. Seeing his expression, Sarah couldn't help a small laugh and waved toward the door. "If you want to go have a look, go on. It's just at the corner, five minutes on foot. Remember, just watch—don't get involved. The police should be there soon." Du An nodded, spun on his heel, and sprinted out.