Familiar Ground

"Like I said, we make a good pair," Du An said with a smile. Connor burst out laughing, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "Then this weekend, our golden partnership starts shocking all of England, beginning with Everton! The two of us together—completely unstoppable!" Du An laughed heartily too. Connor was always this exuberant, as if he didn't have a single care in the world. Soon, as the rest of the squad trickled in, the morning's team training officially got underway. Even during the warm-up jog, the boys couldn't keep a straight line. Connor deliberately bumped into Ben beside him, nearly sending him sprawling. Ben shoved him right back, and the two jostled and joked until a sharp whistle and a warning from the coach finally made them behave. Passing and receiving drills were even livelier. When Tom Ward misplaced a long pass by half a meter and knocked over a drink bottle by the touchline, Connor instantly took the lead in jeering, crowning him the "Master Bottle Hunter." The whole group dissolved in laughter, and even the usually quiet Flanagan was squinting with suppressed amusement. Nobody sulked over a mistake in training, and nobody held back for fear of being laughed at. Life in the youth academy was simple. Sweat mingled with laughter, and even the cold winter wind carried the unbridled spirit of youth. During a water break midway through the session, the boys gathered on the touchline, and the conversation turned first to the first team's Champions League schedule. "This Wednesday the first team is heading to Turkey to play Galatasaray away, right?" Connor wiped his sweat and spoke first, his eyes shining. "That's the very pitch where the Miracle of Istanbul happened in 2005! Coming back from three down at halftime against AC Milan to win the Champions League... every time I think about it, I get goosebumps." "That match made me feel like I could die happy. It was just incredible," Ben chimed in, before bringing up Liverpool's recent European form. "We've won our last four Champions League matches, with clean sheets in the last three. We're on fire." "Going away this time is bound to be another big win. I really hope 'God' Fowler gets to play more minutes and teach those Turks a proper lesson." Tom Ward nodded. "Galatasaray's 'Hell' home atmosphere is fierce, but Liverpool has seen it all. We survived that night in Istanbul; there's no hurdle we can't overcome." The boys talked over one another in eager agreement. Nobody said it out loud, but none of them could hide the yearning in their eyes. To academy kids, the Champions League was the ultimate pinnacle of the football world—standing beneath the floodlights on a European pitch, clad in the red shirt, competing against the best teams on the planet. It wasn't just a first-team fixture. It was the future every single one of them had secretly envisioned countless times. After talking about the first team, the subject naturally shifted to their own match this weekend. "Last time we went there, we lost 2–1, and the first team lost 3–0 to them earlier, so we've got to settle the score this time. This weekend, we'll hammer Everton into the dirt and let them see what Kirkby is made of!" "Too right," Connor piped up immediately, pumping his fist. "We'll rip them apart on the flanks. Du An, you just feed us through balls from midfield and catch them off guard. That long ball you played against Tranmere blew my mind—show them some of that this weekend!" Beside them, Lewis smiled and shook his head, but added, "Defensively, we'll be fine. Their forwards don't have much punch. If we lock down the midfield, we've got a great shot at winning." The others nodded along. Liverpool lads had never held much respect for Everton. Sitting off to the side, listening to the chatter, Du An had a smile on his lips as well. The ambitions of youth were straightforward and passionate, free from complicated schemes; they only cared about winning every match and executing every pass cleanly. The wind blew across the pitch, carrying the scent of grass and earth, and the air felt alive with heat. This was youth. *Tweet!* Coach Aslett's whistle blew again. The boys scrambled to their feet, brushed the grass clippings off their shorts, and ran back onto the pitch with laughs and shouts. The thud of boots striking footballs, shouts calling for runs, and bursts of laughter echoing now and then—it was the same across every pitch at Kirkby. However, these young lads pouring their hearts out in sweat were about to be taught a harsh lesson by Benitez. On Wednesday night, the Kirkby academy common room was buzzing. A room full of teenagers crowded in front of the television, waiting to watch Liverpool's Champions League group stage match away against Galatasaray. Before the match, everyone was buzzing with anticipation, chanting about the Miracle of Istanbul and tallying up their winning streak, convinced the Reds would make it out of Hell unscathed. But one glance at the starting lineup told them something was off. Compared to the league lineup, six changes had been made! Sure enough, when the ninety minutes came to an end, the lounge erupted in groans. The television screen froze on a 2–3 scoreline as players in red jerseys hung their heads and walked toward the touchline. Fowler had scored in both halves, but his brace wasn't enough to prevent defeat. To make matters worse, Alonso's shocking backpass error in the twenty-fourth minute—which gifted the opposition a golden chance to score—became the main target of the room's complaints. "What was that?! That backpass was absurd!" Connor crouched on the floor, clutching his head in disbelief. "A four-match winning streak, snapped just like that? And to Galatasaray? How embarrassing!" "Rotation—it's definitely the rotation again!" Ben scowled, indignant. "Why rest the starters when they're in top form and throw in reserves instead? Who else is there to blame for playing like that?" They didn't care about congested schedules or balancing the league and European competitions; in the eyes of teenage academy players, if you put on the red shirt, you played to win. The past record was there. The Miracle of Istanbul was there. Why should they lose? A chorus of complaints filled the room. Mingled with heavy sighs, it washed away all their earlier excitement. Only after a good while did someone slowly bring up the other match in their group: Bordeaux had won 3–1 away against PSV Eindhoven, meaning Liverpool and PSV went through together, while Bordeaux dropped down to the UEFA Cup round of 32. At least they had qualified. That night, the players were still arguing about it back in their dorms. Yet the next morning, the whistle blew as usual, training carried on as usual, and their academic classes went on as usual. A first-team defeat was like a pebble tossed into a lake: after a few ripples, the surface quickly settled into stillness. Life in the youth academy moved forward step by step; no one stayed down for long over a match played far away in Turkey. In the blink of an eye, Friday night arrived. The dormitory was quiet. Connor's breathing was slow and steady; he had fallen fast asleep long ago. Du An lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling with his eyes wide open. Tomorrow, they were heading to Finch Farm. Everton's youth academy. Back in September, he had stood there for a trial, waiting for their verdict, only to be met with: "Aren't you supposed to pay us?" Three months of twists and turns, and now he was going back wearing a Liverpool shirt. Just like Liverpool returning to Istanbul this week, he was returning to familiar ground under a completely different guise. Two names surfaced uncontrollably in his mind. David Coleman, the scout who had discovered him, and Lynn. What expressions would they wear when they saw him standing across from them in a red shirt? There was no point dwelling on it. He told himself. Tomorrow was the U16 derby. Winning mattered more than anything else. The winter night wind seeped through the cracks in the window, bringing a chill. Du An rolled over, pulled the blanket higher, and slipped into sleep before he knew it.