The Derby

On Saturday morning, Kirkby remained shrouded in morning mist. Temperatures had plummeted recently, coating the grass in a layer of white frost. The coldest stretch of the English winter was setting in. The U16 squad stood in two neat lines by the edge of the training pitch. Aslett stood before them, his expression noticeably sterner than usual. "I'm going to emphasize this one last time: do not take Everton's U16s lightly. "You haven't forgotten that two-one loss to them last time, have you? They aren't pushovers. Their footwork is sharp, their counterattacks are fast, and if you go charging out trying to press high from the start, you'll pay for it. Keep your heads on straight, and make sure we lock down our defense first..." The boys in the ranks nodded in unison. Aslett reiterated his warnings again and again. After all, losing to anyone else could be written off as just a friendly. Losing to Everton, however, was unacceptable. The first team's three-nil defeat was still being recited by Everton fans like gospel at every opportunity. If the youth team went and lost to them back-to-back, what would people say? Connor, standing beside Du An, nudged him with an elbow and muttered under his breath, "It really wasn't our fault we lost last time. They had two absolute monsters out there. "One was Jack Rodwell, built like an iron tower. Ben couldn't hold up the ball against him at all in the final third—completely shut down. Then there was Jose Baxter, darting around the frontline like a rabbit and tearing our backline to shreds." He shrugged, a mix of helplessness and relief on his face. "Though neither of them is playing today. Rodwell got bumped up to the reserves. Word is Moyes already has his eye on him, and he might even make the first team in the Premier League next season." At that, a trace of envy crept into Connor's voice. "Can you believe that? He's barely a year older than us. He won't even turn sixteen until next year!" "Baxter's even crazier," Connor added, clicking his tongue. "He's only fourteen and already playing for the U18s. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have a shot at playing U18 football at fourteen... Speaking of which, I'm a few months younger than you, aren't I?" Du An listened quietly without replying. In his mind, he recalled what David Coleman had told him months ago—that Everton gave young players opportunities. It seemed Coleman hadn't been making empty promises. Making a run at the first team at sixteen, jumping straight to the U18s at fourteen—at Kirkby, that was practically unthinkable. Over the past few months, he had also heard plenty of rumors claiming that Benitez didn't care for the club's own academy at all, preferring to spend money bringing in outsiders rather than giving Kirkby's boys a chance. Playing for the U18s at fourteen might still be possible, since that was the highest tier under Heighway's control. In his ongoing tug-of-war with Heighway, Benitez had already shifted the U21s and U23s over to Melwood. Taking control of the U18s might well be his next step. Many said that Kirkby and Melwood didn't even feel like parts of the same club anymore. Du An let out a faint sigh. What would become of his own future? He didn't know. His only real advantage was his youth. By the time he reached the age to play Premier League football, maybe Benitez would already be gone. Then again, Ferguson had been at Manchester United for nearly twenty years, and Wenger had put down roots at Arsenal for years as well. Who could say whether Benitez wouldn't stay at Liverpool for a decade or more? Before his thoughts could drift further, Aslett clapped his hands. "All right, on the bus! Get some rest on the way, and when we arrive, make sure you look the part!" The players grabbed their kit bags and hurried onto the coach. The cabin quickly grew lively. Chatter and laughter filled the air, brimming with youthful energy. The coach pulled out of Kirkby and drove down the road toward Halewood. Outside the windows, the view gradually shifted from residential neighborhoods to suburban fields, and the morning mist slowly burned away. Before long, the bus came to a steady halt outside the gates of the Finch Farm Training Ground. Heighway and Aslett were the first to step off. A few figures were already waiting for them: Neil Dewsnip, manager of Everton's U16s, and a sprightly older man with gray hair—Ray Hall, the academy director at Everton. The men exchanged handshakes and pleasantries, their tone polite yet crackling with an unmistakable edge of rivalry. "That old guy is Ray Hall," Connor whispered into Du An's ear, quietly briefing him. "A godfather figure in Everton's youth academy. His biggest claim to fame was signing Rooney when he was only eleven, right after taking over the academy, and single-handedly developing him into England's star player today. He's run Everton's academy for nearly ten years now. This current golden generation at Everton was basically all raised by him." Du An watched the man's back, his brow twitching imperceptibly. Ray Hall. He remembered clearly that during his trial, David Coleman had told Lynn he would go ask Ray for approval. So this was the man who, with a single word back then, could have decided whether he was allowed to stay. Yet Lynn had kept Ray from ever knowing about it. Before he could dwell on it, the players from both sides filed onto the pitch and began their pre-match warm-ups. Spectators gradually trickled into the stands in small groups, mostly parents who had come to watch their boys play over the weekend. Heighway and Ray Hall walked up to the stands side by side. Just as they sat down, a familiar chuckle came from nearby. "Ray, long time no see." Ray Hall turned and saw Dalglish sitting beside him with his arms folded. He blinked in surprise before breaking into a smile. "Kenny? What brings you out to Finch Farm to watch a youth match? I thought you only ever stayed at Anfield." "Haha, just came to enjoy the show." Dalglish's gaze lingered on the red shirts warming up on the pitch. Then he turned his head, a playful gleam in his eye. "I wanted to see if a boy your Everton academy discarded might just dazzle me today." Ray Hall grew even more puzzled, his brow furrowing. "A discarded boy? Who?" Dalglish offered no explanation, merely tipping his chin toward the pitch. "No rush. You'll see once the match kicks off. Everton has quite a few fine prospects right now—Rodwell and Baxter earlier, both top-quality lads..." Sitting between them, Heighway wore a mild smile and didn't utter a word, though everything was crystal clear to him. Kenny had come here to stand up for his boy. Whatever grievance Du An had suffered during his trial at Everton, Kenny had never spoken of it aloud, but he remembered every bit of it. He had made this trip today specifically to watch Du An, wearing Liverpool red, put on a real show at Finch Farm. They were bitter rivals, after all. Whenever there was a chance to get one over on them, you took it. Ray Hall, however, remained thoroughly baffled. He racked his brain but couldn't think of any discarded youngster who could possibly warrant a personal visit from Kenny Dalglish. He scanned every Liverpool player on the pitch one by one. Not a single face looked familiar. What a joke. He had run Everton's academy for ten years, keeping an iron grip on top talent. How could he have let a genuine prospect slip away to Liverpool? Impossible! The referee's whistle sounded from the sideline, ending the warm-ups. The boys stopped their drills and gathered around their respective managers. A Merseyside derby at the U16 level was about to get underway. Aslett ran through his final instructions with the squad. Du An kept his assignment firmly in mind: mark their midfield playmaker, Adam Forshaw, out of the match! Forshaw was the creative hub of this Everton U16 side. Shut him down, and Everton's attacking threat would be drastically blunted. Once Aslett finished speaking, the boys began walking out toward the center circle. Flanagan leaned over and asked Du An, "Hey, Du An, which one's your dominant foot again? Just so I know how to feed you the ball later." Du An scratched his head and replied, "A right-footed player who's stronger on his left?"