A Resounding Victory

In truth, after watching the entire first half, Ray Hall's comparison of Du An to a young Xabi Alonso was by no means casual flattery. Du An's distribution and tempo control from deep looked nothing like that of a boy who had only just taken up formal training. While his defensive positioning was not yet world-class, it was far from lacking; Adam Forshaw, whom Hall had groomed so attentively, had hardly managed more than a handful of comfortable touches all half. Even more remarkable was the boy's frame. He looked lean, yet his lower body was exceptionally grounded, meaning he never came off second best in physical duels against his peers. Once he filled out in another couple of years, he would only become harder to handle. Over on the other side of the stands, David was probing Kenny Dalglish. "Kenny, Du An's only been at Kirkby for a few months... what, three months? And he's already a locked-in starter for the Under-16s?" Dalglish beamed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "Genius, you know. Covers in a single day what takes others a year. The club has already drawn up a pre-contract for a professional deal." David froze. He knew full well the weight of a professional pre-contract! In earlier years, the rules had been much looser; Michael Owen had signed a professional contract at just fifteen. Later, UEFA overhauled the regulations. Coupled with English legal restrictions, clubs had devised the workaround of pre-contracts to lock down top prospects ahead of time. Yet how long had Du An been playing football, all told? Just a few months! Breaking into the Under-16s before turning fourteen, and already handed a pre-contract—calling his progress fast was an understatement; it was downright absurd! David had recognized the boy as a prodigy at first sight, but he had never dared imagine someone could be gifted to this degree. The realization left him genuinely happy for Du An, yet tinged with a sharp pang of regret. He had been the one to find the boy first. Du An should have been wearing Everton blue. How on earth had he ended up becoming Liverpool's crown jewel instead? David had even bragged down at the pub about how he was going to mold the kid into someone who would run Liverpool ragged. Now, the tables were completely turned. *Tweet!* A whistle snapped him out of his reverie. With that shrill blast, the second half got underway. Everton had clearly adjusted their tactics. Abandoning the hard fight through the center, they launched surges down both flanks instead, while tasking their midfielders with taking turns to mark Du An, snapping into tight, suffocating presses the moment he received the ball. The physical disparity that came with age immediately manifested. Du An lacked blistering pace and was still a touch short on raw power. Although formidable against boys his own age, once opponents a year or two older clamped down on him, turning to shake them off proved exceptionally difficult. Fortunately, Aslett had made a point of warning him at halftime that the opposition would likely target him after the break. After being crowded out several times, Du An shifted his approach without hesitation. He cut down on his time on the ball, transitioning to off-the-ball movement paired with quick, one-touch passing. Whenever a teammate had possession, he actively ran into space to offer an outlet, and the second the ball reached his feet, he shifted it along without taking an extra touch, sweeping it into the path of another teammate. In defense, he kept his eyes locked firmly on Adam Forshaw. Up in the stands, Dalglish nodded gently in approval. Having spent years as a top-flight manager, leading Liverpool to old First Division titles and Blackburn to a Premier League crown, he naturally recognized Du An's sharpness. Du An's football intelligence—his capacity to adapt so swiftly to shifting circumstances on the pitch—was far rarer than mere technical flair. Football was full of players blessed with great physiques. Players blessed with brilliant minds, however, were scarce, and every last one of them was a midfield maestro. They were particularly common over in Spain. Take Valerón at Deportivo La Coruña, who had set the pitch ablaze over the previous couple of seasons; his build was unremarkable, yet his football IQ was through the roof. A midfielder capable of making an entire team hum possessed incalculable tactical value. What was truly terrifying was Du An's ceiling. The boy had been training properly for less than three months! Down on the pitch, the flow of the game bore out the wisdom of Du An's adjustment. Everton pushed aggressively down the wings, but without an aerial target in the penalty box, their crosses were routinely cleared by the center-backs—plenty of thunder, but very little rain. Liverpool, by contrast, orchestrated by Du An's distribution from deep, mounted crisp and incisive attacks through direct long balls. Lewis and Ben took turns exploiting the space behind the defense. Everton's backline retreated deeper and deeper, gradually buckling under the strain. By the seventy-first minute, the outcome was settled beyond all doubt. Du An dropped deep to show for the ball, and two Everton midfielders converged on him from left and right, poised to box him in completely. Without even raising his head, he poked the ball with a gentle touch. It rolled cleanly through the gap between them, finding an unmarked Connor. Connor read the play instantly. He looked up and floated a delicate ball directly into the box. Ben Parsonage tore forward at full tilt, leaping high to direct a powerful header toward goal. The goalkeeper, Callum, reacted with razor-sharp reflexes, tipping the ball upward with a single outstretched palm. Yet the parry didn't travel far. Lewis Bent stormed in at the back post, meeting the loose ball with a decisive volley! The ball struck the back of the net with an emphatic snap. Three-nil! "Brilliant!" The Liverpool lads erupted in cheers, swarming together in wild celebration. The Everton players could only shake their heads in helpless dejection. Conceding three goals to any other side would have been bitter enough, but being routed on their own home turf by Liverpool was a pill none of them could swallow. On the touchline, Aslett made a substitution straight away. Tom Wharton came on to replace Du An. For a thirteen-year-old to put in seventy minutes of high-intensity derby football was more than enough. As Du An walked off, he showed few signs of exhaustion; his endurance was leagues ahead of most boys his age. He glanced up toward the stands, his eyes meeting Dalglish's. He raised a hand and waved with a grin. Dalglish beamed right back, gazing at Du An with an affection that almost spilled over. Heighway cast a sideways glance at him, his tone half-joking, half-serious. "Kenny, since you're so fond of Du An, why don't you come back and run Kirkby? It'd give me a chance to take a breather." "Forget it," Dalglish said, waving a dismissive hand. "Retirement's far too comfortable. I've no wish to take on that headache." He waited, but heard no rejoinder. Turning to look at Heighway, he realized the man was entirely devoid of amusement, a distinct weariness clouding his eyes. Dalglish felt a jolt in his chest. In a lowered voice, he asked, "You weren't joking?" Heighway exhaled a soft sigh. "I'm tired." Dalglish fell silent. He understood perfectly that this exhaustion was not physical, but mental. The friction between Heighway and Rafael Benitez was common knowledge to anyone with an ear to the ground at Liverpool. Ever since the era of Bill Shankly's Boot Room, the tradition had always been for the manager to maintain a firm grip on both the first team at Melwood and youth development at Kirkby. Shankly, Paisley, Fagan, and even Dalglish himself during his managerial tenure had all operated that way. Yet as Liverpool declined alongside the city's broader economy through the 1990s, the club had been plagued by troubles both inside and out. In 1998, Roy Evans and Gérard Houllier parted ways. The Frenchman took sole command, signaling the definitive end of the Anfield Boot Room era. It was in that very same year that Heighway had been invited back to take charge of the Kirkby Youth Academy, becoming the first academy director in Liverpool history to operate youth development independently of the first-team structure. Since Benitez's arrival, however, the Spaniard's ambitions had been unmistakable. He wanted to become Liverpool's Alex Ferguson. He sought absolute authority over the entire club, from the first team down to the youth academy. Ever since the Under-21 and Under-23 squads were brought under Melwood's umbrella, Benitez's consolidation of power had never slowed. An independent academy director like Heighway was naturally an obstacle he intended to clear away. Earlier on, Benitez's dazzling achievements in the Champions League had given him immense sway, making Heighway's position increasingly precarious. It was only when league form began to fluctuate that Heighway had caught a bit of breathing room. Now, however, rumors of a club takeover were growing louder by the day. No one knew what the landscape would look like under new owners, or whether Benitez might seize upon the changing of the guard to bring Kirkby firmly under his thumb. Nobody had the answers. What could Heighway do? What could Dalglish do? Dalglish let out a quiet sigh of his own, unable to tell where Liverpool's future lay. Even so, as he caught sight of Du An's retreating figure, his spirits lifted a fraction. *Tweet!* The final whistle pierced the air. Liverpool Under-16s had reclaimed their pride, putting three past Everton Under-16s to carry a resounding three-nil victory away from the Finch Farm Training Ground!