"Come on, take a walk with me." Kenny Dalglish patted Du An on the shoulder, his gaze sweeping across the entire complex. "It's been a long while since I had a proper stroll around Kirkby."
The two walked slowly along the path bordering the training pitches.
The December wind carried a sharp chill, lightly rattling the chain-link fencing along the touchlines.
Closest to the main building lay seven or eight mini-pitches where the under-10s were chasing after footballs. Further out were the standard half-pitches for the U12 through U14 squads, and beyond those were four full-sized natural grass pitches reserved for the U16 and U18 teams' training sessions and matches.
On the far edge was an artificial turf pitch, ready for training under any conditions.
Passing the indoor training hall, Du An instinctively glanced through the glass doors at the wall inside, which was emblazoned with four words: *Technique, Attitude, Balance, Speed*.
Technique, attitude, balance, speed.
This was Kirkby's TABS principle, something every player was expected to memorize from their very first day at the academy.
"Today..." Dalglish began slowly, briefly recounting what had unfolded in the stands. "Seeing you play like that, David's probably going to kick himself for a good long time."
Du An was taken aback. "Then... will what happened with me get him into trouble?"
"Don't worry. Ray isn't petty like that. He's run Everton's academy for nearly a decade—there isn't much he hasn't seen. Besides, he's getting on in years. After assisting Moysie for a few more seasons, he'll likely retire and hand over the reins. Moysie is a capable man; give him a few more years, and who knows, he might just follow in Fergie's footsteps."
Du An knew that the "Moysie" Dalglish referred to was Everton manager David Moyes—a thoroughly Scottish nickname.
But who was Fergie?
"Fergie? Sir Alex Ferguson at Manchester United?"
"That's the old codger," Dalglish chuckled heartily. "I spent half my life locking horns with him. We never could stand each other, though there's no need to bore you with the details."
As they walked on, Dalglish stopped in his tracks and turned toward Du An, his expression growing serious. "Du An, do you know what you'll be facing next?"
Du An was a little puzzled. "More training? More matches?"
He had already prepared himself mentally for that.
After all, with a professional contract, the club wasn't paying you to do nothing.
"More than that." Dalglish shook his head, his gaze settling on the young players running in the distance. "What you're going to face is pressure from the outside world—a deafening flood of voices."
Dalglish knew Du An had no idea about any of this.
He also knew that while growing up without parents made Du An seem relatively mature, he was still just a child at heart, lacking real experience.
That was why Dalglish took every opportunity to talk with him, patiently teaching him these lessons.
He truly saw himself as Du An's guardian—not merely in name, but as someone responsible for genuinely guiding him.
"Before long," Dalglish said slowly, "the reporters will have their eyes on you."
"They'll hype you up as a generational genius. They'll call you the next Gerrard, the next Alonso, and claim your talent only comes once every fifty or a hundred years. The English press excels at building players into gods. The younger you are and the better the story, the more aggressively they blow the trumpets."
"The tabloids will be even more outrageous. They'll invent all sorts of unfounded rumors, pester your schoolmates for gossip, or even fabricate quotes from 'sources close to the player' to lay your whole life bare. Truth and lies will be mixed together, and overnight, you'll be thrust before football fans across the entire country."
Du An frowned. "Then I can just ignore them and focus on playing."
"It's not that simple," Dalglish sighed. "The higher they lift you, the higher the fans' expectations become."
"Those fans have never seen you train; they don't know your true level. It's all too easy for them to get swept along by the media. When you have an off day, lose a match, or make a mistake, those exact same people will be the first to jump out and tear you down."
"However thrilling it is to build a god, knocking one off its pedestal is twice as intoxicating."
"They start believing that the pens in their hands can make or break a player's career. To them, that feeling of power is far more addictive than writing praise."
He pointed toward the sweat-drenched boys out on the pitch. "These kids pour endless effort into training day in, day out. But under a journalist's pen, they get reduced to simple labels—this one's a flop, that one's a wonderkid. When people say the pen is a bloodless weapon, it isn't a joke."
"Then I'll fire back and fight them," Du An said, voicing his thoughts.
Dalglish laughed aloud. "Then you'll play right into their hands! What they want is drama and attention. The angrier you get and the more you argue, the happier they are, and the more papers they sell."
"Then what should I do?" Du An was completely bewildered.
If this was wrong and that was wrong, what was he supposed to do?
Dalglish clapped his shoulder and said leisurely, "It's simple. You learn to build good relations with a few reliable local outlets, granting them proper interview access so you always have a place where your real voice can be heard."
"Keep the sensationalist tabloids at arm's length. Don't engage, don't respond."
"And if someone deliberately fabricates malicious slander, call them out when necessary and sue them when you must. Let them know you're no pushover."
"You might not fully grasp all of this right now, so just keep it in mind. For now, there's only one rule you need to remember: keep your mouth shut, and stay far away from the press."
Du An nodded earnestly, committing every word Dalglish said to memory.
He enjoyed talking with Dalglish, because from the very beginning, Dalglish had consistently taught him things no one else had ever told him.
"Do you know why I made a point of telling you all this?"
Du An shook his head.
"Christmas is right around the corner, and you'll be turning fourteen. Heighway has already made up his mind—after the New Year, you're being moved up to the Under-18s. With your ability, it won't take more than a few matches before the scouts and journalists covering youth football take notice. By then, every prodigy label in the book will be pinned on you, and all eyes will be squarely on your shoulders."
At this point, he turned to Du An, his eyes grave and earnest. "But I want you to remember this: when they call you a generational genius, it doesn't mean you're actually as brilliant as they claim. It just means they need a wonderkid story to sell papers."
"So don't let outside noise get into your head. Don't let praise go to your head, and don't let criticism drag you down. Always remember: football is played on the pitch with your feet, not written with a pen. Do you understand?"
Du An's expression turned resolute. "Understood!"
Seeing his resolve, Dalglish smiled once again. "Of course, media attention is a double-edged sword. It has its pitfalls, but naturally, it has its advantages too."
"For instance... it'll get you noticed by John Peacock that much sooner."
Chapter 60