Unconventional Center

Chapter 2: Goalkeeping: 3

III. Talents: None; IV. Titles: None; V. Skills: None; Player Rating: B-. Across these five major categories, aside from the somewhat baffling “Talents,” “Titles,” and “Skills,” the rest are fairly straightforward—perhaps a bit vague, but that actually makes them easier to grasp at a glance. The maximum score for each subcategory under Technical Ability and Physical Attributes is 20. For a 20-year-old like Chu Yang, his scores in the most critical categories are barely over half—he’d have to be a genius for that to be true. Still, this level of performance is already considered quite good among young players in China. Thanks to a bit of luck and the slump of other forwards, Chu Yang—who single-handedly carried his team through the World Youth Championship—not only became the tournament’s second-leading scorer but also made the All-Tournament Team. Naturally, the Huaxia media hyped him up as a once-in-a-millennium soccer prodigy. With so much hype, even Chu Yang himself began to believe it. Coupled with Deportivo La Coruña’s interest in the China market, the two sides hit it off immediately. Everything that followed was both predictable yet somewhat rocky. It was predictable because Chu Yang’s transfer went off without a hitch; the rocky part was that it took him a full half-year to make the leap from the Youth Team to the first-team bench. Half a year isn’t a long time—in fact, it’s quite short—but given that he’d joined the club with the label of “genius” attached to his name, speculation about underhanded dealings, discrimination, and suppression soon swirled. Fans back home, eagerly awaiting his dazzling performance on capitalist soil, were practically ready to form a group and storm Deportivo La Coruña Headquarters. Only Chu Yang himself knew the truth of the matter. While there was certainly some discrimination, the allegations of underhanded dealings and suppression were completely baseless. The club simply didn’t use him because they didn’t think he was good enough. But with the arrow already on the string, he had no choice but to shoot. Realizing the gap between himself and the team, Chu Yang had to grit his teeth and push through, determined not to let the trip be in vain, studying hard and training relentlessly. He had originally thought this awkward situation would continue until he was kicked out of the club, but who would have guessed that with the arrival of the new coach this season, things would take a turn for the better. The team’s starting forward suffered a mysterious injury right before the league season began, and the club’s summer signings for the forward line had been a complete disaster. As a result, Chu Yang—who had been training relentlessly—was unexpectedly called up to the first team and even started as the team’s center forward right from the start. The domestic media instantly went into a frenzy. An overlooked young prodigy was recognized by the new head coach’s keen eye, and after being given a chance, he shone brilliantly—it was the perfect “thousand-mile horse and its discerning master” story. Unfortunately, the plot took a turn completely different from what anyone had imagined. Because the prodigy turned into a laughingstock. People thought the World Youth Championship was just the beginning for Chu Yang, but little did they know that was already his peak. He seemed more like a lucky player who had been showered with a certain aura by a stroke of luck; beneath that aura, he was actually just an ordinary player with average talent. His stagnant skills, his lack of flair that blended him into the crowd, and his lackluster performance all perfectly illustrated the saying, “Bright as a child, but not necessarily brilliant as an adult.” A wasted genius is a tragedy—but isn’t an overrated talent just as tragic? Fans in his home country, who had held such high hopes for him, suddenly felt deceived. The deeper their love had been, the more intense their hatred became now. Fueled by the media and internet meme creators, Chu Yang became the biggest laughingstock on the China National Team. The club itself, however, remained remarkably calm. After all, every FIFA U-20 World Cup produces countless so-called “stars of tomorrow,” yet countless of these stars fade away before they even have a chance to shine. One more Chu Yang makes no difference—at worst, it’s simply a failed investment. The fans, however, have been far less forgiving. At first, they merely directed sporadic boos his way, but as Chu Yang’s performance continued to deteriorate, some fans even gave him the middle finger right in front of him. Just like now—while I wouldn’t say all of them, at least more than a third of the home fans were deeply dissatisfied with this substitution, and a barrage of boos and insults rained down on Chu Yang. “Yellow-skinned monkey, go play your ping-pong.” “Damn it, why did they bring him on? Don’t they think we’re losing badly enough?” “China, get out of La Liga!” Chu Yang stepped to the sideline. The fourth official checked his equipment, then raised the substitution board high. No. 14 off, No. 11 on. López, who had been substituted out, wore a scowl and ignored the hand Chu Yang extended toward him, walking right past him. The Deportivo La Coruña fans, who had been extremely dissatisfied with his performance on the field, actually erupted into cheers at this. Chu Yang took a deep breath. An indescribable feeling welled up inside him, and the composure he’d been forcing upon himself suddenly began to waver. No one is born numb. Everything before him—and everything from the past—felt like a thorn, which he had hidden deep within his heart, enduring the pain, yet never daring to forget. But life, after all, isn’t a movie. Not every underdog can make a comeback, nor does every nobody get their big break. Until he could demonstrate the ability to match his dreams, no matter how much resentment he felt, it could only be buried in the dust. Ambition, after all, requires sufficient strength to sustain it; otherwise, it will only drag one into a bottomless abyss. But the so-called abyss—once you cross it—leads to boundless possibilities. Chu Yang now stood on the edge of that abyss; he only wanted to move forward and never considered turning back. The game wouldn’t pause for Chu Yang’s chaotic inner turmoil. The soccer ball flew toward him the moment he took his position, but before he could even touch it, a massive force from behind sent him stumbling. His movement was instantly thrown off, and the player behind him surged forward to snatch the ball away, leaving him with nothing but the back of a jersey bearing the number 4. A mix of cheers, sighs, and curses rose from the sidelines. “Just as expected—utterly pathetic.” “Way to go, Harte—kick his ass.” The player in the No. 4 jersey turned around, flashed a beaming smile at Chu Yang, and said, “Hey, little guy from the East, if you’re scared, just cry—next time I’ll go easier on you.” Chu Yang shot him a glance, wanting to fire back with something bold like “What goes around comes around” or “Don’t look down on a poor kid,” but countless examples of poor kids growing up to be even poorer made him cowardly keep his mouth shut. Instead, he immediately contacted the Superstar System. “The match has started. Where’s the beginner’s gift pack I was promised?” “Newbie Mega Pack activated. Congratulations, Host, on obtaining the Talent ‘Fox of the Forbidden Zone,’ the Title ‘Beastmaster,’ and the Skill ‘Scorpion’s Tail.’ ” Chu Yang looked at the system interface and, sure enough, saw that the original “None” entries had all disappeared. “Talent: Fox of the Penalty Area (I can’t do anything—except score goals); Title: Beast (Strength +3, Shooting +3, with the ‘Overwhelming’ aura); Skill: Scorpion Tail (Requires Shooting 15, Agility 15; increases accuracy by 5% when combined with the ‘Divine Tower’ title).” “It really is a huge gift package—quite luxurious,” Chu Yang said, absently running into position while chatting with the system. “Aren’t you going to explain this?” The System replied, “Talent means exactly what it says—something you’re born with. Aside from Heaven and me, no one can force it upon you.” “What about the skills?” Chu Yangdao asked. “‘Scorpion Kick’ and ‘Divine Tower’—you’re referring to Ibrahimović’s move, right? As long as my physical stats improve, and with the right timing and enough luck, I should be able to pull it off too.” “Will your Scorpion Kick be as perfectly executed and visually stunning as Ibrahimović’s?” Chu Yang was at a loss for words. For some people, certain skills might be nothing more than a simple combination of movements or a flash of inspiration in a single moment, but for others, it’s an entirely different story. Take the Marseille Turn for Zidane, the “Oxtail” for Ronaldinho, or the “Fried Meatball” for Iniesta. Other players might use these moves—and even master them to perfection—but very few can execute them with the same effortless, fluid grace as these legends. To put it more poetically, it’s as if there’s no trace of effort. “Titles come with special effects or influence your stats. For example, ‘Heartthrob’ boosts your commercial value; ‘Son of the Wind’ makes you run faster; ‘Bad Boy’ makes you look like you’re asking for a beating; ‘Erwa’ makes you harder to figure out; and ‘Bale’ makes you more contemplative about life, and so on.” Although it was a bit jumbled, it wasn’t all that complicated. After sorting it out a bit, Chu Yang understood most of it. He kept a straight face, but inside he was feeling a little excited. “Fox of the Penalty Area” combined with “Beast”—so this is essentially Nine Master’s consciousness fused with Dehua’s body from Africa, right? Even if it’s a low-spec version. This was a completely different experience from the anticipation of using cheat codes for the first time in *Pro Evolution Soccer* or the curiosity of using a modder for the first time in *FIFA*. Those were just games; this, however, was a new beginning. In the 70th minute of the match, the score was 0–2. As is customary internationally, the home team is listed first, followed by the away team. Quite a few Deportivo La Coruña fans have already left the stadium. As a once-powerful club, they haven’t won a title in a decade, have failed to qualify for the Champions League for several consecutive seasons, and even narrowly avoided relegation last season. What’s even more alarming is that the young players on the field seem completely lost, moving like the walking dead. It’s one thing to no longer see the vigor of days past, but when even the team’s spirit and fighting spirit have been lost, how can anyone love a team like this? There is no greater sorrow than a dead heart. Chu Yang felt just as helpless. He made active runs, looked for openings, and stretched the field—he did everything a center forward is supposed to do. But as usual, no one took notice. In the 75th minute, the Sevilla fans began to celebrate. In the 76th minute, players from both teams began strolling off the field. In the 77th minute, a corner kick was awarded to Deportivo La Coruña. Chu Yang entered the penalty area, with Harte hot on his heels. “Hey, rookie, I’m here to take care of you personally—don’t you feel honored?” Harte said enthusiastically. “I’m truly humbled,” Chu Yang smiled faintly, facing the corner flag with an air of helplessness. Harte didn’t let his guard down, but he wasn’t exactly being overly cautious either. He completely outclassed Chu Yang in physicality, skill, and experience; the likelihood of anything unexpected happening was virtually zero. The corner kick was taken, but it was of very poor quality. It had no curve, and the height was awkward—if he wanted to shoot, he’d have to duck down for a header; if he wanted to control it, he’d have to crouch slightly to chest it down. The Sevilla players and fans all breathed a sigh of relief, but before they could fully relax, their hearts leapt into their throats again. A figure appeared ghostlike in front of the ball; no one noticed how he’d gotten there, but they quickly spotted his jersey number, and their relief faded once more. No. 11—the China rookie who’d controlled the ball three meters away. What would he do? What could he do? Shoot? No angle. Pass? No one’s there to receive it. Control the ball? Harte would teach him a lesson in a heartbeat. Chu Yang quickly gave them the answer. He turned sideways to the ball, planted his left foot, lifted his right foot, swung it out to the side, and extended it fully. Harte, who had been silently left behind, was startled at first, but when he saw Chu Yang’s move, he almost burst out laughing. What was he doing? Controlling the ball? Who taught this kid how to control the ball? But before long, that “almost laughing” expression froze on his face, turning into something utterly comical. Chu Yang’s calf snapped back, and his heel struck the lower-middle part of the soccer ball with the precision of someone who’d practiced it a thousand times—just like a scorpion baring its venomous stinger and driving it viciously into its prey’s chest. The ball bounced up, tracing an awkward parabolic arc, and floated lightly into the goal. The deafening din suddenly gave way to complete silence; the entire stadium fell deathly quiet, with everyone wearing expressions of utter astonishment. Only Chu Yang stood with his arms outstretched, gazing up at the sky with a look of pure ecstasy. This place is also called Earth; it also has seven continents and four oceans; it also has the World Cup, the Champions League, and the Ballon d’Or; it also has Real Madrid, Barcelona, Manchester United, Bayern Munich, and the two Milan clubs. But Chu Yang knew this was no longer the world he used to live in. Because here there was no Abramovich, no Florentino, no Berlusconi; no Sir Alex, no “Special One,” no Professor Wenger, no “Guardiola” (the bald one); no Maradona, no Pelé, no Cristiano Ronaldo (Sr. ), no Ronaldinho, no Cristiano Ronaldo, no Messi, no Casillas, no Van Persie. Although this world has its own powerhouse clubs and iconic figures, its own glorious history and charismatic managers, as well as its own super idols and absolute superstars. This is a parallel world different from the one Chu Yang knew in his past life, yet it too has a group of people who treat soccer as a faith—people who are intoxicated and疯狂 by it, who would live and die for it. They’ve witnessed all sorts of classic moments, wild celebrations, and incredible goals that Chu Yang’s fellow countrymen have never seen—but they’ve never witnessed the stunning comeback in Istanbul, Battistuta’s machine-gun barrage, or Maradona’s dribble past five players. Nor had they ever witnessed Zlatan Ibrahimović’s scorpion kick. So they went wild.