Unconventional Center

Chapter 13: The Bench

Mei Yun was not yet fifty. She enjoyed a happy marriage, had a pair of easygoing children, and led a perfectly fulfilling life. She was in excellent spirits, and her intellectual and elegant demeanor made even the flight attendants on the plane feel a bit self-conscious. Coupled with the fact that Chu Yu, by her side, was stunningly beautiful, the two attracted a great deal of attention the moment they appeared at the airport. As soon as they stepped out of the arrival gate, they saw their own rascal coming toward them with a beaming smile, which made Mei Yun even happier. Although they spoke on the phone and video-chatted frequently, she still couldn’t help but miss him day and night; she always felt at ease only when she saw him in person. The three of them weren’t as melodramatic as the characters in third-rate TV dramas, rushing toward each other and hugging the moment they met. “You’ve lost weight,” Mei Yun said, patting Chu Yang on the shoulder. “You say that every time we meet.” He’d just said it didn’t seem like a third-rate soap opera. “Exactly, Mom. He’s living the high life over there in the land of capitalism,” Chu Yu said with a mischievous smile. “Right, Ayang? Did you enjoy the nutritious meals?” Chu Yang had complained to her about that food more than once; Chu Yu was, as usual, rubbing salt in the wound—picking on the very spot that hurt the most. Chu Yang couldn’t help but roll his eyes dramatically. With a “splash,” he made a capsizing gesture—though, of course, no one but Chu Yu knew what that bizarre gesture meant. Anyway, the little boat of family affection was bound to capsize a few times now and then, so Chu Yu was used to it, and Mei Yun had long since grown accustomed to this dynamic duo at home. Chu Yang took the luggage from Mei Yun, and just like when they were kids, he and Chu Yu took Mei Yun’s hands—one on each side—as they walked out of the airport, smiling sweetly, looking as childish as could be. With two days left until the match, the entire club was on high alert—yet Chu Yang was the only one beaming with joy, still in the mood to wander around with his family. Even on the day of the match, he remained calm and unconcerned, acting as if he were an outsider—which only made the others, with their solemn demeanor, seem all the more on edge. Mr. Marco’s frustration grew even deeper. It’s decided: No. 9 will sit on the bench for the next two games. After all, the club had once been wealthy; Valencia’s Mestalla Stadium was anything but shabby. The home team’s locker room was every bit as impressive as that of Deportivo La Coruña. Outside, more than 50,000 seats were packed with fans who had flocked to the stadium—a turnout that fully met the standards of a La Liga team. Even Chu Yang, who had seen his fair share of big games, couldn’t help but feel a little excited. “I don’t think I need to reiterate the significance of this match. Cesc, Banderas, Fernando, Antonio—you all came up through the Valencia Youth Academy, along with Adrian, Garcia, Lucio, and many others. You all know Valencia’s history,”Gresel looked solemnly at his players. “People on the outside call us the ‘Clown Army’ because they think we’re just a bunch of clowns wallowing in past glories. Even many opponents we’ve soundly defeated dare to mock us. Why?” “Because we’ve brought shame upon our predecessors,” Mo Ya replied. “Our team once reigned supreme on the biggest stages, thrilling all of Europe and striking fear into the hearts of every opponent. But now we’re stuck languishing in the lower leagues—like former nobles reduced to country bumpkins. The more glorious our history, the more pitiful our present.” Goalkeeper Fernando Cayo added, “That’s right. I don’t know what you guys are thinking—maybe playing here is just a job to you—but I grew up in Valencia. This is my home. My greatest dream is to restore Valencia’s glory. Anyone who stands in my way is my enemy.” Whether sincere or not, the others all chimed in, and Gresel finally whipped the atmosphere into a frenzy. When the time came, the group charged out as if heading into battle. Valencia’s home kit wasn’t the white jersey and black shorts of The Bats that Chu Yang remembered, but an all-white outfit—which somewhat clashed with Real Madrid’s uniform—and Valencia had been mocked quite a bit for this. Valencia TV’s sports channel was broadcasting the match live, with Mikel serving as the play-by-play announcer and, of course, Mr. Ugo as the chief commentator. “Oh, Díaz, what are you looking for?” “Where’s the kid from China? Why isn’t he playing?” “So you watched the footage of that game?” “Of course. I mean, thank goodness I watched it. Marco did something stupid—he actually left that kid on the bench. He’ll regret it, I guarantee it.” “Hahaha, so you’ve become a fan of the player from China too?” “No, no, no—not yet. He hasn’t proven himself at Mestalla Stadium yet. If he wants me to be his fan, he’ll have to score at least ten goals this season.” “Ten goals in half a season? That’s an average of about 0. 5 goals per game. Aren’t you setting the bar a little too high?” “No, not at all. He’ll do it. Trust me, Mikel. It’s a striker’s intuition—this kid is going to be an outstanding goal-scorer, a ‘White Ghost,’ just like me.” “All right, let’s put the Chinese boy aside for now and turn our attention to the game. Cesc won the coin toss against Machena and chose to kick off first. Valencia is still using a 4-5-1 formation for this match, with Adrián up front, Banderas and Garcia on either wing, and Cesc leading the midfield line alongside Lucio and Juan Leta. Behind him is center back Antonio…” Chu Yang sat down in his seat and began scanning the stands for his mother and sister. Unfortunately, he only knew the general area; the crowd was a sea of faces, making it impossible to tell anyone apart, so he had to focus his attention on the field. Valencia showed a strong desire to attack, pushing forward aggressively through midfield right from the start. Ameyari, on the other hand, was much more cautious, dropping his defensive line deep; aside from the two forwards who continued to roam the attacking third, all other players were involved in defense. Mo Ya displayed the flair of the Prince of Mestalla, handling dribbling and passing with ease, and he brought the entire team’s midfield to life. “It’s Mo Ya again—what a beautiful dribble! Our Prince is maturing more and more. As long as we make it to the top flight this season, he’ll be crowned king.” “Heh heh heh, Mikel, what are you getting at? I, the King of Mestalla, am right here—who do you think is going to be crowned?” “All right, Díaz, you’re a thing of the past—the future belongs to the young players… There goes the pass—Adrian! Oh, what a shame—he didn’t hit it cleanly. What bad luck.” “That wasn’t bad luck,” Ugo said bluntly. “He reacted too slowly when the ball came, so by the time he received it, he had no time to adjust. Ameyari’s defenders aren’t just standing there like wooden posts.” “All right, you’re always right. It’s a shame about Mo Ya’s brilliant pass. Brady’s got some guts, leaving only one defender on Cesc.” “That’s because he knows Cesc’s scoring ability in open play is abysmal—except for free kicks. As long as he marks Adrian and Lucio, who’s good at making runs from deep for long-range shots, he can contain Valencia’s attack.” “Díaz, whose side are you really on?” British coach Brady flashed a confident smile from the sidelines. Everyone knew that Mo Ya was Valencia’s midfield linchpin; containing him was effectively shutting down the engine of their offense. Yet, as it turned out, almost no one in the Segunda División could mark Mo Ya one-on-one, and the moment additional defenders were deployed, Valencia’s dual attacking midfielders began to take full advantage. They say whoever controls the midfield controls the game, yet he let Mo Ya run rampant in the midfield while defending the other attacking threats with everything he had—exploiting the fact that Mo Ya couldn’t shoot. So far, this strategy seems to be working well; now it’s time to launch a counterattack.