Unconventional Center

Chapter 21: Red Card

January 21st, Round 23 of the league: Valencia faced Vesken on the road. This team had been a relegation favorite for the past few seasons, but they’d always managed to hang on in Segunda División A thanks to their outstanding home performances. With the added incentive of increased bonuses, the Valencia players were highly motivated, each itching to make an impact and brimming with fighting spirit. “Poor Chu, you’re on the bench again. But this time, you won’t get a chance to be the hero—I’ll wrap this up in the first half, and by the time you come on, it’ll definitely be garbage time.” Cesc patted Chu Yang on the shoulder, brimming with confidence. “For every goal you score, I’ll score twice as many,” Chu Yang said, shooting him a dismissive glance. “Hey, my way of sealing the deal is with assists. Who’s going to compete with you on goals? I’ve scored zero—even if you score a hundred times as many as me, it’s still zero.” “Whoa, kid, your math’s pretty good. Looks like you must’ve earned plenty of little red flowers back in school.” “Of course I’m good at it—I got an A in math. But what the heck are ‘little red flowers’?” “It’s a China thing—you wouldn’t understand.” “All right, mysterious ancient Eastern nation—I really don’t get it.” As the two chatted away, the match drew near. The starting players headed into the locker room to receive the coach’s last-minute instructions, while the substitutes warmed up outside. Since they didn’t get much playing time, this was the best chance for most of the bench players to connect with the fans face-to-face. Everyone gave it their all, pulling off all sorts of difficult moves and tricks as if they were free—they just went for it whenever the mood struck. Unfortunately, Chu Yang’s ball-handling skill was only 11—barely above average among professional players, though the margin was very small. While he could still juggle the ball dozens or even hundreds of times in a row, asking him to pull off fancy tricks was a bit too much to ask. So, ever mindful of his limitations, Chu Yang wisely refrained from joining the show-off crowd. In reality, most of these guys had even worse ball-handling skills than Chu Yang. Many of the seemingly dazzling moves were actually nothing special—just there to entertain the onlookers. But that’s just how foreigners are—they love to show off for no reason at all. “Hey, why’s that little brat being so well-behaved?” Mei Yun and Chu Yu had already decided to stay with Chu Yang through the Spring Festival before returning to China, so they’d traveled with the team for this match as well. “You’re up to something again, aren’t you?” Mei Yun knew exactly what she was thinking. “Of course not! I’m such a lady.” “A lady wouldn’t call herself a lady.” “Um, what do proper ladies say they are, then?” “I can’t answer that. If you’re so clever, go ask Ayang—he’ll definitely give you a satisfying answer.” Chu Yu stuck out her tongue and said, “Forget it. Ayang can never say anything nice—he’d probably just go on about winning and losing or something like that.” Wesken’s Alcoraz Stadium was far more modest than Mestalla Stadium, with only a little over 5,000 seats, but it was packed to capacity, and the crowd made quite a racket. “All right, the match is about to begin,” Valencia TV was once again broadcasting the game live, with the veteran commentary duo of Milk and Ugo back on the air. “Valencia has lined up in their familiar 4-5-1 formation. It’s worth noting that Chu Yang, who saved the team in the last match, is still on the bench. Adrian is playing as the lone striker,Additionally, we can see Mr. Xiao Luo, the owner of Valencia, here at the stadium. He didn’t go into the VIP box but is sitting in the stands.” “With Lin gone and Xiao here, it seems the ‘Eastern’ label attached to Valencia can’t be shaken off. Let’s hope this isn’t a bad thing,” Ugo remarked, sounding a bit concerned. He still held the ceremonial title of honorary chairman at Valencia. Xiao Luo and Chen Ping had paid him a visit when they first took over, and he had a fairly favorable impression of Xiao Luo—but impressions are just impressions; no one knew how the club would develop from here on out. Wesken served first. They knew their own limitations and resolutely adopted a defensive counterattacking strategy; for the first few minutes of the match, Valencia didn’t create any real scoring opportunities. Wesken’s counterattacks weren’t like those of some third-rate teams—which can defend but can’t attack—but rather the kind that could send shivers down the spines of away fans with the occasional surprise strike. As a result, Valencia didn’t dare to play too aggressively, and the two sides remained locked in a back-and-forth struggle, making for a somewhat dull match. Mo Ya was still the standout performer; Valencia’s most threatening attack came from one of his long-range shots, though unfortunately the ball sailed way over the crossbar. His free kicks and shots from open play have always been a mystery to Valencia—as good as he is at free kicks, he’s just as terrible at shooting in open play. A true enigma. The rest of the Valencia players weren’t much better. With the new owner watching from the sidelines, each one gave it their all. Unfortunately, haste makes waste—the more they wanted to score, the less likely they were to do so. As a result, even the defenders got overly excited, and their challenges gradually became rougher without them realizing it. The referee’s control of the match was mediocre, but he did call several obvious fouls fairly accurately, which temporarily calmed the agitated Valencia players down a bit. But “temporarily” is just that—temporary. With five minutes left in the first half, that lull finally came to an end. The opposing team’s forward and midfielder executed a give-and-go play and were about to enter the penalty area when Antonio, having just been beaten, lost his cool and charged in with a vicious tackle, sending the forward flying off his feet along with the ball. The player rolled three and a half times on the ground before being carried off the field by the team doctor. The home commentator’s voice immediately grew agitated. “That should be a penalty! Bartra was already inside the penalty area and was about to take a shot. That was a gross foul—Valencia’s No. 4 deserves a red card and a suspension.” “Penalty! Red card! Penalty! Red card!” The home fans’ frenzied chants seemed as if they were going to tear down the Alcoraz Stadium; the away fans huddled in the corner looked utterly helpless. Milk said, “That was indeed a malicious foul. Antonio should receive a card, but whether it warrants a red is debatable. A penalty kick is out of the question—the foul occurred outside the penalty area line.” The referee walked over and reached into his pocket. Mo Ya, who had rushed forward as well, quickly stepped in, discreetly grabbing the referee’s hand as he reached for the card, and said urgently, “Referee, he didn’t do it on purpose. He was going for the ball—it was just a regular foul.” He didn’t dare go against his conscience and claim there was nothing wrong with the play. “All right, Cesc, if you don’t want to get a card yourself, take your hand off right now.” Mo Ya wanted to plead his case a little longer, but the Wesken players had already surrounded the referee, putting pressure on him. “Quiet everyone! Step away from me, or you’ll face the consequences,” the referee warned, pulling out a card and holding it high. Red.