Chapter Thirteen: Do You Want to Play Professional Football?

After the top ten tournament, Yun Jia Tianyu, who made outstanding contributions to the Chinese national team’s appearance on the World Cup stage, finally achieved their goal. With a four-point advantage, they won the league championship, becoming the third team to claim the title since the start of the professional league, marking the beginning of their glorious journey.

Now, fans are once again waiting for the World Cup to be held next summer. In that romantic country, the Chinese national team will embark on their first World Cup adventure, possibly facing stars like Ronaldo, Zidane, Schmeichel, Beckham, Raul, and Del Piero on the field—a thrilling prospect just to imagine!

Naturally, Chinese fans do not expect their team to win the World Cup. Yet, there are so many records waiting to be broken: the first goal, the first point, the first victory… perhaps even the first time advancing past the group stage?

For Long Bisheng, life had not changed much.

As usual, he ran to and from school every day, always with a football at his feet. But compared to Tsubasa Ozora, the protagonist of the Japanese manga "Captain Tsubasa," it was clear his talent was lacking. After more than a year of dribbling, he still had to pay constant attention to the ball lest it roll into a ditch.

The teachers at school had little fondness for this child. Though he was honest, never spoke during class, and didn’t misbehave with other students, his grades were consistently poor, always lingering among the lowest in the class.

No matter what one does, sometimes talent is essential. Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration, but that one percent inspiration is more important than the ninety-nine percent perspiration—a famous saying, the second half of which was omitted in Chinese textbooks, but which is profoundly true. Otherwise, how could one explain why some people study effortlessly, never missing out on fun, yet still manage to rank among the top, while others, despite all their toil, remain at the bottom?

Clearly, Long Bisheng belonged to the latter group.

Besides lagging academically, he showed no particular prowess in extracurricular activities. His singing could scare cattle into fleeing, his dancing could infuriate penguins, and his drawing—well, he could turn a sketch into a postmodern masterpiece no one understood!

Even in sports, despite always having a football at his feet, Long Bisheng demonstrated little talent. His body was strong, but his upper body lacked power; he couldn’t throw a shot put far, played badminton and table tennis poorly, couldn’t shoot in basketball, and was mediocre at football.

In essence, Long Bisheng was a big oaf who could achieve nothing—a bumbling fool of the lowest order.

At school, he behaved much like Forrest Gump with an IQ of seventy-five—except Gump could run fast, and Long Bisheng couldn’t even do that!

For these reasons, Long Bisheng was always part of the silent majority at school and had few friends.

Yet Long Bisheng didn’t mind these things much; he was amiable to a fault—so long as no one bullied him, any unpleasantness was met with a smile and quickly forgotten. In this regard, he was nothing like his hot-tempered father, Long Yuyun.

Though friendless at school, Long Bisheng had a close friend on the road, someone six or seven years his senior. His relationship with Azati was strong; he regarded Azati as an elder brother, and Azati liked this honest younger companion—even if Long Bisheng was now nearly as tall as him.

Passing the ball back and forth with Azati after school had become their habitual game, but more than a year of practice had done little to improve Long Bisheng’s passing. He could only manage to send the ball roughly in the right direction, leaving Azati to chase after it, often bouncing and leaping, before passing it back. Occasionally, when the mood struck, Long Bisheng would head the ball Azati returned, and perhaps due to his height, his headers were not bad.

Azati liked this game more and more, even buying a football to play on his own while Long Bisheng was at school. To Long Bisheng’s dismay, Azati seemed more gifted, able to improvise moves seen on television, while Long Bisheng always needed much practice to master them.

One day, after school, Long Bisheng and Azati were passing the ball back and forth on the grassland—a scene that had become a bright highlight along the roadside. At first, many herders and passersby would stop to watch and smile kindly, but soon it became commonplace.

So neither Long Bisheng nor Azati noticed that today, as they played, a stranger was watching them.

This passerby was not particularly attractive—round face, round body, and a hint of sleaziness about his expression. When he approached to speak, Azati eyed him suspiciously—the shifty-looking fat man reminded him of unscrupulous merchants.

Facing the youth’s wary gaze, the fat man was not offended. His expression was indeed a bit unsavory, so being suspected was nothing new. In fact, if not for his boss’s discerning eye, he might still be a leader among children.

“My name is Wang Sa; I’m a scout for Yun Jia Tianyu Football Club. Here’s my card,” the fat man introduced himself, handing a business card to Azati.

Azati did not take it. He glanced at the card, confirming it bore the fat man’s name and title—if it was genuine.

“Ten bucks will print you a whole stack. You can put whatever title you want,” Azati was no stranger to the world; thanks to the Agricultural Corps, the town had developed quickly, and he’d at least heard of most novelties. A business card was hardly impressive. “How do I know you’re for real?”

“What would I gain from lying? Nobody kidnaps teenagers,” Wang Sa replied, unperturbed, with a smile. “Even if you don’t believe me, there’s no harm in hearing me out.”

Azati thought it over, decided the fat man had a point, glanced at Long Bisheng, then said, “Alright, what do you want?”

As he spoke, Azati casually flicked his whip—herding youths often mastered this trick. If the fat man tried anything funny, the whip was no toy!

Just as Azati was thinking this, both he and Long Bisheng heard Wang Sa say, “I want to ask you—do you want to play professional football?”