Chapter Twenty-Four: Song of the Open Sky

Training, of course, was tedious. Foundational drills in any sport are monotonous by nature; only those who endure this tedium can lay a solid technical groundwork—after all, not everyone in this world is born a prodigy.

Lap running, sprints, shuttle runs, passing drills, ball control, dribbling around cones, coordination exercises... Soon enough, the dull monotony of practice wore down the students’ passion for football. Perhaps only the weekly scrimmages could reignite their interest.

A month into the term, students began to skip training, using a variety of excuses. At first, they were cautious, only daring to ask for leave once a month. But seeing how readily the coaches and teachers approved their requests, some grew bolder, skipping an entire week at a time. Only when there was a scrimmage did everyone show up in full force.

Yet, their absenteeism seemed somewhat understandable. The school’s schedule was packed to the brim, with no weekends off—just study, train, play, day in and day out. They were, after all, children barely in their teens. Such relentless training and competition would overwhelm even young adults, let alone these “little emperors,” as these pampered only-children were known. More than that, though the football academy was remote, the city of Xi’an sprawled nearby, full of entertainments—video parlors, arcades, internet cafes—temptations aplenty for unsupervised boys whose rooms were never checked by staff.

Of course, among the nearly one hundred students, there was an exception.

Long Bisheng was the single outlier.

He never arrived late to training, and he was diligent in class. His grades were never stellar, but everyone could see how hard he worked. On the field, he was always the one to complete every drill best.

During free time, it was rare to find him in the video hall or the arcade, yelling over a game. Most often, he could be seen alone on the pitch, working with a ball, or seated by himself atop a nearby ridge, listening to the distant folk songs that drifted across the land.

No one knew what this gentle yet solitary tall boy was thinking. His workload was the heaviest in the school—no one else trained as hard or as long. Anyone else would have collapsed under such a regimen, but after every session, Long Bisheng would practice another half-hour on his own, then run, dribbling his ball, for miles up the ridge, to listen to the “Xintianyou” ballads that echoed everywhere in Shaanxi.

And every day, his face bore a goofy smile, as if he found this life quite pleasant.

Indeed, Long Bisheng felt that this was a good life. Here, he was no longer at the bottom of the class; instead, he hovered around the middle. On the field, he received more praise from coaches than anyone else—several even took a special interest in him, teaching him things not covered in regular sessions. Compared to his old, lonely “football training,” these practices were richer and more interesting. Long Bisheng threw himself into them with tireless enthusiasm; both training and matches filled him with joy. After all, he was no longer alone—now, he had so many companions.

In time, he developed a fondness for the folk songs of northern Shaanxi. Sitting on that ridge, gazing across the yellow earth plateau, he felt as if he’d returned home. The vastness of the land felt the same—only back home, it was endless green grasslands, while here it was great swathes of ochre hills.

There was another difference, too: the music born of this barren land. The soaring, resonant Xintianyou songs—once they reached his ears, they sent a thrill through the spirit.

They were masterpieces, carved with old iron hoes into the loess plateau of the northwest—a rare blossom between ochre hills and yellow rivers.

The first time Long Bisheng heard the lingering notes—“Three bands of blue on a ram’s-stomach scarf, chasing the mule as it spins for home...” echoing from some unknown place, his heart leapt, and he immediately stood up, straining to catch the faint song.

He fell in love with those ballads. Sometimes, after listening long enough, he’d try singing a line or two up on the ridge—he dared not sing in the dormitory, where most of his roommates were local Shaanxi boys, each with a better voice than his own. Besides, Long Bisheng was a bit tone-deaf.

Yet this very quirk brought him closer to his classmates. Xintianyou was a point of pride for Shaanxi people; when Long Bisheng showed his fondness for it, the others were delighted, and soon he had more friends both in the dorm and the classroom. A few with especially good voices even vied to teach him to sing it properly.

In other aspects, however, Long Bisheng remained somewhat out of step with the others. For instance, he never ate snacks in the dormitory. Even if his roommates forced something into his hands, he would only smile gently and set it aside. Sometimes he would even advise, “It’s best not to eat too many of these high-calorie things. If you want to be an athlete, you can’t carry too much fat—otherwise, you won’t be able to run.”

His words always provoked protests: “How do you expect us to get full on that bland cafeteria food every day? If we don’t eat snacks in the dorm, how can we fill our bellies?”

“I think the cafeteria food tastes fine,” Long Bisheng replied, only to be met with collective eye rolls—perhaps only a blockhead like you would think that stuff was good. You’re the only one who ever cleans your plate every time. In this whole school, you’re probably the only one who can finish a meal in the cafeteria.

“These are nutritious meals—they’re good for us. The taste isn’t great, but it’s not inedible. I feel a lot stronger than before,” Long Bisheng continued. “But as for snacks, eat too many and you’ll get fat. Even if you don’t become a pro athlete, it’s not good to be fat.”

In the end, no one could convince the other. The only result was that, from then on, whenever the others gathered for a snack in the dorm, they no longer called Long Bisheng to join them.