Chapter Fifty-Two: The Pressures of Life and the Dignity of Existence

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Six friends who had spent countless days and nights together had just said something that could set anyone’s blood ablaze. Now, they struck a pose that was simply irresistible—six hands stacked one atop another, all eyes fixed on you, silently urging you to place your hand among theirs and say something heartfelt—surely, that was the natural thing to do?

“Why isn’t he moving? Normally, in movies or TV shows, this is the part where he’d be so moved he’d be on the verge of tears, hugging us, shouting something about brothers for a day, brothers for life. Why has he frozen? Is he just too touched?”

Taking advantage of Wu Bufan’s body as cover, Zhou Wei whispered to Dai Guangming. Dai Guangming shot him a glare, and Zhou Wei quickly shut his mouth, continuing to gaze at Long Bisheng with eager eyes, desperately hoping he’d leap forward and do exactly what they’d just said.

“We’re friends,” Long Bisheng suddenly said. “Very, very good friends.”

Hu Gantang looked puzzled. “Exactly! That’s why I hope we can all make it into the First Team together, then go play in Europe together!”

Dai Guangming, however, wore a thoughtful expression, as if he’d caught something in Long Bisheng’s tone. He quickly sighed.

“I want that too, to stick with you all and become professional players together,” Long Bisheng lowered his head. “But whether I can keep going isn’t up to me—or to you. Only the coach’s evaluation decides if we can continue. You’ve already helped me so much. Zhou Wei, Zhang Yi, you always look for me first when you pass on the field. Li Jie, last time you even took the coach’s criticism for my sake.”

A guilty look flashed across Li Jie’s face. “That’s not true. I never helped you, and the coach never criticized me!”

Long Bisheng chuckled softly, as genuine as ever. “I know all these things. I remember them all, and I’ll never forget the warmth I’ve felt in this group… Old Hu, I understand why you were so angry today. You’re upset because you think I’m hopeless, that I haven’t been training properly these days, that I’m giving up on myself… I get it. Starting tomorrow, that won’t happen again. I’ll keep training as hard as ever. Even if I’m eliminated at the end of this semester, I won’t give up on football. If Yun Jia Tianyu cuts me, I’ll go try out for another club, even if it’s just a youth team in the lower leagues. Don’t worry about me.”

Hu Gantang breathed a sigh of relief, a smile breaking out on his face. “That’s more like it! We’re nothing in the professional football world right now, no one cares about us. But still, we have to work hard—because we play for ourselves!”

Long Bisheng lifted his head, his face gentle. “Thank you, all of you… Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But right now, I want some time alone. Just leave the door unlocked for me. I’ll go out for a walk and be back soon.”

With that, Long Bisheng offered a smile to everyone, stood up, and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

Inside the dormitory, the six friends looked at one another. Wu Bufan said hesitantly, “He… he’s not thinking of doing something stupid, is he?”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Li Jie scolded him with a glare. “He’s just going for a walk, that’s all!”

“We can’t solve the problem he’s facing,” Dai Guangming sighed. “It’s not about whether we accept him or not, but whether he can keep playing here. Only the coach can decide that.”

The others fell silent, then all sighed together. Only then did they realize their hands were still stacked together. After a moment’s awkwardness, they all gave a collective “tsk” and quickly pulled their hands apart.

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Zhou Wei pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, muttering, “Who knows what germs you guys have… I told you, this kind of thing is just too childish…”

Before he could finish, the other five pounced and gave him a thorough beating. Zhou Wei’s wails echoed, “Ow—don’t hit my face, I need this face to make a living… Help, murder…”

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Long Bisheng strolled across the field, hands in his pockets.

This was his favorite place when he wasn’t training, especially at night. Yun Jia wasn’t an industrial city, so though the night sky wasn’t as clear as in Xinjiang, it was much better than most cities.

Over the past year, he’d wandered this field on more nights than he could count. But in the future, how many more chances would he have to walk this field, where he’d shed so much sweat?

At the thought, he gave a bitter laugh—someone like you wants to be a professional player? Never mind true professionals; even among your peers, who doesn’t pick up football skills three times faster than you? The coach demonstrates a move, and most players get it in one go, but you need two or three tries—that’s a threefold gap. No matter how hard you work, how can you catch up? They train eight hours a day; only if you gave up sleep and food could you make up the difference.

Hu Gantang and the others really were good friends, and Ding Yu was a great coach—he never lost patience teaching him. It was a shame that he was about to let them down.

Still, what Hu Gantang said was right—even if you get eliminated, don’t let your spirits flag like in the past few days. Didn’t Dad always say to finish what you start no matter what? At the very least, until you’re eliminated, you should stay true to yourself.

What he’d just told the others was half true, half false. After this semester, when he’d inevitably be cut from Yun Jia Tianyu Football School (or so he believed), he didn’t plan to keep playing—he’d go home, go back to school. Maybe he’d play football again in middle school, high school, or college, but only as a hobby. The dream of becoming a professional player would remain just that—a dream.

Long Bisheng’s steps quickened. Training ground, gym, indoor arena, rec center, cafeteria, laundry… Yun Jia Tianyu Football School really was a wonderful place. What a shame it wasn’t meant for him. Here, he’d always be the frog who jumped out of the well, only to find the wider world more painful the further he could see.

The night was cool as water, stars dazzling in the sky. Long Bisheng sat down on the grass, gazing blankly at the myriad stars above.

From the distant dormitory, someone nostalgic was playing an old song: “Sometimes I feel I’m just a little bird, wanting to fly but never able to soar. Perhaps one day I’ll perch atop a branch, only to become the hunter’s target. I fly up into the blue sky, only to find I’m all alone…”

Long Bisheng listened intently. He’d never heard this song before, but at this moment, it resonated deeply with his mood.

“The pressures of life, and the dignity of living—which matters more?”

Suddenly, these lyrics struck his ears, jolting Long Bisheng as if he’d been shocked by electricity. He leapt to his feet.

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That line was the perfect reflection of his current predicament.

Though still young, Long Bisheng had already felt the weight of life’s pressures in earnest.

In modern society, it’s hard to find a field with a more merciless elimination rate than professional football. This wasn’t like the old days, where millions struggled to pass the college entrance exam’s single narrow bridge. With universities everywhere these days, more than seventy percent of graduates can get into some kind of college each year. But football? As Ding Yu said, even at Yun Jia Tianyu Football School, which had the highest success rate, only about thirty percent could advance to the next tier.

For Long Bisheng, if he was eliminated from Yun Jia Tianyu, he’d have no choice but to go home, finish high school at least, then enlist. There was no way his family could afford for him to try another school, even though his record would have made it easy to get in elsewhere.

For him, “the pressures of life” were his reality: if he was cut, he’d have to return home, get his diploma, and join the army. “The dignity of living” was his dream of being a professional footballer—which was more important?

He didn’t dislike the army. No child growing up in a military compound did. But he lacked the toughness to be a good soldier—he was too gentle. Besides, if he kept growing taller, he’d be even less suited for the army, especially for scouts like his father; scouts couldn’t be too tall, or they’d lose their agility.

Most importantly, he simply loved football—not because his father was a fan, but because he’d genuinely fallen for the world’s greatest sport. Even though he always seemed to lose in team matches, he still loved the game.

But now, it seemed that “the pressures of life” were the more tangible reality. If he couldn’t make it at Yun Jia Tianyu, he’d have to give up his “dignity of living” and bow to life’s pressures.

“What song is this?” Long Bisheng murmured to himself.

ps: Wry smile—this chapter was written over half a month ago, but now, life’s pressures really have come crashing down on me.

The numbers for the new book aren’t good; so far, there are just over four thousand collections, and few recommendations. A few friends who’ve read it say it’s not sensational enough, not exciting.

Is it really impossible to write something that isn’t sensational? Right now, Old Guo is under a lot of pressure. I originally wanted to write about the ordinary joys and sorrows of someone like Xu Sanduo, and that sense of perseverance. But now, it seems even harder for me to persist.

For Old Guo, writing has become a vital part of life. But the calm with which I wrote “China’s King of Football” is gone. Now, it feels like rowing against the current—if you don’t move forward, you fall back. Maybe I should be more easygoing, maybe I should cater more to popular tastes. To be honest, even I don’t know what this book will become by the time I finish, given my changing state of mind.

The only promise Old Guo can make is this: no matter what, this book will have a proper ending. It will never be abandoned. I owe that to my contract, and to the brothers who have waited so long for my new work.

Just venting—hope you all don’t mind.