Unconventional Center

Chapter 15: A Good Striker Never Looks Back at a Goal

“What’s going on? The player from China stood up from the bench—it looks like he’s arguing with Gresel. Is he dissatisfied with the head coach’s decision? That’s not a good sign.” Milk’s tone shifted from puzzlement to seriousness. Although the head coach of a Spanish team didn’t wield as much power as those in the Premier League, players still weren’t supposed to question him openly. A player like that wouldn’t be welcome in any league. “No, no, no,” Ugo suddenly burst out laughing. “He wants to get on the field—that’s for sure, hahaha. I knew this kid was cut from the same cloth as me. All right, I’ve made up my mind: if he scores nine goals this season, I’ll become his fan.” Viewers watching the live broadcast couldn’t help but recall Ugo’s various wild antics from the past and burst into laughter. This guy was no ordinary troublemaker. Back in his Valencia days, he’d caused more than one head coach to get fired because they didn’t see eye to eye with him. He made the entertainment news more often than the sports news, and demanding the coach substitute him into the game was practically child’s play compared to his other antics. “Xiao Yu, what is Ayang doing? Openly falling out with the head coach? Is he throwing his career away?” Mei Yun, a highly educated intellectual, wasn’t the type to always take her relative’s side regardless of the circumstances. “Is this how I raised him?” “Mom, don’t worry. You know Ayang’s personality better than anyone. When he’s unsure, he’s incredibly low-key—more timid than anyone else. But when he’s confident, he’s more cocky than anyone, acting as brazen as can be. If he’s daring to do this, he must be absolutely brimming with confidence,” Chu Yu chuckled slyly. “That little rascal is up to his old tricks again.” Mei Yun sighed inwardly and said, “Fine, let him make a fuss. It’s better if he quits soccer anyway—it’s exhausting and dangerous. He’d be better off coming back home with me to study music.” “Right, right, Mom’s right,” Chu Yu nodded, only to be cut off by Mei Yun’s stern warning: “If he doesn’t score, we’re dragging him home. If he dares touch a soccer ball again, I’ll break his legs.” Gresel’s reason prevailed over his emotions, and Chu Yangru got to play as he’d hoped—though he had only twenty minutes left on the field. He replaced Adrian, who had been completely ineffective throughout the entire game. “Chu,” Mo Ya jogged over to meet Chu Yang. “Did you see their two center backs?” “Number 6 and Number 4?” Who knows what their names are. “Exactly. Number 6 is marking Adrian; he’ll probably be marking you next. Number 4 already has a yellow card, so he won’t dare make any big moves in the box. I’m very confident I can get past him, so I’ll be focusing on him for the rest of the game.” Time was short, so Mo Ya spoke quickly, but his train of thought was clear. He didn’t bother with nonsense like “You’re in charge of drawing No. 6 away” or “Watch out for my passes,” because he knew Chu Yang understood all that—better than he did. Chu Yang made an “OK” sign with his left hand, patted Mo Ya on the shoulder with his right, and said, “Don’t worry, Cesc. We’ve still got over twenty minutes left.” “Alright,” Mo Ya looked at Chu Yang, nodded, and said earnestly, “Chu, it’s up to you. Let’s fight our way into La Liga together and show those who look down on us what we’re made of.” “Your imagination’s running even faster than mine—you’re already thinking about La Liga,” Chu Yangdao said. “Let’s just win this game first.” The throw-in had already been taken, and they didn’t have time to exchange any more words. Chu Yang sprinted straight to the front of the field, and sure enough, the opponent’s No. 6 immediately closed in on him. “Hey, China kid, I heard you’re from La Liga?” Damn it, I’m twenty years old—and he’s still calling me a “boy”? Is he out of his mind? Chu Yang muttered under his breath, then replied, “Who told you that?” “Uh, that’s what everyone says.” No. 6 was actually trying to tease Chu Yang about being sold to a lower-tier league—and if he could provoke Chu Yang into throwing a punch, so much the better. “Oh, bro, you’ve been had,” Chu Yang leaned in close and whispered, “Actually, I play table tennis—table tennis, you know?” “Oh, of course I know. My grandma’s a huge table tennis fan—China is really good at it,” No. 6 was just as clueless as ever. “But soccer? Forget it. Listen, bro, you’d better go back to playing table tennis.” “No, no, you don’t get it. There’s a saying in China: ‘No one can beat Chinese soccer, and no one can beat Chinese table tennis.’ I switched sports precisely because I couldn’t beat anyone—there are just too many ‘Great Demons’ in Chinese table tennis.” “What? ‘Great Demons’?” “You don’t even know what a ‘Great Demon King’ is? Surely you’ve at least heard of Satan?” While the others were in the heat of the match, these two oddballs were chatting away happily, as if they’d known each other for years. “What are those two doing? Trading trash talk? Psychological tactics?” “That must be it. Young players have weak mental game. The guy from China better watch out—he can’t let that sly Ibaka pull it off.” “They’re not going to get into a fight, are they? I heard the kid from China knows kung fu—Ibaka might end up with a broken leg.” Ibaka, who was in the middle of “trash-talking” with Chu Yang, was just about to ask for more details on what “The Great Demon King” meant when he noticed Chu Yang suddenly turn and sprint toward the penalty area. Mo Ya received a pass from left midfielder Banderas, executed a give-and-go with fellow midfielder Lucio, and charged toward the penalty area, where Chu Yang was already waiting at the goalmouth. “Hey, Ping-Pong Boy, you’re not getting away—I’m right here.” Ibaka shadowed Chu Yang like a shadow. Mo Ya looked up, feigned a pass, and the opposing deep-lying midfielder quickly stuck out his leg to block. Mo Ya easily cut inside to evade the tackle, dribbled the ball into the penalty area, where Ameyari’s No. 4 quickly stepped in front of him. “Nice fake pass—Cesc’s skills are getting more and more polished. I’ve heard quite a few La Liga teams have already made offers for him. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’ll say this: Cesc should be playing in a higher-level league. He shouldn’t be wasting his time in the Segunda División. Well, what I mean is, he should lead Valencia to La Liga—that’s where he belongs.” “Now there’s a No. 9 striker from China in the box. Lucio is right behind Cesc, ready to receive the pass, while Banderas and Garcia are cutting into the box from both flanks. Cesc is feinting—a beautiful two-footed feint—but the defender is very experienced; he didn’t rush in recklessly but instead slowly backed off…” Milk spoke at breakneck speed, words spilling out like a machine gun. Mo Ya, who had been pedaling his stationary bike, saw that he couldn’t shake off No. 4 and suddenly stopped. No. 4 had been waiting for this very moment; the instant Mo Ya stopped, he swiftly made his move. The referee was standing close by, and No. 4—who already had a yellow card—didn’t dare make any other dangerous moves; this tackle was as clean as it could possibly be. But his crisp, decisive tackle missed its mark—the ball had already been gently nudged away by Mo Ya with the outside of his foot. After playing the ball, Mo Ya darted past No. 4 and caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Chu Yang, who had already stepped forward a split second earlier to intercept the pass. “Nice! Dude, pass it back now,” Mo Ya screamed inwardly. “Cesc didn’t try to force it; he passed the ball out, and Chu received it. They’re going for a give-and-go.” “A give-and-go! Ibaka, stop him!” Ameyari’s goalkeeper shouted, pointing at Mo Ya. Mo Ya had completely shaken off No. 4 and was facing the goalkeeper head-on, while directly to his left was Chu Yang, who had received the ball with his back to the goal. Ibaka stood between Chu Yang and the goalkeeper. Everyone knew Chu Yang’s next move would be to lay the ball across the goalmouth; all Mo Ya had to do was find an angle to shoot the ball into the net, just out of the goalkeeper’s reach. Chu Yang seemed to be planning exactly that; he looked up at Mo Ya, as if he were about to deliver a simple, comfortable Earth pass the very next second. Milk thought so, Ugo thought so, Gresel thought so, Brady thought so, Mo Ya thought so—everyone thought so. Naturally, this “everyone” included Ibaka as well, so the moment Chu Yang’s foot began to move, he burst forward and made a spectacular sliding tackle right across the passing lane between Chu Yang and Mo Ya. And he missed completely. “Chu Yang passes… Oh! Clever Ibaka—he read the play perfectly… Wait! Where’s the ball?” The ball was lying quietly in the net. Chu Yang hadn’t passed the ball; he hadn’t even moved from his spot. With a slight flick of his ankle, he turned sideways and rolled the ball into the net. The only defender, Ibaka, had been fooled by Chu Yang’s glance at Mo Ya and, thinking he was being clever, executed a clean, crisp sliding tackle. Meanwhile, everyone else was so captivated by Ibaka’s textbook-perfect slide that even the goalkeeper had his attention fixed on Mo Ya. “In the past, there was Ronaldinho passing without looking; today, there’s Chu Yang shooting without looking at the goal—pfft, pfft, pfft, that’s not a proper comparison!” The moment the ball left his foot, Chu Yang sprinted toward the stands where his mom and sister were sitting, never once glancing at the goal—not even after he’d taken the shot. A real man never looks back at an explosion, and a great striker never looks back at the goal.