Five hours ago

Originally, I hadn’t planned to explain, but I suppose I’ll say a few words. Yes, the main thread of this book is football. Perhaps some readers will put it down—“I don’t watch football, I don’t care for sports…” Yet, I must point out that labeling everything with a simple tag isn’t a good habit. Was “Captain Rudder” about baseball? Was “The Traitor” about military affairs? Was “Grassroots Stone Cloth” about harems? Every story needs a main thread; “The Young Monk” had none… In short, I suggest you see this as a novel that uses football as its stage, but it isn’t simply about football. Thank you.

7:15 PM

To be fair, Jiangzhou is called a municipality, but compared to other provincial capitals in the country, it’s more like a second- or third-tier city. Blue Wind Real Estate isn’t even the largest local developer, and their investment in sponsoring and naming the team can’t possibly compare to places like Beijing, Shanghai, or Zhejiang, let alone the big teams backed by state-owned capital. Every year, they tighten their belts, relying on Old Chen, the local head coach and club general manager, to run things on a shoestring, surviving stormy seas year after year. A couple of years ago, they were relegated once, but after two years in the lower league, they bounced back—a rare feat, as most relegated teams tend to fall apart.

This grassroots, working-class team has become a favorite among local fans. Even during those two years in the second division, they still drew tens of thousands to the stands. Now, back in the top domestic league, they’ve managed to avoid relegation two years in a row, hovering in the lower-middle. Truthfully, the local fans are delighted. Sometimes, when expectations are modest, satisfaction comes easily. If the team manages to stay up each year and occasionally win a game to lift spirits, that’s enough. No one ever dared dream of a championship.

This defines the temperament of the Jiangzhou Blue Wind team, somewhat akin to Bai Haonan’s own self-image.

Honestly, how many people are true winners in life? He’s quite content with everything he has now.

Today’s match was, as usual, much the same.

With the three-foreigners policy in effect, every team tries to use their foreign player slots in the most impactful positions—up front, where scoring matters. Blue Wind can’t afford famous foreigners, so they always hunt for cheap, unknown defenders and midfielders from Eastern Europe or South America, trying to strengthen their back line. If they can throw someone up front and hope for the best, so be it—but at least their defense remains relatively solid.

So watching Blue Wind play is a roller-coaster for fans: most league teams, facing them, launch wave after wave of attacks, with the top-ranked clubs often dominating, staging a half-field offensive drill, besieging Blue Wind’s penalty area. Blue Wind, like a thick-skinned, rough-bodied heavyweight, just endures and endures—or rather, defends and defends.

If you stand outside the stadium and listen, you’ll hear the fans’ hearts beating in suspense, a rhythm of sudden silence, then exclamations, followed by tens of thousands collectively sighing in relief, then applauding with delight—until, moments later, the tension returns as the opponent fires another shot, another gasp, then more applause…

Today’s opponent was a team that always ranks in the top five, making the attack-and-defense drill even more intense. Silence, exclamations, applause—all came at a rapid pace.

Bai Haonan, listed among the substitutes, wore his usual sweatpants and hoodie, but didn’t sit on the bench. Instead, he stood at the exit from the second-floor executive box, arms folded, leaning against the door frame, watching the match. The staff nearby were familiar with his habit of lingering there, and asked if he wanted some watermelon or other fruit—leftovers from the VIP box. In the end, Bai Haonan took a banana, but didn’t eat it; he simply held it under his nose to smell.

If someone looked him in the eye, they’d notice he was a bit absent-minded today, just as carelessly nonchalant as he always seemed.

Ordinarily, this would be the only time when he was truly focused.

That phone call still hadn’t gotten through, and borrowing someone else’s phone would leave traces. He cautiously tried twice, then gave up, quietly deleting the records. But rumor had it, the telecommunications bureau would still keep a log.

By some twist of fate, Bai Haonan missed a one-way message because of a wretched woman!

He really felt helpless.

What should he do?

This question haunted Bai Haonan throughout the first half, until he caught sight of Old Chen turning frequently toward the bench. Only then did he force himself to focus on the pitch.

Because, at thirty-two minutes, under relentless pressure, the visiting team finally scored a goal through their new foreign player, plunging the stadium into gloom, but soon stirring up an even stronger wave of encouragement.

Blue Wind trailing was commonplace—they needed support!

A few minutes before the referee blew for halftime, Old Chen got up and headed to the locker room. Only those who knew him well might notice he glanced up at the executive box, perhaps looking for VIPs or sponsors.

Bai Haonan had already slipped away from his spot at the exit.

When all the players filed into the locker room, they saw, as always, Old Chen sitting like a meditating monk in the only big armchair, eyes closed in thought. Bai Haonan sat far off in the corner, changing into his jersey in a space where he was almost never noticed. The temperature wasn’t cold, but there was a breeze, so he put a training top over his short-sleeved jersey, then carefully laced up his boots—standard SG studs. Unlike trendy hairstyles, Bai Haonan always chose the most ordinary boots—not the cheapest, but certainly not the latest, ever-changing fashion. Classic black Adidas World Cup boots, an old-school style from the eighties, more like referee shoes nowadays. While most players replace their boots every few matches and training sessions, Bai Haonan’s last for months. Including training, he rotates just three or four identical pairs, slowly wearing them down—a remarkably low operating cost.

The sweat-soaked starters were used to this routine, loudly discussing, complaining, or cursing the referee and opponents. Two or three substitutes (apart from the backup keeper) came over and quietly approached Bai Haonan: “Are you going in, Brother Nan?”

Bai Haonan looked confused: “Huh? I’m still waiting for Old Chen’s instructions…”

If anyone checked the league appearance sheets from the past few years, they’d see that, even when relegated to the lower division, Bai Haonan—a professional player for over twenty years since leaving sports school—had never started a match under Old Chen’s stewardship. Even as a substitute, he always appeared in the second half. To most players and coaches, he was a fringe player, one whose stamina couldn’t sustain a full match.

And after coming on, few could recall any games where he dazzled. He rarely scored, never made memorable mistakes—just so ordinary, a shade better than players who didn’t make the pro team.

Perhaps, in other, more successful clubs, he’d never have earned a contract. But word was, Old Chen had coached him since childhood, so as Old Chen’s protégé, he stubbornly clung to his spot, scraping up substitute minutes. Even among Blue Wind’s players, many had little impression of Bai Haonan, apart from his fondness for nightlife and women, and his easygoing popularity—little else was known.

Old Chen’s meditative session ended after a few minutes, as the players cooled off. As usual, he began assigning tasks with precision: this number marks that number, today’s opponent’s strengths, their mood, the best countermeasures—detailed down to which side to favor when attacking or defending.

Since these were individual matchups, everyone had only a small, precise bit to remember, so they focused, nodded, and memorized. In the ten minutes before play resumed, Old Chen rarely spoke about overall strategy, sticking to these detailed instructions. When finished, he clapped his hands, signaling it was time to go.

Bai Haonan, still wrapped in his training top, went out to warm up on the track beside the pitch with the other substitutes.

Local Jiangzhou fans were familiar with him; the nearby stands erupted in shouts of “Old Nan” and “Haonan!” Because he was tall and handsome, female fans sometimes called out, “Old Nan, I love you!” provoking laughter all around.

At moments like this, Bai Haonan was always cool—never looking up at the stands, stretching his hamstrings while squinting at the pitch, observing whether the opponent was unsettled by the adjustments his own side had made.

Indeed, Old Chen’s instructions were all based on Bai Haonan’s earlier reports to the coach when he returned to the locker room.

Without a few tricks up his sleeve, how could he earn hundreds of thousands in salary and bonuses each year?

Of course, Bai Haonan never dreamed of competing with the million-dollar stars. Some things are just fate.

He felt his fate was already more than good enough.