Four hours ago

8:30 p.m.

Before he turned eight, Bai Haonan practiced table tennis with his father, as anyone would expect in China, where table tennis is the national sport. His father, Bai Lianjun, was a youth table tennis coach at the Jiangzhou municipal sports school, so naturally, he brought his son along, especially since he was raising him alone. In fact, ever since Bai Haonan could remember, at two or three years old, he was already scurrying around the training room picking up balls.

But the path to becoming a professional was brutally simple: talent was the absolute prerequisite. Without talent, nothing else mattered. Even though Bai Lianjun had once ranked among the top in the nation, by third grade Bai Haonan was being thoroughly outplayed by his peers. Others were already competing in city-level tournaments, while he saw no hope. His lack of subtle control—down to the tremor of a wrist or the precision of spin—finally made his father give up. No matter how many connections one might have in the world of table tennis, talent could not be faked. So, he quickly transferred his son to a soccer team coached by a friend. From then on, Bai Haonan trained under Old Chen at the district sports school.

Only Old Chen truly knew where Bai Haonan’s gift lay.

It wasn’t just about soccer. Bai Haonan had inherited athletic prowess from both his athlete parents—he was naturally better than most of his peers. Growing up within the sports school system, with professional training and nutrition, he’d never taken a wrong step.

But when, at twelve or thirteen, he began playing in provincial and national youth soccer tournaments, gathering with hundreds of the country’s top young athletes, Bai Haonan once again witnessed what true soccer talent meant. Purely in terms of soccer ability, he was still a step behind.

But by then, he already understood what made him unique.

Bai Lianjun even considered sending his son to train for Go or chess at the sports school.

Because even back when he was still playing table tennis, Bai Haonan discovered he could replay games in his mind.

To replay a game—this is a Go term. Professional Go players spend most of their training time not playing against others, but replaying games alone. Sometimes they follow famous games, sometimes their own, reconstructing each move. Many rely on notes, but some masters can replay games from memory—especially ones they just played—reconstructing every move from start to finish, analyzing gains and losses along the way, seeking lessons and experience. It’s a powerful way to improve.

When Bai Haonan was struggling with table tennis, his frustrated father would scold him for not understanding what was happening: “Why didn’t you see that? Are you stupid?” Bai Haonan, aggrieved, could replay the match from the very first point: “He did this, I did that, I thought he’d do this, but he played that way and I couldn’t reach…” Point by point, he could recount the entire game.

At first, his father, the table tennis coach, didn’t notice this trait. By the time he realized, Bai Haonan was already obsessed with soccer, always sticking with Old Chen.

From a young age, Bai Haonan replayed matches for Old Chen. In the days when camcorders were still a luxury, his ability was a magical asset. Thanks to him, an obscure district-level youth coach led his team to two national championships in the teenage age groups.

Jiangzhou’s youth soccer training had never matched the renowned programs of the northeast or southern Guangdong. But with these back-to-back upsets and the rise of professional leagues, Old Chen finally stepped onto the broad road of a professional coaching career.

Even today, with coaches widely using video analysis as a vital tool, Bai Haonan’s replaying ability remains unparalleled—because his is instant and live.

Bai Haonan, who had never studied much, had spent the past twenty years immersed in the world of soccer. He was used to watching all eleven opponents, swiftly extracting patterns and conclusions, then quietly reporting to Old Chen for tactical adjustments.

Without playback, how many people could clearly recall how often a particular forward made a breakthrough in the first half? Or how frequently he chose left or right? Who in the opposing squad had the most touches? Among similar numbers of touches, whose passes were actually effective? In a midfield seemingly shared by three or four, who was the real core, and what were his habits when receiving the ball? Did he look left or right first? Who was marking him?

In Bai Haonan’s mind, all these details were laid out in perfect order. Part of this was his extraordinary memory; the rest was likely a unique kind of logic.

For twenty years, Bai Haonan had trained his innate ability to replay and summarize—quickly organizing his observations, drawing conclusions, and passing them to Old Chen.

This was why he always watched the first half from the bench.

This was why he never worried about not getting playtime or missing out on his salary.

Without him, there would be no Old Chen.

For him, life was that simple—turning a seemingly trivial talent into a life of ease and freedom.

Yet Old Chen always wished he could go further, treating him like a son who refused to live up to his potential.

Fifteen minutes into the second half, Old Chen stood up from the bench, made a fist and a beckoning gesture to the substitutes warming up. The others, already familiar with the routine, called out, “Brother Nan! Old Chen wants you on!”

Bai Haonan had worn number sixteen since he was eight. While other kids fought to wear number ten, and later vied for nine, eleven, or even seven, Bai Haonan always wore the substitute’s number.

He sighed. To earn his full salary, he had to make at least fifteen substitute appearances each year and share the bonus with the starting players; otherwise, he’d lose a significant portion. So when he did go on, it was either to make up the numbers in garbage time or, like today, because Old Chen hoped he could change something.

But today, he truly didn’t want to play!

Though he’d never shrunk from a match before, he now quietly leaned over while taking off his warm-up jacket, “I’m not feeling well. Can I skip this one?”

Old Chen hadn’t expected him to dare say it. He drew a sharp breath, his face darkening as he was about to explode in front of tens of thousands: “You little—!”

Bai Haonan hurriedly tossed aside his jacket and ran, “Alright, alright! I know you and Bai Lianjun are brothers-in-law—maybe I’m your son for all I know!”

The assistant coach rushed over to restrain the furious Old Chen, just as another coach handed the substitute list to the fourth official. A break in play on the field gave Bai Haonan the chance to slip on and escape Old Chen’s wrath.

As always, Bai Haonan began whispering to each teammate he passed, “Old Chen says you should…”

He didn’t always have time to speak to everyone, but he told whoever he could, before taking up the position he’d played for twenty years.

If Bai Haonan’s talent could be merged with his play on the field, Old Chen had painstakingly carved out a role for him as a ball-winning defensive midfielder.

No matter the formation, whenever Bai Haonan played, he took that role, with the rest of the midfield adjusting accordingly. At first, Old Chen would explain the tweaks to the young Bai Haonan, sending him on with detailed instructions. By the time he reached fourteen or fifteen, Bai Haonan would improvise. As long as he had a brief word with Old Chen before going on, that was enough.

The referee’s whistle blew. The eternal substitute, Bai Haonan, stood in his usual spot, but today, he truly didn’t know how to play.

All that circled in his mind was: where exactly did the odds for this match stand?