4: Chapter 4 The Second Home, from British Football Culture

The black cab turned into the tree-lined avenue of Hampstead Garden Suburb. The setting sun was sliced into pieces by the layers of leaves, spilling onto the red-brick, gabled detached villa. Ivy covered the walls, and the white window frames were dazzlingly bright.

Yu Bai's house was on the corner. Red tiles, three towering brick chimneys. The boxwood hedge in the front yard was meticulously trimmed, marking a boundary half a person's height, while the hydrangeas on the lawn were in full bloom, clusters of blue-purple and pink-white. He pushed open the black wrought-iron gate, and a flagstone path cut through the garden, leading to the oak front door.

The foyer ceiling was over three meters high, and the oak floor was polished to a mirror shine. The marble fireplace still held the residual warmth from the night before, and the air carried a faint scent of dust that had been baked in the sunlight.

The first-floor living room faced the back garden, and pushing open the floor-to-ceiling windows led directly to a spacious lawn terrace. When Henry came for a home visit, he had pointed here and said: "This place is amazing, Bai. Watching football, barbecues, perfect." But the grill had never been unpacked, and aside from two lonely lounge chairs, the terrace was empty. Except for the people Linda regularly arranged to come and clean, very few people ever came to this house. It was too big; even footsteps had an echo.

It only took twelve minutes to drive from here to the Emirates Stadium. While White Hart Lane took over twenty minutes. In this neighborhood, no one ever mentioned Tottenham Hotspur.

Yu Bai returned to pack his luggage. He didn't intend to keep living here.

He had long heard of "host families." It was a "second home" arranged by the club for young players, and in true English football culture, it was almost a standard feature of youth training. He wanted to experience it. Besides, it would be more convenient—he didn't have a driver's license, and transferring between subways and taxis every day was a waste of time and energy. If he lived in a host family arranged by the club, he could walk to the training ground.

More importantly, he hated staying in the big house alone. Silence would eat up time, and emptiness would breed laziness. It was a kind of gentle, expensive torture.

Now he had the System. It felt strange, like suddenly carrying a piece of gold in his arms that no one else knew about, heavy and carrying a scorching temperature. People are just like that; when heavily in debt, they might want to just lie flat, but if they see hope for their savings to grow, their interest will perk up. He had to throw himself into a "normal," supervised environment. He was afraid that if he were alone, he would just stare at that glowing panel and waste away.

...

Northern outskirts of London, Enfield, Winchmore Hill.

The taxi stopped in front of a row of red-brick townhouses. The street was quiet, and seasonal flowers were blooming in the neatly trimmed front gardens.

Yu Bai checked the address on the slip of paper; it was this one. The house looked a bit old, but it was well-maintained, with a tall oak tree in front casting a large area of shade. He caught a glimpse of half a barbecue grill sticking out in the backyard, its body blackened by smoke, clearly something frequently used.

He had just paid the fare when he heard movement from the direction of the house.

The door opened, and three people walked out one after another. An elderly grandmother with silver-white hair wearing a floral dress, a kind-faced middle-aged woman wearing an apron, and a stout man with a booming voice. They had smiles on their faces and walked straight toward the taxi.

"Bai! Is that you, kid?"

The man shouted in authentic English with a bit of a North London accent, his voice sounding exceptionally loud on the quiet street.

Yu Bai pushed the door open and got out, smiled at them, and nodded to the grandmother and the woman: "Hello, I am Yu Bai. I'm from Hong Kong, China. My grandmother was also a Londoner, but she moved to Hong Kong with her family when she was very young. It's very nice to meet you."

"Oh, look at you," the woman, Susan, stepped forward and looked him over carefully, her eyes filled with genuine appreciation, "You are truly the best-looking Asian boy I have ever seen. Honestly, you could live quite well just on your looks alone."

"Susan!" The man laughed loudly and patted Yu Bai's shoulder firmly, his palm thick and strong, "Don't listen to her; in football, you speak with your feet. I'm David Thompson, I work in dispatch at Victoria Station, been doing it for over twenty years."

He turned to the side to introduce, "This is my mother, Margaret. Her memory isn't what it used to be, but she hasn't forgotten a single person who has played for Tottenham."

"And this," he put his arm around his wife's shoulder, "is Susan, the best primary school teacher in the world, and also my boss."

Grandma Margaret took a step forward and reached out her hand. Her hand was a bit dry and wrinkled, but very warm, and she gently shook Yu Bai's hand.

"Child, it's not easy playing football away from home. Treat this place as your own home; we all love you."

Yu Bai's throat tightened. That phrase "we all love you" was said so naturally, just like saying the weather was nice today. In his own empty house, filled only with echoes, no one had ever said that to him. A surge of sour heat rushed into his nasal cavity, and he hurriedly lowered his head, blinking hard.

"Thank you," when he looked up again, his smile was a little too forced, "Really... thank you."

Dinner was already prepared. On the long dining table, Yu Bai saw three familiar white takeout boxes, with the red logo of a nearby Chinese restaurant printed on the lids. Opening them, there was Kung Pao Chicken, stir-fried pork with chili, and a steamed fish. Heat mixed with a familiar aroma wafted up.

Yu Bai looked at those dishes, and somewhere in his heart was gently nudged. He looked up: "Mr. Thompson, why... do you call me 'Bai'?"

David wore an "I knew it" expression, his smile causing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes to bunch up: "The club told us you came from China, so we looked it up ourselves. 'Yu' is your family name, just like our 'Thompson'. And 'Bai' is your given name, right?"

He poured himself a glass of beer, his tone matter-of-fact, "At home, we all use given names. So, 'Bai'—that is the right way."

Grandma Margaret was slowly cutting the fish on her plate and nodded: "David is right. You are family, so we should use your given name."

Yu Bai lowered his head and took a bite of rice. The rice was steamed just right, each grain distinct. He chewed very slowly, afraid that if he opened his mouth, his voice would tremble.

Dinner continued with pleasant chatter. They talked about the history of Tottenham, discussed those glorious moments and embarrassing incidents, and inevitably mentioned Arsenal.

"We know where you came from," David shrugged, downing a large gulp of beer, "but once you put on our jersey, you are our child. It's as simple as that."

Yu Bai learned that the Thompson family had two other children; the eldest son was a lawyer, and the youngest daughter did independent music, neither of whom came home often. The house had many empty rooms, so they had been a host family for Tottenham for five years. Yu Bai was the eighth young player to move in.

"The previous seven," Susan added a spoonful of chicken for him, her tone flat but tinged with a bit of regret, "none of them managed to enter the U21s. Some went to lower-level Leagues, and some... went back home."

...

Before going to bed at night, Susan knocked on the door of Yu Bai's third-floor room with a cup of warm milk—the door was not closed. She saw Yu Bai wearing a vest and shorts, doing planks on the floor, veins bulging on his arms and neck, sweat beads dripping down his jawline, spreading dark spots on the light-colored carpet.

"Bai," she placed the milk on the nightstand, "Get some rest early. You are a good kid."

Yu Bai squeezed out a "thank you" through his teeth, his body trembling slightly from the continuous exertion. Susan gently closed the door and left.

He held on for another thirty seconds before collapsing to the floor, his chest heaving violently. He looked at the ceiling, gasping for breath. Strength, 32. This number was like a thorn stuck in his mind. In England, without physicality, all technique is a castle in the air.

He climbed up, drank the cup of warm milk in one go, and then took a quick hot shower. The water washed over his tired muscles, and he was almost falling asleep while standing.

This sleep was so deep it was like Passing out.

When he woke up the next day, it was just barely dawn. The moment his consciousness cleared, he "saw" the System's update.

[Gain the favor of the head coach, obtain the first starting opportunity after returning, reward 3 definition points]

The text was simple, the goal clear. Yu Bai stared at that line of text for a few seconds, and a long-lost, solid desire burned from the bottom of his heart. Hard work was no longer fumbling in the boundless darkness; there was a concrete, glowing point ahead. He liked this feeling.

He finished washing up and went downstairs. Susan was looking in the mirror in the first-floor living room, and seeing him come in, she handed him a glass of warm water: "First thing in the morning, hydrate."

Yu Bai took it and obediently drank it all. The water temperature was just right, with a hint of lemon fragrance.

Breakfast was prepared by David, so sumptuous that Yu Bai was stunned for a moment. In front of him was a bowl of oatmeal cooked with semi-skimmed milk, with honey and banana slices added; two slices of whole-wheat toast with a thin layer of butter; a boiled egg; and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

"Oatmeal, slow carbs, lasts all morning. Toast, fast carbs. Eggs, grow muscle."

David, while pouring himself coffee, pointed around with his fork, "Orange juice, vitamins. Football is physical work, kid, you have to feed your body."

Yu Bai knew that the boarding fee provided by the club was definitely not enough for a breakfast like this every day. He picked up his spoon and scooped up a mouthful of oatmeal; the rich milky aroma and the sweet smoothness of the honey melted in his mouth. This wasn't a transaction; this was something simpler—because they loved football, they also loved the children who played it.

Who needed a big villa after this? He was willing to live here forever.

"Is today your first day of training?"

David bit into his toast and asked vaguely, "You probably won't make it to the home game against Brighton U18 tomorrow, right?"

He had obviously searched for Yu Bai online and knew he was the assist king for Arsenal U16, but U16 and U18 were two different things.

"Who knows?"

Yu Bai took a bite of his boiled egg; the egg white was tender and smooth. "What if I surprise everyone in training today? Coach McKenna wouldn't have a reason not to let me play, right?"

"Hahaha!" David laughed out loud, almost spraying his coffee. "Good kid! I like that attitude of yours!"

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Although Kieran McKenna has only been leading the U18s for a year, I've watched a few of his matches. He's a coach who knows how to use his players; he has a clear head."

Grandma Margaret slowly set down her orange juice and looked at her son and daughter-in-law: "David, Susan, are you free tomorrow? Let's go to the stadium and cheer for Bai."

"Of course!" Susan responded immediately.

"We must go!" David decided.

Yu Bai's chewing slowed down. He felt a strange pressure, heavy, yet warm. Having family sitting in the stands watching you play... This feeling was unfamiliar, yet it made his nose sore in a good way. He nodded vigorously and swallowed the last bite of the egg.

...

Feeling too full, Yu Bai strolled slowly to Hotspur Way.

There were already quite a few people in the locker room. The U18 squad had 22 official members, but right now, there were over thirty faces squeezed in, and the smell of competition permeated the air along with the scent of sweat and disinfectant. Some he recognized from having played against them in U16 matches; most were strangers.

David had "educated" him on a few names last night: the youngest, only 15-year-old defensive midfielder Oliver Skipp; the defensive cornerstone, Japhet Tanganga, who was often called up to the U21s; the England youth team regular, goalkeeper Brandon Austin; and that sharp attacking knife, the "kid from another family" who scored goals like they were nothing, Kazaiah Sterling—Yu Bai had a deep impression of him; fast speed, fierce Shooting. Another was Shayon Harrison, the one who scored a Hat-trick against Arsenal U18 last season.

He had to compete with these people. Yu Bai put on his training vest and tied his shoelaces.

"Yu."

He looked up, and another lone Asian face walked over. Ryotaro Araki, a Japanese midfielder he had played against in U16. Their technical characteristics were similar, and they played the same position; they were natural rivals. But right now, the two "outsiders" subconsciously huddled together to confront the greater sense of strangeness and isolation.

"Yu-kun," Ryotaro's English had a distinct Japanese accent and sounded a bit tense. "Are you nervous? I... am a little. I haven't played for the U18s yet."

"I'm not nervous," Yu Bai tied his last shoelace, stood up, and jumped in place. "Because being nervous is useless."

"..." Ryotaro choked, opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything.

During warm-ups, the two naturally paired up, Passing the ball to each other. Simple push Passing with the inside of the foot, at a distance of twenty meters. But after a few exchanges, Ryotaro's eyes changed. Every time Yu Bai passed the ball, it carried a strange, intense spin, tracing a clear arc in the air. It wasn't a straight line, but it always landed precisely in front of his preferred foot. Even more terrifying was the speed and weight of the ball—just right. The full, satisfying tactile sensation when controlling the ball was completely different from the Yu Bai he remembered from the U16 days.

"Yu-kun," Ryotaro stopped the ball and couldn't help asking, "Did you... have special training with Beckham? This arc... is unbelievable."

"I wish," Yu Bai shrugged, lightly cushioning the ball that bounced back with his instep. "But the golden boy doesn't do private coaching. Besides, is this kind of thing something you can just be taught?"

Ryotaro looked at the obedient ball under Yu Bai's feet, and the thought of competing for the starting attacking midfielder spot suddenly cooled by half. He might not even be able to beat this Chinese guy.

After youth director John McDermott gave a brief pep talk, U18 head coach Kieran McKenna divided the players into three groups: red, blue, and yellow. Yu Bai got a yellow vest and was assigned to the "third team." The assistant coach told him to play attacking midfielder, in a 4-2-3-1 formation, emphasizing front-court pressing and tracking back—completely replicating the tactical requirements of the first team's Mauricio Pochettino.

"In the next half month, we will cut ten people."

John McDermott's voice wasn't loud, but every word slammed into the air of the pitch. "The club doesn't care about terminating a few more apprenticeship contracts. Let your performance do the talking."

The rules for the scrimmage were simple: red and blue would play first, the team that scored would leave the field, and the yellow team would come on. If no one scored in 15 minutes, it would be decided by penalties.

Yu Bai put on the yellow vest and clapped his hands, wanting to call his temporary teammates over to discuss briefly. At Arsenal U16, Henry always required him to do this.

"Yu Bai."

A cold voice interrupted him. Dylan Duncan, a midfielder who had played against him in U16 and lost. Near the end of that match, this white kid had yelled at him, "Chinese football is trash," and Yu Bai hadn't held back, delivering a dirty tackle that made him roll around holding his leg. A grudge had been formed.

"This isn't Arsenal U16." Dylan stared at him, the hostility in his eyes undisguised. "Cut that out."

Dylan's partner, Jack Roles, a tall and thin midfielder, also crossed his arms and chimed in: "That's right, Chinese. Play your position well and don't drag us down. You're destined to be one of those ten, and we aren't. Understand?"

Several teammates exchanged glances, but no one spoke. Race, plus his Arsenal background—these two labels were enough to isolate him.

Yu Bai looked at them for two seconds, then smiled, said nothing, turned around, walked to the sidelines, and sat down in a corner. There was no point in talking to people who didn't get it. Football, in the end, had to be spoken with your feet.

Dylan and Jack high-fived, laughing ostentatiously. Yu Bai heard Dylan lower his voice and say to the others: "Don't pass to him. Let him fail on his own."

...

The confrontation between the red and blue teams didn't last long. In less than ten minutes, Shayon Harrison received the ball at the edge of the penalty area, a light touch to stop and turn, created an angle, and shot low with his left foot. The ball hugged the ground and darted into the net. Crisp and clean.

The blue team left the field, and the yellow team, where Yu Bai was, went on.

The whistle blew.

Three minutes into the match, Yu Bai's touches were zero. The ball was transferred back and forth on the two flanks, just refusing to go to the center. Dylan and Jack controlled possession, deliberately avoiding the area he was in. Yu Bai wasn't anxious; he followed the tactical requirements, running at a steady pace in the front court, pressing, retreating, and making forward runs. Football is round, and so are opportunities.

In the fourth minute, the red team's forward Passing intention from the backfield was too obvious. While tracking back, Yu Bai suddenly stopped, started in the opposite direction, and happened to block the Passing route. A block with the instep, and he intercepted the ball!

A counterattack formed instantly.

Two against three in the front court. As Yu Bai dribbled past the midfield line, he looked up to observe. The only yellow teammate, that tall Scottish striker, was sprinting forward, but a defender was stuck to him. Another red team player was retreating while defending, seven or eight meters away from him.

The usual choice would be to continue dribbling to attract defense, or pass to a teammate making a run on the flank. But Yu Bai "saw" a different line.

He suddenly used the inside of his right foot to chip the lower middle part of the ball.

"No!!!" Coach McKenna was very angry, "What are you doing! Passed too early! What kind of blind pass is that!"

The ball carried a violent counter-clockwise spin, roared into the air, and carved out an exaggerated, counter-intuitive arc. It first flew toward the right side of the goal, then suddenly turned sharply in mid-air—not toward the goal, but circling in a large arc, skillfully avoiding the interception range of the two red team defenders, and like it had eyes, dropped toward the only gap on the left side of the penalty area.

The red team goalkeeper, Brandon Austin, had already judged the initial direction and moved two steps to intercept, but now he froze in place, watching helplessly as the ball passed in the opposite direction of his prediction.

The tall Scottish striker didn't expect the ball to actually reach him. In a panic, he barely used his chest to cushion it, and the ball fell in front of him. The collision from the defender behind him had already arrived, and the goalkeeper had also rushed out. He had no time to adjust, so relying on instinct, he pushed the ball with his instep.

The ball squeezed through the narrow gap between the goalkeeper's armpit and the goalpost, crashing into the side netting.

Goal.

The sidelines were silent for a moment.

"Yes!!!"

Coach McKenna suddenly sprang up from his seat, clapping vigorously, with undisguised excitement on his face.

"Hahaha! Beautiful pass! Beautiful Shooting too!"

He turned to the assistant coach beside him, who had a stunned expression, and pointed at the field, "Did you see that arc? God, that arc!"

The assistant coaches looked at each other with strange expressions.

Just thirty seconds ago, the same McKenna had yelled a loud "No!" at Yu Bai's "premature" pass and cursed.

Yu Bai stood in place, watching his celebrating Scottish teammate, and slowly exhaled. He could feel several gazes nailed to his back.

One of them came from Dylan Duncan, who was standing behind him with his arms crossed. The smugness on his face had frozen.