Chapter 9 — Little Goose Leg, Creating a Legend
"Easy auto, one-click complete, free your feet, bringing the host a relaxed and joyful pitch experience! Shooting training begins."
Xia Qi's aura changed abruptly!
A few more blades of sharpness around his brows and eyes,
a few more streaks of confidence in his every movement.
Pat Rice has coached for years and seen all kinds of players; seeing Xia Qi now, he suddenly realized the answer was written all over his face.
He understood at once — Xia Qi had been "fishing" in the earlier session.
Imagining the worst!
Pat Rice thought Xia Qi had deliberately held something back in his training session.
That was something Pat Rice could not accept.
Training's purpose is to squeeze out a player's potential so their ability steadily improves.
That was Pat Rice's training philosophy, which is why he earned a reputation as someone who makes slackers quake in their boots.
[If you slack in my session,
face my wrath, kid!]
Pat Rice was so furious his teeth itched; he skipped the roll call and, in a flash, hit the start button.
He expected Xia Qi to take a loss — to have the first explosive move mistimed like Andrey Arshavin once did.
But who knew…
When the button was pressed,
Xia Qi was shocked: Father Christmas was so sly and shameless — damn, this petty trick, a sharp retort feels good now but the shoe-burning aftermath will be hell; I must be on the death list.
Although his mind had wandered, it didn't affect his foot speed one bit.
In fact, it couldn't — this wasn't the same him anymore!
As soon as the yellow light came on, he was there.
"What a quick reaction!" Andrey Arshavin exclaimed.
"Shit! 1.81 seconds! This kid is a sleeping tiger," someone said.
"What!" Arshavin cried. "Is that for 10 meters? Usain Bolt's 10m sprint is 1.65 seconds."
"Are you questioning my professionalism? Or this device? Anyway, that speed's nothing special — there's a Bale down at White Hart Lane who runs that fast."
One sprint, one turn,
nothing remarkable at first,
but after a few sets,
not only Pat Rice but even Arshavin saw clearly: Xia Qi had indeed been hiding something; no wonder he had that confidence.
"Boss, Xia Qi's been concealing his strength."
"Shut up!"
"My eyes aren't blind."
Arshavin saw Pat Rice about to blow his top and took a step back to keep his distance.
He felt a bit wronged: Xia Qi dug the trap, why are you burying me? Still, he was thrilled — he wanted to see the man who terrifies slackers get humiliated. When they'd bet earlier he should've just corrected it then.
On the training pitch, Xia Qi moved like a phantom — as soon as the yellow light flashed, he was there. His speed was clearly much faster than earlier, even without looking at the timer.
And the shooting was extraordinary,
every time a volley without the ball settling,
each strike hit a green post.
Four shots in ten minutes, not a single miss.
"Shit, this kid not only hid his ability, he hid it this deep — bastard! Crap!"
"I hear Chinese players are usually humble."
"Don't justify that kid. Not giving full effort in training is unforgivable."
God as my witness,
Xia Qi had given full effort in both sessions,
the first time it was him, and the second time it was also him!
Despite the words on Pat Rice's lips, inside he wasn't really angry.
Under Wenger's influence, the Wenger camp loved prodigies, especially "genius" youngsters.
Pat Rice thought even an 18-year-old Cristiano Ronaldo hadn't been this good.
Now he didn't care about winning or losing the bet; he just wanted to know how much Xia Qi had been hiding.
Gosh,
a socially anxious kid can be terrifying!
Oh!
No —
adorable!
Pat Rice and Arsène Wenger hadn't understood how City could be willing to sell Xia Qi; now they started to see a bit of the reason.
Surely Xia Qi had been holding back!
Shy,
inarticulate, not good at communicating, not good at showing off…
No wonder Arsenal got him cheap.
After deciding that, Pat Rice turned the training difficulty up from normal to hard.
The indoor shooting machine has three difficulty settings: easy, normal, hard.
"Boss, you can't do that…"
Arshavin tried to stop him — what a joke. Xia Qi was only 18; what if he pulled a muscle? That wouldn't be worth it.
"Get out!"
"Get the hell out."
Arshavin was ushered out.
[Training is my profession, kid — don't worry about it.
This is Arsenal's Xia Qi. Do you think I won't protect him?]
Xia Qi was still in one-click auto. If he knew Uncle Rice's inner thoughts he'd definitely reply: right! All your fuss is for show! The Premier League's biggest infirmary isn't your "blame."
Arshavin was expelled,
and soon the whole base knew a rookie had dared to set a trap for the dreaded trainer — and the dreaded trainer was about to be stung.
At Colney, Pat Rice's prestige is second only to Wenger — many players fear him even more than Wenger himself!
People like him often get hated for their rigor; Pat Rice was no exception.
For a while morale soared!
Awesome!
Little goose leg, creating a myth!
Everyone wanted to know what kind of "goose leg" that was.
Even the dreaded trainer looked like he might kneel.
Players, coaches, staff — even the cleaning ladies — pressed at the windows.
"Vindicated! I never thought I'd see Uncle Rice gnash his teeth like this. Tonight we go to Blue Enchantress for a drink."
"Xia Qi's too merciful. What smile? He's going to streak."
"You're not afraid of eye-searing visuals? Besides, you haven't won yet."
"Yo, he's past me — eight consecutive hits."
"Your level's a disgrace to forwards. My record is 13 in a row; Xia Qi can't beat that."
"Ha… 14. What's our club record?"
"Dennis Bergkamp — the Ice Prince — set 21 consecutive hits in '96 on hard mode."
Xia Qi didn't notice the difficulty had been increased.
He was concentrating on "stealing the craft" of one-click auto.
It turned out football isn't just seen with the eyes, it's felt with the heart.
Eyes, ears, brain, and body — a four-dimensional integration.
For example: when you sprint left to right, the probability that the near-right post will flash yellow next drops, while behind and left become much more likely for the next yellow.
Because changes of direction and shuttle runs are both a difficulty and a training subject.
And training aims to improve ability, not to torture people, so no matter how Pat Rice felt, the next yellow light would still be within a doable range.
You can then use elimination to discard impossible choices in advance — the remaining target is what you focus on — this way you get there fast and won't run around like a headless fly.
Shooting is similar, but it adds an ear — careful listening can suggest the ball's incoming direction and height.
Xia Qi believed these techniques were applicable on the pitch; having a "wide vision" isn't just a broader angle — it's a kind of anticipation, a "view with the heart."
Immersed in training in the indoor hall,
he didn't notice that the interval between light changes had shortened, that the ball machine's speed had increased and its angles grown trickier.
He still hit them one by one… zero errors continuing!
Bicycle kick,
aerial side-hook,
scorpion kick,
volley,
two-touch,
chip drive,
backheel,
outside-of-the-foot curl,
lower-leg strike,
toe poke,
instep push,
block tackle shot,
high bombarding,
diving header,
…
There was always a method that fit…
"How many in a row have hit?"
"Eighteen, close to the record of 21."
"Thought he was a rookie, turns out he's a boss."
When news of a possible club record spread, the windows were packed; everyone wanted to witness a new club moment.
"Nineteen!"
"Twenty!"
"Twenty-one!"
"Wow!"
"Sublime!"
"Xia Qi! One more."
"One more!"
"Come on, Xia Qi!"
Cheers, shouts, applause filled the air.
Inside the training hall.
Difficulty increased.
What had been a shot every two or three minutes now had green lights only every five or six minutes.
More changes of direction and shuttle sprints exhausted Xia Qi's stamina.
Yet Xia Qi wasn't affected and continued to strike each post.
Pat Rice nearly stopped the session several times, but Xia Qi's poise and actions looked effortless.
He felt he could wait a little longer.
Logically, a player will give up when they're exhausted.
"Twenty-two!"
"Twenty-three!"
"Twenty-four!"
"…"
With each hit the count outside matched it.
Unconsciously the record climbed to 26 and many were stunned.
Those who had trained knew that number was a myth — it would stand for a long time as unbroken.
After today, "the Kung Fu Little Prince who has phantom feet" would spread among Arsenal fans as a rumor.
"Ding-dong"
"Your regional legend begins (Colney)."
"Ding, legend +1."
"Ding, legend +1."
"Ding, legend +1."
That annoying sound interrupted Xia Qi's moment of enlightenment.
Interrupting someone's Enlightenment is like killing their parents!
System, come out!
If I don't beat you, I'm not Xia!
So maddening! Forcing me to roll up my sleeves.
Wait — how long has this been?
No, I don't want to turn to mush!
My body!
Pat Rice,
Pat Rice!
Dear, lovely, respectable Uncle Rice, call it off!
I don't want to be in pain flipping over in bed tonight; I don't want to eat patient food…
I give up!
Ah! Help!
Help!
Who can save me?
…
…
"Beep!"
Professor Wenger blew his whistle angrily outside.
At the sound of the whistle, Xia Qi collapsed like putty; the team doctors, prepared in advance, rushed in — some checking, some massaging, some setting up IVs…
Pat Rice stared in surprise at Xia Qi's sudden collapse.
He had seemed to be completely in control the whole time,
so why suddenly hit overload…
He had been watching Xia Qi closely; whenever there was the slightest sign of strain, he would stop the session immediately.
The result…
Oh right, Xia Qi's eyes had been hollow — that meant he'd already been over the limit, only held up by sheer will.
Pat Rice imagined the perfect conclusion. He felt a bit scared and guilty… and then moved to say:
"This kid has amazing willpower!"
Wenger glared angrily at Pat Rice, looking as if he wanted to eat him whole; Pat Rice quickly moved back.
Wenger wasn't used to shouting; his stern, agitated chest made people keep their distance.
"Boss, how did you tell he was drained?"
"One hour of super-intense training would wear out even an iron man."
"Pat, that's common sense. Our sessions are supposed to force a rest after half an hour. You're very experienced — how did you make such a basic mistake?"
"Sorry — I saw him so relaxed I ignored his eyes."
"We train scientifically, not on feeling…"
Wenger said that and then, not paying further attention to Uncle Rice, bent and kindly asked Xia Qi:
"Child, how are you feeling?"
Since getting the one-click auto system, Xia Qi always ended up like putty; he had a prepared reply process for this.
"Boss, don't scold him — I can take a lot. Rest a bit and I'll be fine. If you're not convinced, I'll do a medical check-up later and I guarantee I'll be full of energy tomorrow."
Wenger glanced at the team doctor; seeing no objection, he breathed out.
Although Pat Rice shot him a grateful look, Xia Qi still wasn't finished teasing him, and asked:
"Did I win?"
"You did. You did!"
"You broke the record."
Teammates scrambled to answer for Pat Rice.
"Boss, what about the bet?"
"All right, this week I'll wear a smile."
"What? Streaking? It's streaking!"
Captain Thomas Vermaelen started the chant.
Spreading rumors and piling up false charges — necessary!
"What streaking? The bet between me and Xia Qi was…"
"Streaking!"
"Streaking!"
"Streaking!"
"Xia Qi, Arshavin — what was the wager?"
Xia Qi and Arshavin both looked up to the sky, planes, planes!
"Streak!"
"Streak!"
The players began to hoot again.
Pat Rice helplessly took off his top; the ladies outside the training room all bolted.
He loosened his belt halfway and then, amid anticipation, tightened it back up.
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
"Vermaelen, I said I'd wear a smile — I want you to run three laps on the pitch right now. Arshavin, see my smile? Run five laps…"
The players dispersed in a roar!
The dreaded trainer remains the dreaded trainer; your granddad will always be your granddad… bloodline dominance!
(END CHAPTER)
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