Chapter 6: He Stood with His Hands in His Pockets
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Snap! After a high-five with his teammate, Tang Ye ran onto the pitch, an unusual pressure settling over him. Yet, this pressure did not stem from worry about his performance, but rather from the fact that he was entering the game earlier than expected. Based on his training experience, if he played in the first half, the second half would be utterly exhausting—breathless exhaustion, a torment for Tang Ye!
“Run, don’t walk!” Merent’s voice came from behind just as Tang Ye sprinted toward his midfield position.
“I know, I know!” Tang Ye replied, eager to prove himself, and charged toward the opposing player with the ball. Merent looked on with satisfaction. Indeed, such disobedient players need a firm hand.
In truth, there are no players inherently disciplined; it’s the coaches who scold that breed disciplined athletes.
“Tang Ye is on the field. He gave a stunning performance in the last warm-up match, but due to limited playing time, many fans only remember that outside-foot strike.”
“Today, Tang Ye starts in the first half. With so much game time, we should see more of his strengths.”
Though true, after Tang Ye took the field, Wang Chao quietly returned backstage to place a new bet on a draw, hoping to minimize losses.
In the first few minutes, Tang Ye pressed aggressively, nearly stealing the ball at one point. But five minutes in, he suddenly stopped running. The camera caught player number 99 from the second team placing his hands on his buttocks and strolling across the pitch.
“Lazy pig, run!” Merent shouted. Just as he spoke, Tang Ye had retreated to support Amrabat’s pass reception. Once he received the ball, Tang Ye began to advance forward.
He ran slowly, giving the defenders of Rotterdam Sparta a chance. Yet Utrecht were no fools; seeing a player approach Tang Ye, Zaka quickly fell back and signaled for the ball. Tang Ye never refused a pass when someone wanted the ball.
Snap! Passing to Zaka, Tang Ye slowed from running to walking, moving forward while observing the field. Running was tiring, but watching was easy—Tang Ye preferred this relaxed work.
During his stroll, Tang Ye spotted a gap ahead. He dodged the opposing defender and suddenly accelerated forward.
“Pass it, pass it!” Merent urged. Zaka reacted quickly, sending a through ball with the instep.
On screen, Tang Ye controlled the ball, now less than five meters from the arc’s top. Unfortunately, Utrecht lacked a tall enough striker to dominate the penalty area.
“Give it to me!” Kallon on the right called for the ball. Tang Ye glanced right, instantly assessing the right flank.
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This wasn’t a good passing opportunity. He looked left instead and decisively curled the ball with the outside of his foot.
“Tang Ye, another outside-foot pass to the wing, again!” Wang Chao shouted, then realized something was off. Tang Ye’s pass didn’t reach any left-side players but instead curved in a “C” shape toward the left baseline.
“Damn it, crap, straight out of bounds!” Wang Chao yelled, regretting his decision to hedge with a draw after Tang Ye entered.
Yet just as the ball neared the left post, almost out of bounds, a player sprinted in from the left.
It was Utrecht’s left-back, Trupe!
With a bang, Trupe’s header found the net.
“Wha... what?” Bro, are you serious with that pass?
Only the live ambient sound filled the broadcast; Wang Chao was speechless—not because of a glitch, but because he had nothing to say.
The camera showed Trupe celebrating, rushing toward Tang Ye.
“What the hell is that pass? What the hell!” “Damn it, 2–0, Utrecht leads Rotterdam Sparta 2–0!”
Beep, beep! The referee’s whistle marked halftime as players slowly headed to the tunnel.
Utrecht’s players wore smiles, except Tang Ye.
He was already tired.
“Tom!” “Tom!” “Tom!”
Over a thousand Utrecht fans chanted Tang Ye’s name. For these Dutch supporters, the name “Tang” was hard to pronounce, so they opted for an English substitute.
“Hey, Tang, the fans are waving at you—why no response?” Zaka patted Tang Ye’s back, reminding him.
“What should I do now?” Tang Ye scratched his head.
“Wave back, wave to them!”
“Oh, okay, okay.” Catching his breath, Tang Ye raised his right hand.
“Wowww!”
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“Tom!” “Tom!” “Bang, bang, bang!”
The Utrecht second team’s warm-up match was free to watch, attracting only devoted local fans or those from nearby cities.
All were supporters of Utrecht’s first team, thrilled to see such talent in the reserves.
“I guarantee it!” A bearded man in the stands pounded his chest. “I promise this Asian kid will join the first team before he’s 18! Utrecht needs this kind of midfielder!”
The second half began. At halftime, Tang Ye requested a substitution from Merent but was predictably scolded by his good coach.
In the second half, Tang Ye resumed his leisurely stroll, but since that pass in the first half, the opposing team had heightened their marking on him.
Though Tang Ye wandered casually, Rotterdam Sparta assigned a player specifically to shadow him.
It was frustrating!
By the 70th minute, Tang Ye was gasping for air. The first-half fatigue was mental; now it was physical exhaustion—real, palpable tiredness.
While panting, Tang Ye’s eyes lit up—he spotted another gap, this time inside the penalty area.
His instinct told him this was a scoring chance. Clapping his hands, hands in pockets, he ambled toward the opponent’s box.
“Tang Ye, what’s going on? Walking straight into the box?”
“Hmm, walking or running? Seems like walking, his hands are in his pockets.”
“Wait, why are his hands in his pockets? What does that mean?”
“Never mind, Amrabat, send a through ball!”
“Tang Ye, facing the defender, adjust, pull the ball to your feet, the defender’s fooled—Tang Ye, push shot!”
“Goal!”
“Damn, Tang Ye scores! 3–0, 79th minute, 3–0! 3–0!”
[Awesome!]
[Tang Ye, you’re my hero, better than my own dad!]
[Tang Ye’s treating us to foot massages tonight!]
[Merent, master coach! Incredible!]
[Give a like... damn, a direct goal, Tang Ye!]
[Chinese helping Chinese! A goal from Tang Ye! Secured 3–0!]
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