Awakening the Messi template, Florentino Pérez begs me to join Real Madrid

Perth Royal Hospital, Discharge Procedures.

Wu Shi stood there leaning on his crutches; his left leg could now bear slight weight and he could walk with difficulty.

The physical therapist, Zhou, stood beside him, holding a thick stack of medical records and examination reports.

"Remember, this is just being discharged from the hospital, not a full recovery."

Therapist Zhou spoke in a serious tone.

"Once you get back, you must strictly follow the rehabilitation plan I gave you. Apply ice packs and massage every day, and don't skip any of the steps in your diet."

"I see."

"You don't understand."

The physical therapist, Zhou, stared at him. "I overheard your conversation with Dr. Davis when I was processing your paperwork. You want to get injections to help you play?"

Wu Shi remained silent.

"Wu Shi, you're only sixteen."

Therapist Zhou lowered his voice.

"Do you know what getting a painkiller injection means? It just numbs the nerves so you can't feel the pain. But the injury is still there, and if you get hit again on the field, it could cause permanent damage."

"But, if it's only 10 to 20 minutes..." Wu Shi raised his head.

"10 to 20 minutes?"

"You struggle to even walk normally, and you want to play 20 minutes of professional football? Do you know how intense the competition is in professional matches? Do you know how tough Australian players are?"

The physical therapist, Zhou, gave a wry smile and sighed.

"I'm a physiotherapist and a fan. I watched your game against Yi Jianlian and was very moved. But I also know how precious a player's career is. It's not worth gambling your future on a single game."

Wu Shi didn't say anything more.

He knew that the physical therapist was right. Everyone was right—the doctor, the physical therapist, and the 0.01% probability given by the system.

But the burning sensation in my chest just wouldn't go out.

We returned to the team's hotel at 3 p.m.

Most of the team members are taking a lunch break to recharge for the evening's match preparations.

Wu Shi stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor—the coaching staff's rooms were on that floor.

In front of the coaching staff office.

Wu Shi took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Old Li's voice came from inside.

Pushing open the door, the room was filled with smoke. Old Li sat in a chair by the window, the ashtray in front of him overflowing with cigarette butts. A tactical board lay open on the table, covered with red and blue arrows and circles.

"Coach." Wu Shi walked in.

Old Li looked up at him, his eyes filled with complex emotions: "You've been discharged? Why aren't you resting?"

"I'd like to talk to you." Wu Shi closed the door.

Old Li didn't speak, but simply pointed to the chair opposite him. Wu Shi sat down, leaning his cane against the table.

There was a few seconds of silence.

"I want to play," Takeshi said directly.

Old Li picked up the cigarette pack, then put it down again: "What did the doctor say?"

"The doctor said it's not possible."

"But I know of a way—an injection. I can endure it for 10 to 20 minutes."

Old Li stared at him: "Who told you that?"

"It was my own idea," Wu Shi said. "I did research, I asked... I asked some seniors. I know the risks, but I'm willing to take them."

"Are you willing to take the responsibility?" Old Li suddenly raised his voice, "You're only sixteen! Can you handle it?!"

He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Wu Shi:

"Do you know what the worst outcome is when someone forces themselves to play with pain-relieving injections? It's not just a few months of rest; it's permanent ligament damage, the loss of explosive power, and being forced to retire at twenty!"

"I know."

Wu Shi's voice was firm.

"But coach, this is the closest we've ever come to the finals. If I can help, even just for 10 minutes..."

What can change in 10 minutes?

Old Li turned around, his eyes red.

"Do you think you're the savior? Do you think the team can't win without you?"

Wu Shi was stunned.

Old Li walked over and looked down at him:

"Let me tell you, football is a team sport. No matter who's missing, the game still goes on. You're important, but not so important that you should risk your career."

"I saw Dr. Davis this morning and also asked Physician Zhou. They showed me your recovery data—it's very fast, unusually fast. But even so, it's impossible to be ready to compete in just three days."

"They said that if we use pain-relieving injections, we can theoretically last 10 to 20 minutes. But if a collision occurs on the field, the consequences could be disastrous."

Old Li straightened up, walked to the tactical board, and traced the arrows with his finger:

"Do you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that if I agree to let you play, even if it's just for the last 10 minutes, and if we win, I'll be hailed as a hero—'bold in tactics,' 'daring to take risks,' and 'leading the national youth team to make history.'"

He gave a wry smile:

"My resume will have one more entry: leading the team to the AFC U-19 Championship final. My contract expires next year, and I may have a better place to go, a higher salary, and more respect."

"But then what?"

"Then I will spend the rest of my life watching over you—a child who should have had a bright future, who may never be able to play at the same level again because of my decision, who may retire early, and who may live with the shadow of injuries for the rest of his life."

He walked back to the window and lit another cigarette.

"I've coached many kids in my life. Some became national team players, some retired early, and some even... went astray. I often think, what exactly did I give them? Technique? Tactics? Or just a decent youth?"

Amidst the swirling smoke, Old Li's voice was somewhat faint:

"Wu Shi, I'm fifty-two this year. I've been coaching youth teams for twenty years, and my best result is reaching the quarterfinals of the Asian Youth Championship. Reaching the semifinals this time has already broken the record. If we reach the finals... that's something I never even dared to dream of."

He took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled:

"But I can't trade your future for my dream."

The room fell silent.

Wu Shi watched Old Li's retreating figure. This usually stern and unsmiling old coach had his shoulders slightly hunched at this moment.

"coach……"

Wu Shi spoke, his voice slightly hoarse, "I have no regrets."

Old Li didn't turn around.

"Even if I get injured and have to retire, I won't regret it," Wu Shi said, emphasizing each word. "This is my own choice, not for you, not for the team, but for myself."

"I want to be on that court, even if it's just for a minute. I want to fight alongside my teammates, even if it's just to draw a defender away from them. I want to... watch us make it to the final."

"If I give up on the present because I'm afraid of the future, what's the point of me playing football?"

Old Li stubbed out his cigarette and turned around.

"Well said, very passionate," he said. "But I'm the coach. My responsibility isn't to join in your passion, it's to protect you."

He picked up the list on the table—it was a list of 23 people to be submitted that evening.

"You won't make the roster," Old Li said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Watch tonight's game from the stands. Watch carefully, use your brain. See how your teammates fight, see if they can win without you."

Wu Shi opened his mouth as if to say something, but Old Li raised his hand to stop him:

"This is an order. If you still consider me your coach, then obey."

The two stared at each other for more than ten seconds.

Finally, Wu Shi lowered his head: "...Yes."

He picked up his cane, slowly stood up, and walked towards the door.

As my hand touched the doorknob, Old Li's voice came from behind me:

"Takeshi."

"Um?"

"Take good care of yourself and get well soon," Old Li said softly.

"You have a long career ahead of you. If you miss this opportunity, there will be another. But if you gamble it all away, you'll have nothing left."

Wu Shi didn't turn around, he just nodded, opened the door and went out.

The moment the door closed, Old Li slumped into his chair, covering his face with his hands.

He just lied.

Dr. Davis and Physician Zhou did mention the risks, but they also said that if it was only 10 to 20 minutes and there was no direct impact on the injury, it was theoretically possible to endure it.

The probability of success is approximately 20%.

20%

A number that's sure to make your heart flutter.

Old Li was just a hair's breadth away from nodding.

He wanted to reach the finals, so much so. He'd wanted it for twenty years.

But he ultimately didn't.

Because he saw in Wu Shi's eyes—eyes that held flames, desire, and resentment, but most importantly, eyes that held the future.

A future that should have been incredibly long for him when he was only sixteen.

"Damn it..." Old Li cursed under his breath, not knowing who he was cursing.

At 7 p.m. that evening, Sydney Australian Stadium.

The stadium, which can hold 80,000 people, was packed to capacity.

The host fans occupied three-quarters of the stands, wearing yellow jerseys, waving flags, and singing loudly.

The national youth team's fans were arranged in the southeast corner, numbering approximately five thousand.

Wu Shi sat in the first row of the fan section, his crutches resting against his legs.

He was dressed in ordinary sportswear, wearing a hat and a mask, not wanting to be recognized.

But several older fans around him still recognized him.

"Is that Wu Shi? You played very well in the last game."

"My grandson is in elementary school now. He used to like Messi, but now it's you. He's a huge fan of yours. Could you give me an autograph after the game? My grandson's birthday is coming up soon."

"How's your leg?"

Several men in their sixties gathered around and chatted with him.

"Thankfully, it's recovering."

"Sir, what's your grandson's name? I'll give him a signed autograph later, but please don't let other fans notice I'm here."

Wu Shi answered politely.

"Ah, what a pity," an old man sighed. "If you were here, our chances of winning would have been much better."

Wu Shi didn't speak, but just looked into the arena.

The players are warming up. Wu Lei is practicing shooting, Chen Liang is stretching, and Wang Zhuofeng is practicing passing with the goalkeeper.

Two hours before the match, Coach Li announced the starting lineup.

The formation was adjusted to 4-1-4-1, with Wu Lei as the lone striker, Chen Liang dropping back to midfield to strengthen the defense, and Wang Zhuo playing as the attacking midfielder. It was a clearly conservative formation focused on counter-attacks.

The odds offered by the bookmakers are: Australia to win 1.40, draw 4.20, and China U-23 to win 7.50.

Almost everyone was pessimistic about them.

Good evening, everyone!

In the CCTV studio, Huang Jianxiang's voice came through the television.

"You are now watching the live broadcast of the semi-final match of the 2011 AFC U-19 Championship, between China's U-19 national team and the host nation Australia's U-19 national team. I am Huang Jianxiang."

Zhan Jun chimed in:

"I'm Zhan Jun. The match will be held at the Sydney Australian Stadium. The temperature is 20 degrees Celsius with a light breeze, which is good weather for football—of course, it may not be so 'suitable' for the national youth team."

Huang Jianxiang smiled wryly:

"Mr. Zhan's words are tactful. In fact, the national youth team faces a huge challenge tonight. Key defensive midfielder Li Haoran is suspended due to accumulated yellow cards, and core attacker Wu Shi is out injured. The absence of these two key players will have a significant impact on the team's strength."

Zhan Jun nodded

"Moreover, as the host country, Australia drew with the Chinese youth team in the group stage. They dominated that match but were forced to a draw by Wu Shi's world-class set-piece goal. They are definitely eager for revenge. Tonight is a home game for them to avenge their defeat; for the Chinese youth team, it is a true test of life and death."

The camera cuts to the starting lineups for both teams.

Huang Jianxiang read aloud: "For the national youth team, the single defensive midfielder is Wang Zhuofeng (No. 8); the midfielders are Chen Liang (No. 26), Zhou Hai (No. 10), and Wu Lei (No. 7)."

Zhan Jun quickly analyzed:

"It seems Coach Li has made a bold adjustment. Wu Lei is pushed up to the far front, Chen Liang has dropped back to the right midfield, and Wang Zhuofeng is playing as a defensive midfielder—this is a clear counter-attacking formation. Sacrificing midfield control to strengthen the defense and utilize Wu Lei's speed to launch counter-attacks."

"A very pragmatic choice. With limited players, it's better to tighten the defense and wait for opportunities than to compete with Australia in midfield. But this means that the burden of attacking falls almost entirely on Wu Lei."

Huang Jianxiang: "Yes. Wu Lei will have a very heavy task tonight. He will have to charge forward as the spearhead, drop back to support, and participate in pressing during defense. It will be a great test of his physical fitness and willpower."

The scene cuts to the location.

The players from both sides entered the field, and the national anthems were played.

When the Chinese national anthem played, the five thousand fans in the southeast corner sang it in unison.

Wu Shi stood up and sang along.

He sang with all his might, despite his resentment.

But he knew that this was all he could do right now.

After the national anthem ended, the two sides shook hands.

Wu Lei, as captain, exchanged team flags with the Australian captain.

As the two shook hands, the Australian captain—a 1.9-meter-tall blond center-back—looked down at Wu Lei and a half-smile appeared on his lips.

Wu Shi knew very well that look in her eyes was contempt, provocation, and a declaration that "you're in for a rough night."

The game started.

All he could do was watch.

The system was running quietly in his mind.

[The match begins]

Current score: 0-0

[Time: 00:01]

Wu Shi stared at the fluctuating number.

He knew that the next ninety minutes would be agonizing, every second of which would be unbearable.

But he also knew that he had to finish reading it.

Because it was his choice, and also his responsibility.

Even if I can only sit in the stands.

There were also a few elderly men nearby discussing things from time to time.

The old man who asked his grandson for an autograph had already taken out a children's soccer ball.

He then handed the soccer ball and marker to Wu Shi.

Wu Shi glanced at it, then picked up the soccer ball and pen.

"Grandpa," he said, pointing to a blank spot on the soccer ball.

His name is Li Xingran.

Wu Shi nodded,

Wu Shi lowered his gaze, his pen tip landing on the soccer ball, and he wrote down stroke by stroke:

"To Li Xingran: Don't be afraid to lose, but always dare to win. —Wu Shi"

With neat handwriting, he put the pen cap back on and handed the soccer ball back to the old man.

"Good, that's a good point. My grandson is timid and doesn't dare to speak up when he's bullied at school. I made him play soccer so he'd be tougher."

He carefully put the soccer ball back into the bag and patted Wu Shi on the shoulder: "Don't be discouraged. You're still young, and you have a long way to go."

What Takeshi didn't know was that his signature would change a child's life.