Jing Qichi had a thousand questions about how he ended up in this state. Collisions were common on the soccer field, and he knew he’d been ten times more careful than usual with the selection trials approaching. But just like that, in that moment – he got up feeling nothing, even ran a few steps, then suddenly he couldn’t take it anymore. A piercing pain, not just in his leg, but his entire body went numb for an instant.
It’s over. That was his only thought when the pain hit.
He certainly knew what an ACL tear meant, and understood that meniscus damage was adding frost to snow. But there was nothing to be done – life has no undo button.
He just couldn’t understand why it had to be him.
During his two days in the hospital, his emotions fluctuated wildly. Sometimes he thought heaven sends great tasks to those it tests first through suffering of mind and body – recover well, play again later, looking at the world there were plenty of late-blooming players. Other times he felt he wasn’t cut out for it, that heaven deliberately set up obstacles to make him give up – the sooner he faced reality, the sooner he could withdraw, some persistence was destined to be foolish.
These thoughts could only belong to himself. His parents worried, his friends concerned – he didn’t want his every move to add to their needless anxiety.
The first night after discharge, his parents came to his room for a long talk. His mother said she’d contacted a local rehabilitation training center, one of the partners was her university classmate, they knew the situation completely – didn’t have any hesitation, work well with the physical therapist. His father said he’d called the soccer school coach to explain the current situation, declined their offer to visit – right now rehabilitation training was most important, whether he could still go professional and future direction choices were all secondary matters, things had their priority and urgency, take it step by step. They spoke and Jing Qichi listened, some true some false, some roundabout guidance some heartfelt comfort. “Yes,” “Okay,” “I know,” “Don’t worry” – these few phrases combined and recombined became his answers. He couldn’t think of any more appropriate responses that would put his parents at ease.
During the second weekend of rehabilitation training, Huan’er came secretly. He was lying flat on the therapy bed, doing straight leg raises as required. Ten repetitions per set, alternating with knee bend five sets of each movement. After training began, bruising appeared under the skin, from calf to foot, his entire right leg a patch of purple-red. He’d consistently refused Song Cong and Huan’er’s company, firstly because he didn’t want friends to see this somewhat nauseating sight, secondly, because he didn’t know how to face their gazes – raise leg, lower leg, movements that barely qualified as movements for normal people took extreme effort from him. He didn’t want to become a pitiful person in his friends’ eyes, clumsy, foolish, and worthless.
During a break when he was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, Jing Qichi saw Huan’er. She stood at the training room doorway, wearing denim, a small bag slung across her body, hands tightly gripping the leather strap.
“Come on, continue,” the therapist instructed.
He turned his head away, repeating the lifting and lowering movements.
Afterward came a massage to reduce swelling and physical exercises for leg muscles. Huan’er sat like an observer on the training bench by the door. Even during short rest periods, she just sat there without approaching.
Only when the therapist said “Rest well when you get back, take a painkiller if it hurts” did she finally walk over, silently bringing the crutches from the corner to rest beside the bed, her face almost expressionless.
Jing Qichi sat on the bed easing his training soreness, asking her, “How did you get in?”
“Aunt Lin brought me.”
“Where’s my mom?”
“She said she was afraid seeing her would make you uncomfortable, so she went home to cook.”
Jing Qichi paused, then smiled, “Aren’t you afraid seeing you would make me uncomfortable too?”
“How could that be?” Huan’er was extremely confident. “You wouldn’t.” She looked at him and continued, “Actually, it’s nothing.”
The tall boy who’d broken the school high jump record now lay flat on the bed repeatedly doing the simplest leg raises and lowers, sweat beading from his forehead to the corners of his eyes from the effort. Mr. Jing was right – compared to physical pain, the psychological impact was harder to bear.
The professional path he wanted to take, the green field he loved, the dream within his reach – everything, everything was crushed to bits, ground to powder by these up-and-down leg movements.
She couldn’t think of any words of comfort, could only tell him it was nothing.
“Me,” Jing Qichi began slowly, one hand resting on his injured knee, “Before surgery I was thinking worst case I’d repeat a year, train day and night for a year, how could I not recover well? Then come back for selection trials, good as new.” He looked up at her. “But Huan’er, I’ve realized it’s not possible, absolutely not possible.”
It wasn’t a matter of pulling shoots to help them grow, or haste-making waste, but his body sending clear signals of rejection from the very beginning – what you’re hanging onto is a fantasy, I can’t do it, so don’t even think about it.
Jing Qichi knew this thinking would meet opposition from those around him. Now all was well – no need for persuasion, he’d already seen the reality – forget it.
Just forget it.
After speaking, he took up his crutches and stood skillfully. “Where’s Song Cong?”
“He was going to come together,” Huan’er wanted to help but couldn’t find the right position, her hands falling away awkwardly, “but his grandmother got sick, Uncle Song’s whole family went to Song Cong’s aunt’s place, probably coming back tomorrow.”
Jing Qichi made an “mm” sound. “Feels like I haven’t seen old Song in ages.”
It had only been ten days – last week Song Cong had come over for dinner once, incidentally teaching a chapter of math. It was just that seeing someone every day made you unconsciously get used to their presence. Time was divided by space-time into different flow rates, like one day for immortals was a year for mortals.
“When you’re not walking together, Song Cong spends the whole way explaining problems to me,” Huan’er replied.
Jing Qichi laughed, “No need to thank me.” After thinking, he added, “Don’t come anymore.”
“You don’t want me to come?”
“It’s not that.” The boy wanted to explain but didn’t know where to begin with all those scattered reasons, so he simply closed his mouth without speaking.
“Alright then.” Huan’er obediently nodded. She just remembered what Mrs. Jing had said on the way – Jing Qichi often woke up in pain at night, when he woke he’d take painkillers and hurry back to sleep. He wasn’t someone afraid of pain, he just feared delaying that tiny bit of progress he could make the next day.
He didn’t mention soccer or ask about the selection trials, didn’t cry or make a fuss, didn’t complain or speak of grievances. He seemed to quietly and lightly let go of this matter, no one knew what he was thinking.
A month after the injury, Jing Qichi returned to school on crutches.
Just inside the school gate, Song Cong was called away by Director Fu, so Huan’er matched the patient’s pace slowly entering campus. The special equipment attracted many gazes. Whispers were one thing, but some people snickered looking at him. Huan’er’s blood rushed to her head, fists clenching. Jing Qichi didn’t mind, “Wait until someone hits me to stand up for me, I can’t fight now.”
Huan’er shook her head, “That won’t do, I’m still waiting for you to practice with.”
In the morning a few people were running on the field, the central soccer field empty, and goal posts without nets standing alone in place. Jing Qichi stopped, jerking his chin that way, “I used to get scolded by the coach for doing pull-ups on the goalposts, said they weren’t sturdy.”
This was the first time since his injury that he’d mentioned anything related.
While Huan’er hesitated over what to say, he’d already started moving again, not taking another look.
She ran a few quick steps to block his path, pulled out a notebook from her schoolbag, flipped to the last page, and began reading regardless: “In 1984, Baggio tore the cruciate ligament in his right knee, needed 220 stitches, but in 1987 he scored his first Serie A goal while helping Fiorentina avoid relegation; 1998, Pi… Piero tore his cruciate ligament, in ’06 he scored a hat-trick in the Italian Cup round of… oh, a round of sixteen-second leg; 1999, Ronaldo completely ruptured his cruciate ligament, when everyone thought he would retire, he came back in the 01-02 season and regained his form…”
Jing Qichi finally understood what she was doing.
“2006, Owen tore his cruciate ligament, in 2008 he became News… Newsca…”
“Newcastle.”
“Right, New… Newcastle’s captain…”
“Chen Huan’er.” Jing Qichi called out.
“Became captain, scored 11 goals that season…”
“Huan’er.” His voice grew louder.
The girl finally raised her head. This guy always called her full name, she looked at him slightly puzzled.
After several seconds of steady eye contact, Jing Qichi’s mouth twisted upward, “Thank you.”
The past is an enormous presence, and the limited storage space of the human brain naturally can’t hold everything. But at this moment Jing Qichi was certain that no matter what happened later, no matter how much time passed, he would remember this morning.
On an ordinary spring morning, academic affairs teachers checked appearances at the school gate, a few students horsed around doing daily duties nearby, faces passed by showing either fatigue or brightness. A girl in school uniform just stubbornly stood before him, stumbling through names of people and teams she didn’t even know from a notebook filled with an entire page of notes. Sunlight fell on her face making each eyelash distinctly countable, her body straight, tone serious, her expression focused as if unmoved even by the end of the world.
Such a morning that would surely grow more precious with time.
Chen Huan’er wasn’t good at Chinese, so he didn’t know how long she’d searched or what effort she’d spent to compile this neat, long summary, he only knew her intention.
She wanted to say the road ahead was still long, this wasn’t anything.
However, finding so much information must have revealed that those players’ careers didn’t end very perfectly because of such injuries.
“Of course.” Huan’er smiled and put away her notebook. “Let’s go.”
She was very happy, a bit proud and somewhat relieved, because Jing Qichi hadn’t smiled like that in too long.
That day visitors to the class were constant, almost everyone from the school team came by. Everyone carefully avoided mentioning training and selection trials, their words similar: focus on recovery, we’ll play together again when you’re better.
Most of the time Jing Qichi stayed silent, either reading, doing problems, or copying Song Cong’s notes. At dinner time Huan’er and Song Cong accompanied him to the school gate where Mr. Jing picked him up by car.
Day after day, Jing Qichi recovered quickly, getting rid of crutches and braces, seeming to slowly adapt to days without running and jumping. When the weather turned hot, Mr. Jing was transferred to a fire department in another province, beginning a long-distance marriage. Song Cong conscientiously took on “driver” duties, priority installing a back seat on his precious mountain bike, three people two bikes going to and from school together daily. Jing Qichi no longer resisted studying, but his grades remained at the bottom. He often spaced out, especially during PE class, sitting in the stands with a book but his mind elsewhere.
It must be unwillingness to give up, Huan’er thought. Even when everyone and everything indicated impossibility, this bit-by-bit recovery invisibly gave hope – this damn irresponsible hope.
As spring entered its final stages, everyone waited hopefully for the arrival of the blazing summer sun. However, without any warning, something happened to Song Cong’s mother.