["The lights in the mixed zone stung the eyes. When Ye Feng was led in by the staff, his hair was still wet, and he hadn't changed his jersey; that red number 24 jersey was covered in mud and grass clippings. His face still bore the flush of the match having just ended, and his breathing hadn't fully settled down. Then he was swallowed by the flashbulbs. Click, click, click. It was as dense as raindrops hitting a tin roof. A dozen microphones were shoved in front of him simultaneously; the reporters crowded together, and some even held their voice recorders over the heads of the people in front. Ye Feng subconsciously took half a step back, his back hitting the advertising board behind him. \"Ye Feng! Ye Feng! Look here!\" \"Here, here!\" \"Sky Sports! Can you answer a few questions?\" English, Portuguese, and even a few phrases of broken Chinese—various languages mixed together like a pot of boiling porridge. Ye Feng didn't know where to put his hands. He first gripped the hem of his jersey, then let go, then shoved his hands into his pants pockets, felt that wasn't right, and pulled them out again. The composure and elegance he showed on the pitch vanished completely at this moment. He hadn't panicked when scoring five goals. He hadn't panicked when dribbling past three players to face the goalkeeper. But now, surrounded by a dozen microphones, his heart was beating faster than when he had just run a thirty-meter shuttle sprint. \"One at a time.\" The Manchester United press officer beside him reached out to block the reporters, \"One at a time, he will answer.\" The first one called upon was a bald, middle-aged reporter with coffee stains on his suit tie, whose voice was so loud it was as if he were shouting from the stands at Old Trafford: \"Ye Feng! I am from the Manchester Evening News! You scored five goals tonight, this is the first time someone has done this in the history of the English League Cup semifinals! How are you feeling right now?\" He shoved the microphone almost to Ye Feng's lips. Ye Feng opened his mouth, his mind went blank. How was he feeling? Tired. Legs hurt. Wanted to drink water. His throat was about to smoke. But could he say these things? \"Very... very excited. Um.\" He heard his own voice squeezed out from his throat, dry, as if someone had covered his vocal cords with sandpaper, \"Thanks to my teammates, they passed the ball very well.\" The press officer whispered a reminder from the side: \"You can say a bit more.\" Ye Feng clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He could feel his ears burning. The second question followed immediately. \"I am from The Sun!\" A bespectacled female reporter squeezed to the front, \"Ye Feng, do you know your transfer fee was only 100,000 euros? Now all of England is discussing this. How much do you think you are worth now?\" This question was like a small-caliber shell, precisely hitting an invisible bullseye in the interview area. All the reporters fell silent for a second. Then the flashbulbs went even crazier. Ye Feng was stunned. 100,000 euros. This number spun around in his head. He knew this was very little, ridiculously little, less than the pocket change of some players' weekly wages on the team. But he had never thought about the question of \"how much he was worth.\" He lowered his head, looking at the mud and grass clippings on his boots. This pair of boots was provided by the sponsor, not bought by him. He couldn't afford them. \"I don't know,\" he said, his voice even smaller than before, \"I'm not very good at calculating that.\" The reporters let out a burst of good-natured laughter. But the female reporter didn't intend to let him off: \"Some say you are the most cost-effective signing in the history of Manchester United, what do you think?\" Ye Feng raised his head, his gaze crossing the crowd to look at the television screen at the end of the mixed zone. The screen was replaying the footage of his fifth goal, a La Croqueta followed by a Rainbow Flick, Andy Todd kneeling on the ground, rain beating down on his back. He remembered the first time he stood at the gate of the Carrington Training Ground. The guard checked his name three times because he looked too thin, too much like a student who had walked into the wrong place. \"I don't know what 'cost-effective' means,\" Ye Feng said, \"I only know that I have to play every match well. Because...\" He paused. Because he remembered the training base in China. He remembered that coach Liu Gang with a cigarette butt in his mouth. He remembered the 30,000 yuan fee to get on the field. He remembered those fat guys who were far worse than him but played wearing branded boots. \"Because of what?\" the female reporter pressed. Ye Feng took a deep breath. \"Because I have no way out.\" The interview area fell silent for another second. This second was longer and heavier than before. The reporters looked at each other. They had interviewed countless players and heard countless cliches, but the look in this eighteen-year-old boy's eyes when he said that sentence was not carefully designed interview jargon, but an instinct more direct than language. Like a beast baring its fangs. \"Next question!\" The press officer pointed to another reporter. A young male reporter wearing a plaid shirt raised his hand: \"I am from The Guardian. Ye Feng, that move you did on the Blackburn Rovers defender in the match, the Nutmeg combined with the Rainbow Flick, was that practiced beforehand, or was it improvised on the spot?\" This question finally made Ye Feng's expression relax a little. \"That,\" the corners of his mouth lifted slightly, revealing the first genuine smile of the night, \"Cristiano Ronaldo told me to practice it more.\" The reporters laughed again. \"What do you think of Ronaldo's performance tonight?\" \"He is very good,\" Ye Feng said, then thought for a moment and added, \"He is the hardest-working player I have ever seen. After training ends every day, he practices for an extra two hours. I have never seen anyone who can juggle the ball one hundred times in the rain without dropping it. He can do it.\" The atmosphere in the interview area gradually relaxed. But immediately after, another shell was thrown over. \"I am from The Daily Telegraph.\" An elderly reporter with graying hair pushed up his glasses, \"Ye Feng, recently there has been talk in the Spanish media that you might be naturalized into the England national team because you don't have an official match record for the Chinese youth team. How do you respond?\" The air in the interview area froze once again. This was the most sensitive question of the night. Ye Feng's fingers gripped the hem of his jersey, his knuckles turning white. He raised his head, looking into the old reporter's eyes. \"I am Chinese,\" he said. These five words, without any superfluous explanation. Just these five words. The old reporter nodded and wrote something quickly in his notebook. The interview continued. The questions became increasingly varied. Someone asked him what he liked to eat. \"Beef stew with potatoes, but the British version doesn't taste very good.\" Someone asked him where he lived. \"An apartment next to the training ground, it's free.\" Someone asked him what music he usually listened to. \"Jazz, rock.\" Every answer was brief, clumsy, and carried the typical awkwardness of an eighteen-year-old boy. Until a short reporter standing in the back row was called upon. It was an Asian face, wearing thick nearsighted glasses, his hand holding the voice recorder trembling slightly. \"Ye Feng, I am a reporter from the Chinese Football News.\" Ye Feng was stunned. This was the first sentence of Chinese he had heard all night. The reporter took a deep breath, his voice trembling slightly: \"It is four in the morning back home. There are... there are tens of millions of people watching you. What do you want to say to them?\" The eyes of the whole room were focused on Ye Feng. He lowered his head, silent for a long time. So long that the reporters began to whisper to each other, and the press officer was preparing to signal for the next question. Then Ye Feng raised his head. His eyes were red. \"I...\" his voice choked up, \"I want to tell them that Chinese people can also play football well. You don't need to pay money, you don't need to use connections, you can still play football well.\" The Chinese reporter's hand shook even more violently, almost unable to hold the voice recorder. \"Thank you,\" the reporter said, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper rubbing against wood, \"Thank you, Ye Feng.\" In the corridor, Cristiano Ronaldo didn't know when he had started standing there, leaning against the wall, holding a bottle of sports drink in his hand. \"Interview went okay?\" the Portuguese asked. \"Did I say something wrong?\" Ye Feng took the drink and twisted off the cap. \"No.\" Cristiano Ronaldo patted his shoulder and grinned, \"Ferguson just said in the locker room that you can take a day off tomorrow.\" \"Really?\" \"Fake.\" Cristiano Ronaldo put his arm around his neck, \"You still have to practice with me tomorrow. I said so.\""]
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