The Gap

"Because you were fooled by your own instincts!"

Old Bing's cold words suddenly made Yang Yang realize many things.

"Everyone wants to control everything and predict future crises before they happen—defenders are no different. That's why Ronaldo didn't sprint at full speed at first. It's a way to confuse his opponent, making you unconsciously predict the point where he'll enter your defensive zone and prepare your response in advance."

"But when he suddenly changes pace, it completely disrupts your plan and leaves you flustered. So when you see his feint, you react involuntarily, trying to make up for your earlier misjudgment."

Having said that, Old Bing delivered his verdict coldly.

"Sometimes, in trying to fix a mistake they've made, people unknowingly make an even bigger one."

Yang Yang understood now, and he knew where the problem lay.

In one word: change.

Using this kind of speed variation to catch an opponent off guard, and then leading them into errors.

Those seasoned star players with rich defensive experience could often rely on their own skills and experience to minimize mistakes, but even they had no truly effective way to deal with a top-tier Ronaldo.

Except for fouling!

Thinking deeper, he realized that his recent improvement in the team's circle-possession game—his high efficiency in stealing the ball—came from his habit of faking one way and going another. Wasn't that also a form of change?

"It can't be that simple, can it?" After a moment's thought, Yang Yang voiced his doubt.

"No, it's not that simple."

"The speed change is just a trick. The real key lies in Ronaldo's exceptional footwork and adjustment ability."

The image shifted again. Yang Yang's two footprints faded away, leaving only Ronaldo's, which were magnified.

"Watch closely. He can control his steps at will—the length of each stride, the landing point of each step—all of it is premeditated. And against different opponents, he uses different strategies."

"The reason he sped up earlier against you than against the training dummy is because you were mentally prepared."

"To him, half a step earlier or half a step later makes no difference. But to a defender, it's a world apart."

Yang Yang understood, and he was completely convinced. At least he now clearly realized the terrifying gap between himself and professional players, especially someone like Ronaldo.

And to think, the Pendulum Dribble was just one of Ronaldo's signature moves from his prime.

Yet this seemingly simple, easy-to-learn technique contained such profound intricacies.

This was only a small part of Ronaldo's Rush, a Star Skill. It showed just how vast and profound Ronaldo's attacking prowess was in his prime—likely the distilled essence of his entire career's footballing wisdom.

"One question." Yang Yang now sounded like a diligent student eager to learn. "You said Ronaldo's landing points, step frequency, and stride length are all premeditated. But does he actually think about these things during a match?"

"No. The game changes in an instant. He simply doesn't have time to think."

Now Yang Yang was confused again. "Then how does he do it?"

"Muscle memory," Old Bing said succinctly.

That made sense to Yang Yang.

Back in China, his coaches had told him more than once that the gap between professional and amateur players was staggering and all-encompassing. But beyond physical fitness and tactical awareness, the most important factor was muscle memory.

Take Ronaldo, for example. Every touch of the ball, every step he took, was the result of twenty years of countless kicks and training sessions—hammered out through relentless practice until it became muscle memory.

So for him, playing this way was like an instinctive habit.

"Now I understand why he's Ronaldo," Yang Yang said with genuine admiration.

To become a superstar, natural talent was only part of the equation. The most important thing was still hard work.

"You have limited time—only one night. So focus on practicing this Pendulum Dribble. How much of its power you can unleash depends on you." Old Bing's voice remained mechanical.

Yang Yang understood. Quality over quantity. What he needed most right now was a single skill to rely on.

Training in the Super Training Ground had another advantage: building muscle memory was faster than in the real world. But even so, mastering the Pendulum Dribble and integrating it into his game in just one night was impossible.

Time was tight, and Yang Yang couldn't set any grand goals. He could only seize every moment and train as hard as he could.

Saturday morning, the Skate Park was even quieter than usual.

Yang Yang, as always, got up early, said a quick word to his uncle, and dribbled a ball over to the park to train.

Football was all about practice making perfect—training in the bitter cold of winter and the scorching heat of summer, never slacking off, especially on the fundamentals.

As the saying went: practice one day, gain one day; skip one day, lose ten.

Since it was Saturday and there was no school, Yang Yang's morning training session was heavier than usual. He doubled every drill, pushing himself until he was drenched in sweat and panting heavily before stopping.

As he was about to walk back to the bench by the path to rest, he noticed a middle-aged Dutchman he didn't recognize sitting there.

The man looked to be around fifty, wearing a sports cap with a golf logo in the center. Beneath the brim was a stern middle-aged face, his temples completely white. His build was slightly bloated, a potbelly stretching the gray sports polo shirt taut, making him look almost pregnant.

The Dutchman sat on the bench, holding a bottle of water in each hand, exuding an air of authority.

When Yang Yang approached, he offered the bottle in his left hand without saying a word.

"No thanks." Yang Yang didn't know him, so he naturally declined.

But the Dutchman didn't withdraw. Instead, he pushed the bottle closer. "Let's talk for a bit."

From the man's expression, Yang Yang read his meaning—this was a stubborn fellow, and refusing him wouldn't be easy.

"Thanks." Yang Yang took the water but didn't open it, setting it aside instead as he pulled a towel from his backpack to wipe the sweat off his body.

"I've been watching you for a few days." Under the brim of his cap, the middle-aged Dutchman squinted at the wall ahead, covered in graffiti.

"Huh?" Yang Yang wasn't paying close attention.

The Dutchman didn't repeat himself, instead asking, "You're from Baken Academy?"

"Yeah." Yang Yang nodded. Baken Academy was just north of the park, so it wasn't surprising to be guessed.

"Playing for the Almere Club's youth team?" the Dutchman pressed.

"Yeah." Yang Yang nodded again.

"John Rep and Dick Van Pool have good eyes. How did you get in?"

Yang Yang glanced silently at the Dutchman but didn't answer. From the man's tone, he sensed that he seemed familiar with both John Rep and Dick Van Pool.

"Do you know Mr. Rep?" Yang Yang countered.

"Of course. We were teammates on the youth team," the Dutchman replied flatly.

"Ajax?" Yang Yang was a bit surprised.

John Rep came from Ajax—that was common knowledge within the Almere Club.

The Dutchman nodded faintly. "He was a homegrown product, but I wasn't. I was lucky enough to be his teammate on the youth team for two years. Later, he moved up to the First Team, and I..."

Though he trailed off, Yang Yang could vaguely tell that his development at Ajax probably hadn't gone well.

"Your fundamentals are terrible," the Dutchman said, changing the subject.

Yang Yang felt a bit awkward. Even if this guy was a veteran in football, that was way too blunt, wasn't it?

Still, he nodded with a grunt of acknowledgment.

"Judging by your age, you must be sixteen or seventeen?"

"Sixteen."

"John Rep brought Ajax's entire youth training system to Almere. At your age, it's probably hard to pass the assessment, right?" The Dutchman looked at Yang Yang coolly.

From just a few words, he could deduce all that—clearly, he knew Ajax's youth system well.

"Didn't John Rep and Dick Van Pool explain the situation to you?"

Yang Yang hesitated, then nodded. "They did."

"And you still come here every day to train extra? Don't you realize you're wasting your time?"

"Why do you think it's a waste?" Yang Yang countered again.

"Isn't it?"

"Of course not. No matter what happens in the future, as long as you're willing to put in the effort, you'll gain something."

"But in the end, you still won't pass the assessment. Isn't that wasted effort?"

Yang Yang nodded. "No one knows the outcome until the last moment."

He paused, then looked the Dutchman straight in the eye. "Sir, I'm guessing you're in football too. You should know—this is like a football match. It lasts ninety minutes, and I'm only at the eighty-fifth minute. I'm still behind, but who dares to say I don't have a chance to turn it around?"

Before the Dutchman could speak, Yang Yang pressed on.

"In '99, how many times did Ferguson's Red Devils Manchester United stage a last-minute comeback? They even overturned Bayern Munich in the final to win the treble, creating the great miracle of the treble. Isn't that the beauty of football? If Ferguson and his players had been thinking about giving up when they were trailing Bayern Munich, would that final comeback legend have ever happened?"

Hearing this, the Dutchman's expression shifted slightly as he looked at the boy standing before him. Yang Yang's words struck a chord, letting a faint ray of sunlight pierce the gloomy, oppressive mood that had weighed on him for the past six months.

He never denied being a stubborn man, but the successive blows in recent years had taught him bitter lessons, even leaving him somewhat defeated. And yet, he wasn't the type to take advice—no matter how much friends and family urged him, he remained unmoved.

But now, Yang Yang's words felt close to home, even stirring a hint of resonance.

As long as the match wasn't over, there was still a chance.

Finding little common ground, Yang Yang didn't want to talk much more. After thanking him for the bottle of water, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed back.

Behind him, the Dutchman silently watched Yang Yang's retreating figure, then suddenly curled his lips into a smile.

"What an interesting kid."

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