Before the afternoon session ended, head coach Fernandez announced the next day's matchday squad and starting lineup to the players. None of the other selections surprised anyone. After all this time, who started and who sat on the bench had barely changed.
The only change was the starting partnership up front: Ireneusz Jelen and Zhang Kuang, with Daniel Niculae dropped.
Zhang Kuang had never expected Fernandez to be so decisive, putting him straight into the starting lineup for his debut. Daniel Niculae, who had lost his place, wore a dark expression. He had never expected to be squeezed out just like that.
Captain Benoît patted Daniel on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I heard this guy only wants to spend half a year with our team. If he can help us win a title, you'll benefit too.
"Besides, with so many matches in a year, he can't possibly start every one, or even play in every one."
Daniel nodded. "Captain, I understand. I knew this would happen when he came for his trial. It just doesn't feel good now that it's actually happened."
Benoît said, "Then train harder. If you could score ten goals a year, who could squeeze you out?"
Daniel nodded without a word.
January 16, 2010. Stade Abbé-Deschamps, Auxerre.
It was two thirty in the afternoon, an hour before kickoff.
The streets outside the stadium were already packed with people. It seemed as though everyone in Auxerre, a small town of just forty thousand, had poured toward the stadium that could hold twenty-four thousand. Long queues formed at the beer stalls and hot dog carts, while scarves and shirts fluttered in the cold wind.
"Did you get a ticket?"
"Of course, a season ticket! This is exactly what I bought it for!"
"To watch who? Boulogne? What's worth watching about a lousy team like that?"
"Are you kidding? The Chinese guy! My cousin's neighbor's son is a ball boy at the training ground. He said that Chinese guy tore both Grichting and Mignot apart in a training match!"
"You're making that up, right?"
"Just wait and see!"
Conversations like this were taking place in every corner outside the ground.
Ever since Auxerre officially announced Zhang Kuang's signing on January 4, the little town's fans had been in an uproar. Not because they knew Zhang Kuang, but because-a Chinese player, eighteen years old, had signed a two-and-a-half-year deal outright, and Fernandez had supposedly personally promised him a starting place.
Nothing like this had ever happened in Auxerre's history.
In the Guy Roux era, Auxerre had unearthed plenty of promising youngsters from Africa, but no Asian player had ever worn that white shirt.
Inside the dressing room.
Fernandez stood before the tactics board, drawing arrows on it with a marker.
"Boulogne's defense is awful, but their midfield is pretty good at strangling play." He drew a circle over the center circle, then tapped the board. "Pedretti, sit a little deeper today. Don't get bogged down battling their midfield. Play long balls straight to Jelen and Zhang."
Pedretti nodded. He was the team's brain, and he understood everything Fernandez told him.
"Oliech, your job today is simple." Fernandez looked at the Kenyan winger. "Get to the byline and cross. Don't cut inside, don't hesitate. Zhang will be waiting for your ball in the box."
Oliech grinned. "Understood, coach. I'll really hammer them onto Zhang's head."
Everyone exchanged knowing smiles at that, because over the past week of training, he had already witnessed Zhang Kuang's terrifying heading ability inside the box countless times.
"Birsa, you're taking all the set pieces. Corners, free kicks-anything outside shooting range goes straight toward Zhang's head."
Birsa nodded, a flicker of excitement passing through his Slovenian blue eyes. He could deliver an accurate curling ball, but Auxerre had never had anyone who could finish in the air.
"Zhang." Fernandez finally looked at the young man standing in the corner.
Zhang Kuang raised his head, his gaze calm.
"You're starting today."
"I know," Zhang Kuang answered briefly, without a single unnecessary word.
Fernandez fell silent for two seconds, then said something that quieted the entire dressing room. "You know the quickest way for a striker starting on his debut to win over the fans, don't you?
"Zhang, score. That's the only way you'll earn the recognition of the fans and everyone else. Don't let me down, and don't let yourself down."
He paused, sweeping his gaze over everyone. "Zhang, score. Today, we're going to show all of Ligue 1 that Auxerre can do more than defend."
"Yes, mission guaranteed!" Zhang Kuang answered loudly.
In the away dressing room at Stade Abbé-Deschamps.
Boulogne head coach Laurent Guyot was delivering his final rallying talk.
"Auxerre's defense is strong, but their attack is nothing special-Jelen can't carry the forward line alone." He drew a line on the tactics board. "As long as we cut off Pedretti's distribution, they won't pose any threat."
"Coach," the assistant coach came over and said quietly, "their starting lineup is out. That newly signed Chinese player is starting alongside Jelen. Niculae is on the bench."
Guyot froze for a moment, then laughed. "An eighteen-year-old Chinese kid? Fernandez has gone mad."
He turned to face the players. "Listen, they're sending out a newcomer for his debut. Newcomers get nervous and make mistakes. Let's give him a little physical intensity and show him what Ligue 1 is all about."
The defenders exchanged glances, smiles tugging at their mouths.
A Chinese player.
Eighteen years old.
His debut.
This was a gift-wrapped win.
At three twenty-five in the afternoon, inside the players' tunnel.
Zhang Kuang stood in the middle of the line, with captain Pedretti behind him and Grichting ahead. The child mascots held the players' hands, looking up at these tall men with nervous excitement.
Zhang Kuang took a deep breath.
Ligue 1, Europe's top five leagues, here I come.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the Boulogne players beside him. They were encouraging one another, their gazes drifting toward him from time to time with contempt and curiosity.
"Nervous?" Pedretti asked quietly behind him.
"No."
"Good."
At the end of the tunnel, the match officials raised their arms.
Time to walk out.
"Welcome, viewers, to matchday twenty of the 2009-2010 Ligue 1 season! Auxerre host Boulogne."
Jean-Christophe Bart, the commentator for the French television sports channel, sat in the commentary box and began his work at the microphone.
"The biggest attraction in today's match is undoubtedly the home side Auxerre's new winter signing-eighteen-year-old striker Zhang Kuang from China."
The television picture switched to the players' tunnel, where Zhang Kuang was walking onto the pitch holding a child mascot's hand.
The director knew how to play it, holding an extra-long close-up.
On screen, Zhang Kuang was tall, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and sharply defined features that looked as though they had been carved. Yellow skin, black hair, a high nose bridge, and large eyes with double eyelids-his face would rank among the very best in any race.
"This young man... I have to say, his looks are outstanding. He ought to be a model, an actor, some sort of celebrity," Bart's partner, former France international Christophe Dugarry, could not help commenting. "One meter eighty-five, a well-proportioned build-judging by his appearance, he doesn't look like a traditional Asian player at all. Let's hope his football is as handsome as his face."
"Dugarry, are you judging his football or his looks?"
"Both. A good player needs a good physique first, and he has one."
Bart leafed through the information beside him. "According to the information officially supplied by Auxerre, Zhang Kuang is eighteen this year, was previously selected for the China U20 National Team, stands 185 centimeters tall, weighs 75 kilograms, and plays as a striker."
"Any more specific information? How many goals did he score last season, for instance?"
"No." Bart gave a rueful smile. "This is the first match of his professional career."
The commentary booth fell silent for a second.
Dugarry raised his eyebrows. "Starting on his debut? Fernandez certainly has some nerve."
"Either he really has spotted something extraordinary, or he's gone mad," Bart added with a laugh. "Let's wait and see."
At three thirty in the afternoon, the referee blew the whistle to start the match.