“That bastard must have stuffed the FA with a lot of money… it has to be that… it’s over, Wimbledon is finished, and so are we…” the drunkard muttered under his breath. Brian Carter glanced at him, making sure the beer in his hand wasn’t meant for him. Looking again at the crowd of agitated Wimbledon fans, it seemed no one would be coming to ask him for a drink anytime soon, so he set the beer aside.

He had worked at this bar for nearly a year, and he’d heard more than enough about Wimbledon Football Club. Wimbledon had practically become the team he knew best in England, even though he wasn’t a supporter. He was pretty clear about the club’s current situation.

It was simple: Wimbledon Football Club, which had been in the town of Wimbledon for one hundred and thirteen years, had put down deep roots in this community. But now, because the new owner felt there was no future for development here and no money to be made, the club was going to move.

This kind of thing was a big taboo in England. So when Winkelman first proposed the idea, everyone just thought it was the wild fantasy of a money-crazed businessman. The Wimbledon fans weren’t worried at all that it would become reality. Brian Carter still remembered how, back then, when people discussed the topic in the bar, they wore confident smiles and laughed heartily at Winkelman’s foolishness.

But at that time, Winkelman had already started putting his plan into action. He had scouted three locations: Dublin, Belfast, and Cardiff were all possible new homes for Wimbledon Football Club. But none of these places got approval from the FA, and the FA wasn’t willing to let a club move such a long distance. The FA believed that a football club represented the culture and tradition of its community, and couldn’t be treated as just a business operation.

The fans were even more reassured—what was there to fear with the FA backing them?

But Winkelman clearly wasn’t going to give up so easily. The club’s board kept appealing, kept lobbying the FA. The FA relented; they decided to hold a three-person high-level meeting to discuss whether to allow Wimbledon Football Club to move from here to Milton Keynes, north of London.

And so came this news, and the scene before him.

In fact, after Brian Carter started working at this bar and got to know all kinds of Wimbledon fans, he really envied these people. Because they had a team of their own. Chinese fans? They weren’t so lucky. His hometown, Chengdu, used to be famous in China for its “golden football market.” Sichuan Quanxing was also a team he felt incredibly proud of. Back then, he and his father would go to Chengdu Sports Center, wearing yellow Quanxing jerseys in the stands, shouting “Go!” with everyone around them. But things had gotten worse year after year. Not long ago, when he called home, he heard his old fan father say that Sichuan Quanxing had been bought by Dalian Shide. From then on, the yellow lightning they had supported for two generations became a vassal of Dalian Shide, and there was no longer any reason to keep supporting them.

Back then, Brian Carter envied these people in front of him, but he never expected that today they would face the same reality. Although the Sichuan team, bought by Dalian Shide, was still in Chengdu, for many old Sichuan fans, that team was a shell of its former self. Wimbledon, on the other hand, was about to move out of this small town with no prospects. Maybe for Winkelman, in Wimbledon—a place more famous for tennis—football was just a dispensable sport that couldn’t attract many local fans.

The cursing gradually died down, and more people gathered together to discuss the club’s future, and their own.

If the English FA really agreed to that chain music merchant’s request and let Wimbledon Football Club leave Wimbledon, what would these fans—who had supported the club for a lifetime, even for three generations—do? Would they follow the team sixty miles away to Milton Keynes for every home game?

For a moment, everyone’s faces looked lost.

Brian Carter was sure that this same expression had appeared on the faces of Sichuan Quanxing fans. From now on, Sichuan football would “belong to Dalian.” Where would Sichuan fans go from here?

Although Chinese football couldn’t compare to English football in terms of level, the feelings of the fans were the same. The love for football does not—and should not—depend on how good the team you support is.

After a round of fruitless discussion, more people chose to sit down and drink away their sorrows.

The TV was broadcasting news about England preparing for the Korea-Japan World Cup, and whether Beckham would make it in time for the group stage. But in this room full of Englishmen, not a single person paid the slightest attention.

The Dons Bar, once always filled with laughter, excited shouts, and singing, was now dead silent. Even the always cheerful, chubby owner Uncle John was frowning, sitting in his usual spot without saying a word.

The pint of stout by Brian Carter’s hand sat untouched until closing time at eleven o’clock.

Chapter Three: Emily (Part One)