After greeting the people he knew, Brian Carter began to look around the crowd. He was extremely curious about everything before him—he’d never had the chance to attend such an event back in his home country. Brian Carter realized that he was actually the only East Asian face there... Because of this, as he waited in line, he frequently drew the attention of others. These curious glances made him feel a bit uncomfortable. He wondered to himself: Does Wimbledon really not have a single Asian fan? If it were a Manchester United fan team tryout, maybe people would fly in from the Americas and Asia to participate, as long as they got the notice...

Putting aside his own identity, he also noticed many interesting people as he observed the scene. Besides himself, a Chinese person, there were plenty of other eye-opening trialists. Some people, even wearing glasses, had to lean in close to the registration form to see—obviously extremely nearsighted. He really wondered how such people could play a match... Would they even be able to tell teammates from opponents? There were middle-aged men with big bellies, whose oversized jerseys still looked like sexy tight shirts on them. After just a couple of steps, they were drenched in sweat, panting heavily, sounding like bellows. And there were quite a few like that. There were also scrawny kids who clearly hadn’t finished growing—probably hadn’t even grown all their hair down there yet. Hey, kid, are you even sixteen yet?

But all these people had one thing in common: regardless of their height, weight, or profession, no matter their skill level, at the very least, their expressions were serious. No one was treating this as a group outing, goofing off and not taking it seriously. Judging by the gear they’d prepared, they clearly valued this tryout. Maybe for them, this was a rare, major event in their lives.

Just like Old Bennett said: “This is a day of historical significance.” If, a hundred years from now, AFC Wimbledon becomes a world-class team, then today will be a glorious day. Even if, a hundred years from now, Wimbledon is still an obscure little club, in the hearts of their own fans, this day will still carry great weight.

This was a new beginning.

Brian Carter also noticed a detail: quite a few people were wearing the same blue T-shirt as Emily Clark, with “Wimbledon, till death do us part” printed on the chest.

“This is our own club,” Emily Clark said softly beside him.

Brian Carter turned to look—pride was written on the beautiful girl’s face.

As someone who had played football in China for ten years and almost became a member of the system, he suddenly felt envious of these fans coming to try out.

Our own club... What a warm yet distant phrase.

At the stadium entrance, staff were loudly calling for trialists to register and fill out forms, working so hard they were drenched in sweat. Police in bright yellow vests stood on either side of the line to maintain order. News media outside pointed their video and camera lenses at the crowd of trialists, and some reporters just grabbed random people for on-the-spot interviews.

“Uh, I’m not here to try out, I’m just here to watch...” Old Bennett was stopped and asked the same question again, but this time he ended up on TV.

The crowd moved forward in an orderly fashion, stretching from the stadium entrance, turning a corner at the back, and extending all the way to the mouth of Jack Goodchild Way, still slowly growing.

In the bright, dazzling morning sunlight, this colorful stream of people seemed to shimmer with countless dazzling spots of light, making one’s head spin.

Chapter 9: Not Enemies, No Meeting (Part 1)

“How’s it going, Nicky?”

Terry Eames (Terry Eames) had just finished a reporter’s interview. He came to the sidelines and asked his assistant, the team’s current assistant coach, Nicky English (Nicky English), who had been working there all along. As he spoke, he turned his gaze to the pitch.

It was already four in the afternoon. The pitch had been especially lively in the morning, but now it was much quieter. Compared to the crowds earlier, there were far fewer people left on the field. Even the spectators in the stands, whether cheering for the trialists or just there for the excitement, couldn’t sit there all day and had mostly dispersed.

His gaze wandered across the pitch, not fixed on any particular target.

Suddenly, his eyes stopped. He pointed at a trialist on the field with black hair and yellow skin—clearly not British—and asked the assistant coach beside him, “Who’s that guy?”

Nicky English glanced in the direction Eames was pointing and immediately knew who he meant. “A Chinese exchange student, introduced by Emily Clark.”

“Emily Clark?” Eames was even more confused. “When did she meet a Chinese exchange student?”

“Supposedly a classmate of hers, called... hmm... Chinese names are really hard to pronounce, Chu Chongdian? Or Ryan Carter? Anyway, Emily Clark calls him Carter.”

“He passed all the morning tests?” Eames asked.

English nodded. “Passed them all. He’s got a foundation—said himself he received some professional training in China.” As he spoke, he flipped through some documents in his hand, finally pulling one out and handing it to Eames.