In the spring of 2007, at Arsenal's Shenley Training Centre, Arsène Wenger was hunched over his desk, a tactical diagram for the upcoming season spread before him, when his mobile phone buzzed insistently.
"Arsène, I need you to see something special," the voice of his chief scout, Steve Rowley, crackled down the line.
"It had better be a player, Steve, not a rare stamp collection this time," Wenger replied, a hint of amusement in his French-accented English.
"Ha! On my honour, when have I ever steered you wrong? Cesc, Theo – all unearthed by me."
Wenger smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Alright, so who is it this time?"
"A kid. Fifteen years old."
"Good grief. Are you pulling my leg, Steve?"
The reputation of Steve Rowley was beyond doubt. And it was hardly a secret that Wenger possessed a keen eye for young, unpolished talent. But this? This was stretching it.
"Listen to yourself. Fifteen? It sounds utterly absurd."
"Please, just trust me on this one. The raw ability I'm seeing… it's the kind you witness maybe once in a decade. He's got the natural feel of Cesc, but the raw flair… it's up there with those two."
Wenger drew a sharp breath. Cesc Fàbregas was already a generational talent, having debuted for Arsenal's first team at sixteen. And 'those two' needed no introduction – they were the twin prodigies of world football, the names on every scout's lips: Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo.
A fifteen-year-old being mentioned in the same breath? Either Steve Rowley had finally lost his mind, or Wenger was about to have his world turned upside down.
"Go on," Wenger said, his curiosity now fully piqued.
"I was hoping you'd say that. I'm at Finch Farm, Everton's place. There's some kind of international youth exchange program – a team of kids from China here for a series of exhibition matches. I've managed to get a clip on my phone. I'm sending it over now."
Sceptical but intrigued, Wenger opened his email. The video attachment was small, the quality predictably poor and slightly jerky, clearly recorded on a phone in a hurry.
Why the rush? What had Steve seen that made him so desperate to share it immediately?
The footage opened on a rain-soaked green pitch. It was indeed Everton's Finch Farm training ground. On the field, a team of young Asian players in red jerseys were pinned in their own half against an Everton U16 side in royal blue.
After watching for just a few minutes, Wenger found himself frowning. The scene was difficult to watch. Everton, even at youth level, were technically and tactically superior, passing the ball around the Chinese team with an almost casual arrogance. It was one-way traffic.
He knew Everton's academy was respectable, if not a powerhouse. Aside from a certain Wayne Rooney, who had famously announced himself by scoring against Arsenal years ago, they hadn't produced many household names recently.
"Is this it, Steve?" he muttered to himself. "Is this the treasure?"
But then, the camera panned, following a long clearance that was hoofed hopefully upfield. It was then that he saw him.
Merseyside, England. The Finch Farm training ground, in the Halewood district, nine miles from Liverpool city centre.
Jin Hayes slumped on the cold, plastic bench, staring blankly at the pitch. The one-sided nature of the game had long since become too painful to watch.
In the spring of 2007, in the wake of the previous summer's World Cup, a Chinese television station had launched a reality program called "Football Kids." In partnership with the FA and several Chinese sporting bodies, they'd organized the "Sino-British Youth Football Exchange." The aim was to scour the nation for young, undiscovered talents, hoping to find a spark of brilliance that could one day ignite the nation's footballing hopes.
Teenagers were split into two age groups: 14-16 and 17-19. After a gruelling series of trials, an eighteen-player squad was selected for a summer trip to England. The prize was a fortnight of training and friendly matches against the youth academies of Premier League clubs Bolton Wanderers and Everton.
Jin Hayes had started playing organised football at the age of five, his natural talent evident from the start. But by his second year of middle school, the relentless pressure of China's education system had forced him to hang up his boots, swapping the pitch for textbooks.
Now, in his third year, with the all-important high school entrance exams looming, he'd learned the "Football Kids" trials were being held in Guangfu city – less than three kilometres from his home. It felt like fate.
After weeks of pleading with his parents, he'd convinced them to let him attend. By some stroke of luck, he'd passed. He'd then spent the next few months in a blur: cramming for exams during the week and filming the television show on weekends. He'd excelled in both, scoring over 700 points in his zhongkao – enough to secure a place at the prestigious High School Affiliated with South China Normal University – and becoming one of only three players in the 14-16 age group to earn a place on the plane to England.
"Okay," his mother had said, her stern face barely masking her pride. "Think of this summer as your reward. When you get back, it's back to your studies. You're Tsinghua University material. Don't let this football nonsense distract you from your real future."
His father, ever the optimist, had just clapped him on the shoulder. "Play well, son. Become a star, and your old man can finally have something to boast about at the teahouse."
Now, two months later, Jin Hayes sat on that plastic bench, the reality of his situation hitting him like a tidal wave.
Back home, he'd genuinely considered his footballing ability to be extraordinary. He'd devour highlights of Ronaldinho and Zidane, thinking, Yeah, I could do that. He'd believed that if he'd been born in Brazil or Argentina, he'd be a global superstar by now.
Now, he understood the sheer, brutal scale of the gap. It wasn't the English Channel. It was the Mariana Trench.
The so-called young geniuses of China were being toyed with. Everton's 4-0 lead wasn't a reflection of a fierce contest; it was them being polite. For the last ten minutes, they'd barely bothered to shoot. They were simply passing the ball around the edge of the penalty area with languid, mocking ease. One blue-shirted lad would dribble past a red-shirted defender, only to check back and dribble past him again, just for the sheer fun of it. A cruel training drill.
Jin Hayes watched, his fists clenching and unclenching on his knees. His knuckles were white.
But what could he do? He was fifteen. The U16s were on the pitch, and his own age group was sitting on the bench. The older boys, the 17-to-19-year-olds, had already been humiliated in their own match. He was just a kid, a background character brought along for the ride.
"The situation on the pitch is… extremely difficult to watch."
The Chinese commentator, Huang Jianxiang, spoke into his microphone, his voice carefully neutral. This exhibition match, meant to be a showcase for the "Football Kids" program, was turning into a public relations disaster. He was struggling to find the right words.
"Everton's U16s are technically superb, keeping possession with real confidence here in the early stages of the second half. We're 4-0 down, but the lads need to keep their heads up. There's no shame in learning from this."
Even as he said it, Huang didn't believe a word. Learning was one thing. This was something else entirely. In the commentary box beside him, his colleagues exchanged a helpless glance.
"Song Yang wins the ball back! Oh… and it's gone again. Song Yang is down… he's taken a heavy knock trying to hold off the challenge. He's struggling."
Huang's voice dropped. Song Yang, the midfield linchpin from the Beijing trials, was their best hope of retaining any possession. If he couldn't continue, the game was truly over. Their lone striker, Jin Hui, was already completely isolated up front, starved of service.
On the touchline, head coach Liu Yue, a former international and a legend at Luneng, scanned his bench with a heavy heart. His available midfield options were down to two. One was Huang Xiaolong, an eighteen-year-old from the Hunan region. The other was Jin Hayes, the fifteen-year-old from Guangfu.
Huang Xiaolong, his confidence visibly shattered by the afternoon's events, was deliberately avoiding the coach's gaze, staring at his boots. Only the youngest member of the squad, Jin Hayes, was watching the pitch with an unwavering focus, his eyes tracking every pass, every run.
This kid's got a good mentality, at least, Liu Yue thought. Pity about the rest.
Jin Hayes's scouting report was brief. Weaknesses: slight frame, average close control under pressure. Strengths: genuine pace, good vision, decent passing range, and an apparent ability to read the game. He was also the only player on the squad who, after a full day of filming and training, would still be out on the pitch afterwards, practicing keepy-uppies by himself until the light failed.
But football at this level demanded more than just hard work. Natural talent was the great divider. Liu Yue had already decided: let the kid get a feel for European football, let him experience the pace and the physicality. It would be a good story for him to tell when he went back home and focused on his studies.
"Jin Hayes. Get over here. Jin Hayes!"
An elbow in the ribs jolted Jin Hayes from his trance. He scrambled to his feet and jogged over.
"Coach?"
"You're the only one left who's properly warmed up. Strip off and get ready. Quick now."
Jin Hayes blinked, pointing a finger at his own chest. Him? Go on against Everton?
"Me?"
"Yes, you! You were watching the game like a hawk, so you must be itching to get out there. Don't overthink it. When you get on, just…" Liu Yue trailed off, the words of encouragement dying in his throat. He sighed, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. What was the point? "Ah, forget it. Just go out there and get a feel for the game. Experience the atmosphere."
The fourth official was already holding up the substitution board. Jin Hayes didn't have time to think. He pulled off his training top, revealing the plain white jersey beneath, the number 24 and his name printed on the back.
Experience the atmosphere? he thought, his stomach churning. I was just daydreaming! And the whole team is getting destroyed. What difference am I supposed to make?
He stood on the touchline, watching as Song Yang was carried past him on a stretcher, his eyes empty, the light of confidence extinguished. He looked across at the Everton players. They were staring back, some with smirks, others with the cold, assessing gaze of predators sizing up wounded prey. Their midfielders, some of whom looked fully grown, were all muscle and explosive power.
This doesn't feel like a football match, he thought, bending down to retie his laces with trembling fingers. It feels like a surrender.
He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and stepped onto the lush green pitch.
If only I had talent that surpassed Ronaldinho, surpassed Ronaldo, surpassed Messi.
But at what cost?
The thought flickered through his mind, unbidden, from some strange, deep corner of his consciousness. He dismissed it instantly. Cost? He didn't care about the cost. Talent better than Ronaldinho's? He'd sell his soul for that.
The moment his studs touched the grass, a peculiar, tingling warmth shot up from his soles, flooding his body in a dizzying wave. Jin Hayes barely registered it, his focus fixed on the game.
Two minutes later, he was still trying to process what had just happened.
He'd received the ball in midfield, two Everton players closing him down in a pincer movement. Without thinking, his body had moved. A sharp drag-back, a spin, a perfect Marseille turn, and he was through them, the ball glued to his feet. Another defender lunged; he flicked the ball over the outstretched leg and accelerated past him. At the edge of the box, a fourth player came across; he chipped the ball over his head, darted around him, and brought it down on his chest.
In the space of a few seconds, he'd dribbled past four players and was bursting into the penalty area, one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath, a collective intake of air so sharp it was almost audible. The Everton players froze, disbelief on their faces. The Chinese bench was on its feet.
Shoot! a voice screamed in his head.
Jin Hayes, his mind a complete blank, drew back his right foot and struck the ball as cleanly as he could.
The shot soared, a rocket of pure, unfiltered power.
It completely missed the goal. It cleared the crossbar by a good ten metres, sailed over the perimeter fence, and smashed through a third-floor window of the office building behind the training ground with a spectacular crash of glass.
Silence.
Then, slowly, every single person on the pitch, on the benches, and in the stands turned to stare at Jin Hayes. The same expression was on every face: a mixture of astonishment, bewilderment, and utter disbelief.
Jin Hayes, feeling their gaze like a physical weight, shifted uncomfortably. He looked at the shattered window, then back at the goal, then at the stunned faces around him.
"What?" he mumbled, a flush creeping up his neck. "It was on target, wasn't it?"