Chapter 18 — Across the Six Meter Line

Vi placed the ball on her palm, but did not look at the goal. She looked at the seven meter line, looked at the tip of her shoe, then looked at the area six meters ahead. A seven-meter throw is often remembered by its score. For her now, it starts with a list of things not to do: don't step over the line, don't look at the goalkeeper's feints, don't let the boos choose the shooting angle for you.

Vy stood in the middle of the goal. She removed the bandage on her wrist, and her left knee bent slightly to maintain her center of gravity. The light bulb on the ceiling reflects a white streak on the floor. The rear electronic board remained standing at 00:06, as if the match had been nailed to one number. Next to it, the mechanical clock on the table read 00:05.

Ha Lam retreated to the defense area. She did not turn away from Vi.

“If this one goes in, I will still register my objection,” Lam said.

“I know,” Vi replied.

“If you don't come in, I'll write it down too.”

“So you write down enough.”

Lam nodded. She didn't smile. But that sentence made both of their shoulders relax a little. They no longer argue about who is allowed to recount the ball. They just prepare for the match to have a full record.

Hanh raised her hand to indicate readiness. Luan placed his finger on the mechanical watch control button. Chi stood behind the table line, close enough to hear but not touching anyone. Manh in the technical area does not call cards. The throw belongs to Vi.

The referee blew the whistle.

Vi ran one step. She threw low to her right corner, where Vy had stood half an inch away to deceive. Vy falls to the left. The ball went past her knee and hit the net.

23-22.

No one celebrated right away. Hanh looked at the clock, Luan looked at the second hand, and the referee looked at the electronic board. Only after Hanh announced time was up and the referee raised his hand to confirm the goal did the sound of the stands burst out. It didn't sound like an explosion. It's like a corrugated iron roof that's been rained on for a long time and then suddenly pours down.

Vi stood still, her hand still holding the throwing position. Tram ran to hug her, but Vi was still looking at Vy.

Vy stood up. She turned to the net, touched a finger to the goalpost, and then clapped for Vi.

“Different angle,” Vi said.

"I choose my corner. You choose yours."

Lightning gathers near the midline. No one hugged Chi, because Chi was still outside in the yard. She heard Manh call each person's name, and heard Hanh ask everyone to stay in place to check the records. Ha Lam approached the referee and stated clearly:

“It is proposed to record in the minutes: the electronic clock stops at six seconds, the penalty kick is decided after confirming the time by an independent clock, and our team reserves its opinion on the defensive situation.”

The referee replied: "I will write it down verbatim."

Chi looked at Lam. She used to think that fairness would make everyone breathe a sigh of relief on the same side. Not. Sometimes it's fair to allow the loser to keep an official question without being called a spoiler.

The secretariat rechecks the scores. Hanh read: “Lightning 23, Morning Star 22.” Luan read the time the goal was scored. Hanh's stopwatch and mechanical watch coincide. The electronic board was still at 00:06, so they took a photo of the board, clearly noting "not to be used as a source of decision after a deviation".

Manh did not enter the field. He stood on the sideline, his hands on his hips, looking at the players like someone who had just seen them cross a bridge where he himself had misplaced a plank.

Diep came to Chi's side. “Are you okay?”

“I'm not the one throwing it.”

“I asked if you were okay with not being the one throwing it.”

Spend don't answer right away. For a second, she remembered the feeling of holding the ball in her last match: the sound of the stands, the burning knee, the six-meter line running across below her eye level. She remembered how everyone told her to just try a little harder. She also remembered that afterward, no one knew exactly whether she failed because of pain, because of the background, or because of fear.

“I'm studying,” she said. “Maybe not okay yet, but learning.”

On the field, Ha Lam shook Vy's hand. Both said something inaudible. Lam walked up to Vi.

“Legal throw,” Lam said. “I still didn't agree with the previous phase.”

“You don't have to agree with me.”

“I need to agree to the minutes.”

Vi paused slightly, then nodded.

Tram stood nearby and suddenly asked: "If you make a complaint, will our goal be lost?"

Lam answered before Vi could say: "Complaining about the six-meter situation does not mean complaining about the time. Two different things."

Tram looked at Hanh. Hanh took a pen and circled a line in the minutes for her to see. “That's why we have to write each thing down separately.”

Sao Mai team left the field first. No one whistled mockingly. Some of the Lightning audience clapped, hesitantly at first and then more clearly. Lam turned back and bowed to the stands. Ha Lam did not bring the trophy, only the team's football bag.

When the award ceremony began, Chi stood at the end of the line. The organizers gave the trophy to Vy, the captain who played the full sixty minutes with an iced knee. Vy lifted the trophy, but did not pull it towards her. She reached out and called Tram and Vi to put their hands on the handle.

“Miss Chi,” Tram called.

“I'm here.”

“Aren't you coming up?”

Chi looked at the trophy. “I'm not competing.”

“But I know six seconds.”

“Knowing that six seconds won't score a goal.”

Vi shot back: “It keeps my table counted.”

The audience heard that sentence. A sound of applause spread from the student seats, then gradually throughout the auditorium. Chi stepped up not to receive the trophy, but to stand next to the secretary's desk when Hanh, Luan and the two referees signed the final confirmation.

Manh received the microphone. He thanked the audience, thanked his team, then paused for a moment longer than usual speeches.

“I signed a safety form when the yard wasn't really safe,” he said. "I don't say this to take away the joy of the team. I say it because the trophy will have no value if those who hold it have to pretend that no risk exists. My suggestion is that the funding to maintain the program must include the funding to maintain the pitch, the scorer's desk and the training of match officials."

The stands were silent. Chi heard the sound of a chair being pulled across the cement floor.

Diep stood behind, looking down at the stack of papers. Ha Lam, who was preparing to leave, stopped to listen.

“The winning team can be happy,” Manh continued. "The losing team can appeal. And both have the right to play in conditions that don't force them to guess the time."

After speaking, a member of the organizing committee came forward to announce: the trophy and results were provisionally recognized, waiting for the technical meeting the next morning. No one objected. Lightning was not deprived of its joy, nor was Morningstar forced to be silent.

In the dressing room, people opened the bag of leftover bread. Ngan recounted Vi's throw in three different ways. Huyen wiped the sweat from Tram's face, telling her she was "standing on the line like a demanding aunt." Luan sat on the floor, copying the timestamps from the mechanical watch into his notebook. Hanh checked the minutes for the fourth time.

Vy sat down away from the crowd. Chi walked over and gave her a new bag of ice.

“I caught the throw seven meters before the ball,” Chi said.

"I know."

“Don't you need to say anything?”

“I'm enjoying knowing I did the right thing.”

Chi pulled out a chair to sit next to her. For a long while, both only heard the voices of their teammates inside the room.

“I thought you came back because you wanted to take my position,” Vy said.

“I never said that.”

"No need to talk. You stand in the goal during practice, correcting the way I place my feet, looking at the line as if it were yours."

“Because I used to stand there.”

“I was standing there too.”

Chi nodded. “So I was wrong to try to use my experience to answer for you.”

Vy looked at her. “And I was wrong to think that if you were helpful, I would become smaller.”

"You're not getting smaller."

"I know. But knowing and believing are two things."

Chi looked down at her shoes. “I also thought that if I didn't stand in the goal, I would disappear.”

Vy laughed very tiredly. “You still say that like someone who has never disappeared.”

“I disappeared for a while.”

“Yeah. But the team still remembers.”

In the hallway, Sao Mai team's footsteps gradually faded away. Ha Lam turned around and knocked on the dressing room door. She carried a piece of paper.

“This is our proposal,” Lam said. "We don't have to cancel the results. We want the organizers to publish the technical minutes, including photos of the electronic board and two independent time markers."

Hanh received the paper. “We agree.”

Lam looked at Manh. "And suggest checking the background again before next year's tournament. If there is not enough funding, divide the competition schedule to another stadium."

Manh replied: "I will sign together."

Lam turned to Tram. “I pivoted better than in the first half.”

Tram blushed. “I'm still being pushed.”

"Anyone who plays that position gets pushed. The problem is that after being pushed, I still know where I am."

Lam left. Tram looked after, then turned to Chi. “She's not like the opponent I thought she was.”

“Good opponents are often not what you think.”

That night, after everyone left, Chi stood in the middle of the yard. The electronic board is turned off. The mechanical watch is stored in a box. The six meter line under the emergency lights is light yellow.

No more sirens. No more shoe sounds. There was only the smell of plastic, the smell of sweat and the sound of rain hitting the roof of the gym.

Chi stepped to the edge of the line. She didn't walk over. She stood on the other side, looking towards the empty goal.

In the past, she thought a line divided the field into attackers and goalkeepers, winners and losers, those who could still play and those who had to leave. Now, she understands that the line only has meaning when the people standing around it see it.

At the secretary's desk, the mechanical watch was still running in a closed box. Hanh forgot to stop it. I heard the small and steady sound of the second hand, not bright, not visible to the audience, but real.

She turned on the hallway light, then went out.