Chapter 20 — Across the Six Meter Line

The mechanical watch is no longer in the plastic box. It is mounted on the wall above the secretary's desk, white face, black needle, visible from both halves of the field. Every time the second hand passes twelve, those working on the match at Tan Lap are reminded that time must have more than one way to be verified.

Eleven months after the final, Chi stood in front of the first training class for female athletes who wanted to be a referee. There were seventeen people, from eighteen-year-old girls still wearing soccer shoes to two former players who had quit because of work. Hanh sat next to the board, in charge of the practical part. Rotate a set of hand clocks in the corner of the room.

On the board, Chi wrote three numbers:

00:06

06 meters

2 minutes

“These three numbers don't have the same meaning,” she said. “But in a handball match, if just one person confuses them, the whole team can pay the price.”

A student raised his hand. “You used to be a goalkeeper, right?”

“Ever.”

“Why don't you compete anymore?”

Chi put down the chalk. She could quickly answer that her knees wouldn't allow it. That's the truth, but not the whole truth. She said: "Because I was injured and it took time to understand I was more than just the position I used to play. Someone needed me somewhere else."

Hanh looked over and did not change her answer.

The lesson does not begin with the rule of reading from a book. They set up a situation: the electronic board runs two seconds faster than the stopwatch. One student plays the role of timekeeper, one person takes the minutes, and two people act as team captains. The ball is passed back and forth in a small field. When the fake whistle sounds, the whole class must stop and say out loud the source of time they are using.

For the first time, three people said three numbers. A person holding a pen wrote down the wrong scoring team. A person stood up and pointed at the screen.

“Wrong,” Chi said, but not harshly. “Being wrong is not as scary as no one daring to report it.”

Hanh walked to the table. "Reread from the last confirmed milestone. Don't fix it all at once."

They did it again. Second time, slower. Third time, calm enough.

Outside the window, Tan Lap yard has just been partially repaved. The six meter area has had its foundation replaced, there are no longer horizontal seams. The rest remains the same, because the budget is only enough to repair the areas with the highest risk. The yellow tape is no longer on the floor, but Diep keeps a piece in the filing cabinet as an illustrative document.

Diep is no longer the only person who decides whether the pitch is "passing" or "failing". Before each tournament, a group consisting of representatives of the organizing committee, referees and athletes go around the field, take photos, test their grip and sign a public checklist. The sign is posted on the door, everyone can read it. There are times when people complain because they have to do more paperwork. Diep replied that an extra signature was cheaper than an injured knee.

In the back yard, Tram is coaching a group of teenagers. She is only nineteen years old, still the pivot of Lightning, but has begun to have students. She doesn't teach them to rush into the six-meter zone at all costs. She let each child stand outside the line, pass the ball, hold the post, feel the distance.

“Don't walk past if you don't know what you'll do if you're pushed,” she said.

A boy asked: “What if the opponent pushes hard?”

“Call the referee.”

“What if the referee doesn't listen?”

Tram looked towards the gymnasium, where Chi was teaching class. "Call again. Then remember the time. The person who knows how to narrate something is as important as the person who knows how to do it."

Tram is still afraid of strong impacts. Fear yet disappeared like a piece of ice in the sun. It just no longer controlled her legs. She studied physical therapy at night and worked fewer hours at the bakery thanks to a sports scholarship. Every time the smell of flour clung to her hair, she remembered thinking that a night shift would swallow up her future. Now she sees it as part of her body, not the whole thing.

Thao Vi has entered the physical therapy program. She still works at the bakery three nights a week, still complains about having to get up early, and still runs to the yard with sleep-deprived eyes. But on her backpack was an embroidered patch of a foot and a six meter mark. She made it herself one night when the power went out.

“Sister Chi,” Vi once said, “I want to help athletes understand their bodies in the future before they cry for help.”

Chi asked: "Are you going to force people to rest in the middle of the match?"

"Necessary."

“Even if the coach doesn't like it?”

“Even if the viewers don't like it.”

Vi said that and then rushed onto the field to score. The difference is that after the match, she knew to ask what her knee needed, not considering pain as proof of loyalty.

Khanh Vy holds the position of main goalkeeper. She no longer wore her old red wristband; The tape is in Chi's locker, along with the notebook recording the first match. Vy accepted to be a consultant for the youth team on non-competitive days. She teaches them how to read the thrower, but the first lesson is always: “Don't stand still just because the goal is standing still.”

The relationship between Chi and Vy also did not become an easy friendship. They still argue about how to arrange equipment, still compete when playing football during warm-up hours, and still have weeks where they don't text other than team work. But they no longer use silence to keep the other person guessing.

In the friendly match at the beginning of the season, Chi sat at the secretary's table. Vy hurt her shoulder after blocking the ball. Previously, Chi would run in, give three pieces of advice and a substitution plan. This time she only informed Hanh, so the referee could stop at the right time, then asked Vy:

“What does your body say?”

Vy tried rolling her shoulders. “It said give me two more minutes.”

“Is two minutes more or less?”

“Enough to return to the chair.”

Chi nodded. Vy left the field on her own. No one calls it giving up.

Hanh later became the person in charge of training the provincial secretariat. She still wears a stopwatch on her left wrist, but no longer sees it as a personal lifesaver. In each class, she asks students to stand up and speak clearly when they are unsure.

“I'm not sure” is an official signal. When the timekeeper says that, the match must be reconfirmed. Others are not allowed to laugh. Because if the timekeeper hides uncertainty, the whole field will pay the price with false certainty.

Completed the repair of the electronic board system in the third month after the finals. You didn't delete the old record. He saved it in the technical folder, naming it by date, time, and match number. When someone asked why he had to save a fixed bug, he replied: “So next time we know what we fixed, not just remember that there was a problem.”

Ngo Diep was transferred to manage both gymnasiums. She complained more than before because she had to read so many minutes, but she also laughed more. At Tan Lap's door, she hung a small sign:

“If you see a problem with the ground, lighting, clock or exit, report it before the match starts.”

Some people read and pass by. Some stopped. Some people call it excessive caution. Diep did not argue. She learned that conditions an You don't need to be loved by everyone to have value.

Sao Mai Dak Nia is still Lightning's most annoying opponent. Ha Lam and Vy exchange shirts after each match. They did not forget the last seven meter kick in the final, but the memory was no longer the hook to pull each other back into the argument. In the rainy season tournament, Sao Mai beat Lightning by two goals. Ha Lam scored the decisive goal in the last minute, then went straight to the secretary's desk to check the minutes before receiving his congratulations.

“This time the clock is running,” Lam said to Luan.

“This time everyone looks at it,” Luan replied.

Lam then turned to Chi: "Are you still standing on the street?"

"Have."

“I saw you enter the field during the warm-up session.”

“I came in because Tram made me try a lesson.”

“So you're still standing outside?”

Chi looked at the new six-meter line, bright and seamless. "Not necessarily."

She still hasn't played an official match. My knees hurt some days when the weather changes. She did not consider it a failure, nor did she turn it into an inspirational story. Some days she practiced for twenty minutes. Some days she just sits and records how her teammates place their feet. Both days count.

At the end of the training session, Chi distributed certificates to each trainee. When it was her turn, Hanh held another piece of paper.

“And this,” Hanh said.

It is a provincial certification for secretarial desk workers. The name Phan Yen Chi is clearly printed. There is no word "former goalkeeper" next to it. There was no explanation as to why she changed positions.

Chi held the paper and found it lighter than expected. It took her many months to achieve it: learning the rules, taking minutes, practicing recognizing sounds, practicing distinguishing between game time and stopped time, practicing sitting still when others are making decisions, practicing speaking up when silence is dangerous. One piece of paper couldn't hold it all, but it marked that she was no longer standing at the door waiting to be called in.

Hanh pushed the microphone towards her. “Say a few words.”

Chi looked at the seventeen students, looked at Hanh, then looked out the window toward the six meter mark.

“I used to think the people on the field were the people who left the game,” she said. "Later, I understood that there are things that only people on the outside can see. But standing on the outside doesn't mean standing higher than the people playing. It just means you have to take responsibility for what you see, speak clearly when you're not sure, and don't use your right to speak up to steal the right to play from others."

She stopped.

"If one day you have to stop a match because the floor is slippery, because the clock is wrong, because someone is hurt, maybe someone will tell you to lose your emotions. Remember, emotions don't disappear when the match stops. It only has a chance to become the right emotion for what happened."

No one clapped immediately. Then a practitioner stood up and clapped twice. Others clapped along. Hanh smiled. From the corner of the room, Luan held up a stopwatch.

Chi stepped down. She walked through the door of the gym, where the rain was letting up. On the field, Tram called the children to line up. Vy practices reflexes. Vi had just arrived after class, holding a bag of bread. Manh edits the arrow on the strategy board. Diep checked the condition board. Each person is in a different position, but no one has to nail themselves there anymore.

Tram passed the ball to Chi. The ball hit the floor and bounced in front of her. Chi reached out to shake, not entirely sure, but enough.

“Will you come in and play?” Tram asked.

Chi looked at the six meter line. “One turn.”

“How many minutes is one turn?”

“Depends on the clock.”

Hanh called out from the secretary's desk: "The clock is on." ready!"

Luan pressed the button. Mechanical clock hands run. Electronic board at 10:00 am. The three sources start together.

Chi walked into the yard. Not to return to the place I once lost, nor to prove that I never left. She walked in because she wanted to play a round today, and everyone around her knew exactly when that round started.

Brooch necklace. Chi caught the ball and stood in front of the six-meter line. On the other side, Vy lowered her body and spread her arms. The two looked at each other like two people who had gone through the same question but didn't yet have the same answer.

Chi jumped up.

Six meter mark at the bottom. The goal is in front. The clock is running.

And this time, no one needs to guess what happens next.