Caged Birds, the Ball Beyond the Wall

The sky was gloomy, like someone's grandmother had died, holding back a torrent of tears. But the "Juxian Teahouse" at the entrance of the old Beijing hutong was as lively as a boiling pot.

Today, the national football team was playing against Australia. This was a tough match. Teahouse owner, Li Siye, had brought out the old, dilapidated television early, wiping it down again and again, fearing he might hinder the neighbors from watching the game.

"You think, our national team, can they win today?" The speaker was Zhang's second son, just off work, still wearing his greasy work clothes, holding half a烧饼 (sesame flatbread).

"Hey! I say, Second Son, did you borrow that mouth of yours? Always saying such unlucky things!" Li Siye glared at him, deftly brewing tea. "We have to believe! If you believe, it will be so!"

But these words, even Li Siye himself didn't believe. He knew it like the back of his hand; the national team hadn't given anyone peace of mind for years. Losing was as commonplace as eating, while winning was like having dumplings for New Year's.

In the teahouse, smoke swirled, and voices rose. There were old men fanning themselves with palm-leaf fans, women holding babies, white-collar workers in suits, and a few bare-chested men. No matter what they did in their daily lives, at this moment, they were all staring at the small screen, their hearts in their throats.

The match began.

"Pass! Pass! Oh! That pass was worse than my grandma throwing her foot-binding cloth!" Li Siye was so anxious he slapped his thigh.

"Shhh! Keep it down! Your voice could lift the roof!" A young man wearing glasses next to him said, frowning.

"Hey! I say, you young'un, what do you know! If you don't yell while watching a game, is it even watching a game?" Li Siye was displeased.

The young man didn't say anything more, just silently pushed up his glasses, a certain indescribable expression in his eyes.

On the field, the players went back and forth, playing fiercely. But in the teahouse, the atmosphere became increasingly oppressive.

"Another goal conceded! These bastards! They just kick it into their own net!" Zhang's second son was so angry he slammed the shaobing on the table.

"Alright, alright, stop yelling! It's always like this, win or lose, what can you do?" An old woman said slowly, the child in her arms sleeping soundly.

"Mom! What are you saying? How can you be happy when we lose? This isn't just any game, it's the nation's face!" Zhang's second son retorted.

"The nation's face? Is the nation's face earned by these few guys kicking a ball?" The old woman sneered. "For us ordinary people, firewood, rice, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and tea – which isn't more important than this ball?"

The teahouse fell silent.

On the television, the commentator's voice was still roaring passionately, but the sound seemed to come from another world, distant and illusory.

The match ended. The national team, unsurprisingly, lost.

The teahouse was dead silent.

Li Siye silently tidied up the tea set. Zhang's second son picked up the shaobing from the floor and took a big bite. The young man with glasses stood up and silently walked out of the teahouse. The child in the old woman's arms woke up and started crying loudly.

The sky grew darker. The rain finally began to fall.

The rain seemed to wash away the hustle and bustle of the world, and also seemed to wash away the confusion in people's hearts.

Everyone is like a bird in a cage, trapped by invisible walls, chasing a football beyond the wall that can never be touched.

What are we actually chasing? And what are we confused about? The rain seems to be asking, too, but no one can answer. Only the television continues to replay the highlights of the match, over and over, like an endless cycle. The football being kicked back and forth is like a giant question mark, hanging heavily in everyone's heart, making it hard to breathe.

Lu Xun once said, "Hope cannot be said to exist, nor can it be said not to exist. It is just like roads across the earth. For actually the earth had no roads to begin with, but when many men pass one way, a road is made." (https://www.bing.com/search?q=Lu+Xun+quote+hope+road)

But where is the road for this national football team? And where is this hope?

Perhaps the answer lies in this teahouse, in the heart of each person, in every drop of falling rain. It's just that this answer is too heavy, too bitter, making people unwilling to face it, and afraid to face it.