Riding high on the wings of spring, the horse's hooves gallop with unbridled speed.

The most captivating aspects of football are shooting and dribbling—the former brings the joy of success, while the latter is the unfolding of a beautiful process. At the heart of dribbling lies the change of rhythm: sprinting at high speed, suddenly halting abruptly, and as the defending player struggles to brake in surprise, accelerating once more. Because the attacker acts with intent while the defender reacts instinctively, even the most agile defender is easily thrown off by these shifts in tempo.

Shifting the ball sideways, feinting in one direction, prompting the opponent to adjust his stance defensively, and then abruptly turning the other way—such rhythm changes make breaking through seem effortless. With Bai Haonan’s professional level, standing before the staff team of the First Affiliated Hospital, just a few demonstration moves were enough to make these amateur players understand the true gulf between them.

Even if everyone grasped the principle of rhythm change, Bai Haonan could execute the moves to perfection, maximizing the contrast in tempo, while the others might find themselves stumbling just trying to stop abruptly.

Since he was being paid, Bai Haonan—who could even endure smelly feet in the course of his work—naturally had to establish his authority with the team first, a rule he understood well.

Once the twenty-five players, mostly young scholars, had gathered, Bai Haonan initiated a game: dribbling solo against all twenty-five. For professional Chinese footballers, often derided by the public, such a scenario is almost impossible to describe.

If the twenty-five men stood hand in hand at the center circle, pushing and jostling, they might manage to dispossess him. But give Bai Haonan just two or three meters to sprint or feint, and he would utterly dominate.

For instance, moving at a normal pace, none could lay a hand on him. Why? He always chose the most advantageous position and moment to accelerate, so the amateurs were never in the optimal spot to tackle him.

That’s the difference—just as these scholars know precisely where to make an incision for minimally invasive surgery, which might terrify outsiders.

Bai Haonan barely broke a sweat, sauntering leisurely across the field with the ball, leaving behind a group of highly educated experts panting, hands on knees, sticking out their tongues, and giving him a thumbs-up: “Damn, Brother Hao, you never even used your strength when you played in our pickup games!” Two who had shut him down were knocked aside and didn’t even want to get up: “Didn’t feel that strong, just couldn’t control my body!”

Bai Haonan took no particular pride in this. Still wearing his glasses, he went around helping them up: “Tall, agile, and quick—that’s the ideal physique for a footballer, like me. But honestly, that’s just the standard template. Picking that won’t go wrong, but the very best players don’t care about templates. Now, let’s get started with three sets of proper warm-ups—follow my lead.”

Among these experts, most were intimately familiar with muscles and bones, able to identify each even with their eyes closed. But Bai Haonan’s warm-up routine had them groaning: twisting their bodies like pretzels, bending, turning sideways—any lack of balance and they’d tumble to the ground. Bai Haonan, who had bought himself a small whistle, went around correcting their form, sometimes even forcing their stiff limbs into position, making the older ones yelp.

But high-level education had its merits; no explanations were needed. Everyone focused, knowing the value—both for injury prevention and for real improvements to flexibility and endurance. If playing football before was just for fun or a bit of cardio, now they could see genuine benefit for their bodies.

The more successful a person is, the more they value preserving and extending their life. Doctors understood this better than anyone. At their age, they didn’t need intense exertion anymore, but proper exercise fitting their busy working lives—and it helped that it was enjoyable.

The only annoyance was that, after nearly an hour of warm-up, during their water break, everyone began to pepper him with questions: why this movement was done a particular way, whether it could be done otherwise, and pointing out that the muscle in question worked differently. Bai Haonan had no interest in entertaining these bookworms.

What did he know? Coaches always taught this way.

Someone had even brought a high-end digital video camera—the kind with a square lens and a foam microphone, obviously expensive and professional, like those used by television reporters at club interviews.

Seeing them set up a tripod to film the whole session, Bai Haonan refused: “No filming, this is an exclusive secret technique!”

The expert doctors seemed to understand it as intellectual property, chuckled, and put their equipment away.

Then, they moved on to scrimmage. The group split into two teams, picking positions randomly. Bai Haonan acted as referee, roaming the field. After fifteen minutes, he began shifting people around: forwards to defensive midfield, center-backs to attacking midfield, wingers to full-back, swapping players between teams, constantly changing things up. Everyone was used to his ways, so no one was surprised or complained—if anything, it was a refreshing change. Some who’d played for a decade or two had never tried these positions. It was new and interesting.

But after more than two hours of training, Bai Haonan didn’t offer any specific advice, just let them play freely, walking around the pitch with his hands behind his back, switching players non-stop.

The high level of professionalism showed—no one accused the coach of slacking or grumbled about being moved around. Everyone was enthusiastic.

At the end, Bai Haonan announced that the next day’s session would start at the gym.

Only then did someone ask if Coach Liu was planning to tailor the training to each member, since he hadn’t seen him record anyone’s data. Especially since, during their first meeting, he’d used technical terms like shuttle run, twelve-minute run, hemoglobin content, fat percentage, and lactic acid threshold. Why hadn’t there been any tests? The hospital had equipment—medical-grade machines thousands of times more precise than the gadgets at any gym. Why not use them? All it took was a phone call.

Even Bai Haonan was tempted—after all, even professional clubs usually just had palm-sized portable fat analyzers, while the medical school had machines you could practically step inside. Still, he kept a stern face: “You want me as your coach? Look at that gut—you need a fat percentage test? I could jab a needle in and see the result!”

The jab made the questioner blush, while the others snickered, covering their mouths.

That’s the authority of the coach. Bai Haonan didn’t know what it took to command troops, but he understood that a coach must control his team. If just one of these “monkeys” acted out, it would spread like a plague, and soon the whole team would be out of control. By then, any instruction would be pointless.

Isn’t that a bit like leading an army?

Regardless, Brother Nan had never thought that deeply about it. He only knew that, even for a company team, if he was being paid, he had to serve his clients well.

That’s professional ethics.

Unsurprisingly, by the end of those two hours, the sidelines were packed with spectators.

It had been days since anyone saw Brother Hao leading a pickup game, and now here he was putting a bunch of senior colleagues through their paces. Seeing those famous, formidable upperclassmen being drilled by Brother Hao, the undergraduates clutching their footballs dared not interrupt—their admiration for him was unending.

There were plenty from other affiliated units, too. Football fans are found across all specialties and years. If the First Affiliated Hospital had a team, so did the others, and the medical school had five colleges and various logistics departments. You couldn’t forbid the ambulance drivers from playing, or the morgue attendants. Everyone was welcome. Perhaps they’d come out of curiosity at first, but upon hearing that the well-funded First Affiliated Hospital had hired Brother Hao as their coach, word spread quickly.

This year’s citywide public health football tournament was sure to be a spectacle—everyone was envious!

Previously, football wasn’t taken seriously; doctors were busy, so teams were formed ad hoc under the medical university’s name. That night, many called around, asking about forming joint teams, so everyone could take part and share the fun.

The scholars and experts from the First Affiliated Hospital were envied, but the roster was full—try again next time!

Most of the hospitals’ staff were old classmates, and some suggested, “Brother Hao’s a good guy—ask his girlfriend, the fourth-year clinical student who sings so well, if she’d be willing to help run two sessions a day, morning and afternoon. But since hospital shifts start at nine, only mornings are possible.”

It was half a joke.

Who would schedule training at seven in the morning for a hospital team? That’s practically professional-level madness.

But some people’s passion for football borders on obsession. Once they coordinated, even if they couldn’t match the First Affiliated Hospital in size, together they could gather three or four dozen people for early training—so why not ask?

For successful people, life is about seizing opportunities.

The display at the First Affiliated Hospital that day was enough to fill every football enthusiast with envy. Seeing Coach Liu—T-shirt, shorts, whistle, hands behind his back, commanding the field—they realized this might be their only chance in life for professional coaching. If they couldn’t play professionally, why not savor a taste of real training?

They called him, offering to pay, promising more if the group was larger.

Even Bai Haonan hadn’t expected that the springtime of his career would arrive faster than the fitness trainers at the gym!