Under the guidance of chief scout Steve Rowley, Jin Hayes finally came face to face with one of the most iconic figures in modern football: Arsène Wenger, the Arsenal manager who had built the club's modern identity over a decade of unprecedented success.
Compared to the sharp, energetic man Jin Hayes remembered from television broadcasts a few years ago, the Professor in person seemed older, wearier. The glasses were still there, the refined air intact, but there was a new heaviness around his eyes. Still, he smiled warmly as he extended a hand.
Jin Hayes had expected to spend his first day at Arsenal with a youth coach, or perhaps the head of academy recruitment. Meeting the first-team manager immediately was a shock.
Steve Rowley, noticing the boy's surprise, offered a quiet explanation. "Jin, it was Mr. Wenger who specifically requested you come for this trial."
"I'm grateful for the opportunity, Mr. Wenger," Jin Hayes said, shaking the offered hand, his voice steady.
Wenger's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Your English is excellent."
"I should be able to communicate with teammates without any problems, sir."
"Good. Very good." Wenger nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. He'd dealt with young players from East Asia before. The pattern was often the same: talented, hardworking, but painfully shy, isolated by language and culture. He remembered conversations with his old rival Sir Alex Ferguson about a certain South Korean at Manchester United who had struggled to settle. On the pitch, communication was everything. If your teammates can't talk to you, they won't trust you. And if they don't trust you, they won't pass you the ball.
Jin Hayes, it seemed, would not have that problem. One less worry.
Wenger's expression grew more serious. "I'll be honest with you. Our trials are not easy. Hundreds of young players come through these gates every year. Very few are offered contracts."
Jin Hayes met his gaze without flinching. "If you don't offer me one, Mr. Wenger, that will be Arsenal's loss."
Silence.
Steve Rowley's stomach dropped. He shot Jin Hayes a warning look. You didn't speak to Arsène Wenger like that. Not on your first day. Not ever.
Wenger's eyes narrowed, studying the young man before him. Jin Hayes held the stare, his confidence not a performance, but something deeper, more innate.
Then, unexpectedly, Wenger threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, warm sound that filled the corridor.
"I like him," he said to Rowley, still chuckling. "He's got character. Good. Take him to complete the formalities, Steve." He turned back to Jin Hayes, offering a final, encouraging nod. "Good luck, kid. Show us what you can do."
As they walked away, Steve Rowley let out a long breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "You've got some nerve, kid. You know that?"
Jin Hayes shrugged. "I was just being honest."
Rowley shook his head, a wry smile on his face. He couldn't argue with that.
The Arsenal training centre was a sprawling, modern complex, a world away from the cramped municipal pitches Jin Hayes was used to. His first stop was the medical wing, and as he stepped through the doors, he had to fight the urge to laugh.
Of course, he thought. The infamous Arsenal medical room.
It wasn't that there was anything funny about the room itself. It was pristine, white-walled, and filled with state-of-the-art equipment. But a strange, inexplicable knowledge flickered at the edge of Jin Hayes's consciousness. A jumble of words and phrases, seemingly random but somehow connected: "best midfield in the league," "lost in the medical room," "nearly signed him but..." and something about a tree. He didn't understand any of it. The year was 2007. The internet memes he somehow half-remembered didn't exist yet. Gonzalo Higuaín was still at River Plate. The future was unwritten.
And yet, alongside these odd flashes, came another certainty, cold and absolute: Arsenal would not win the Premier League this season. Nor the next. In fact, for reasons he couldn't explain, he knew that their last league title would remain the one from the 2003/04 Invincibles season for a very, very long time.
He shook the thoughts away. He'd had these strange "premonitions" since he was a child, random flashes of information that surfaced and vanished without context. He'd learned to ignore them.
The medical was gruelling. Blood tests, heart monitors, MRI scans of his joints and bones. They tested his muscle composition, his body fat percentage, his flexibility. Then came the physical exertion tests: sprints on a treadmill while wearing a mask that measured his oxygen intake, core strength assessments, and a series of drills designed to test his agility and balance under fatigue. It was relentless.
Eight hours later, exhausted and poked in more places than he cared to remember, Jin Hayes was finally given the all-clear.
"That was tough," Steve Rowley said, clapping him on the shoulder as they stood outside the medical centre. "Take the next couple of days to rest. Report back here for training on Monday."
He handed Jin Hayes a slip of paper with a phone number. "If you want to see a bit of London, call this number. It's a minicab driver we use for the academy lads. He'll show you around."
"Thank you, Mr. Rowley. For everything."
Rowley smiled. "It's my job. Besides, if you make it into the first team, maybe we'll finally have a chance at the title next season." He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, got into his car, and drove off.
Jin Hayes stood alone at the entrance of the Colney Training Centre, watching the taillights disappear. The surrounding woodland was quiet, the only sound a distant hum of traffic from the main road. A cold wind cut through his thin jacket. He shivered, turned, and jogged back towards the academy accommodation.
There was nothing to see out here. He might as well find the gym.
In his car, Steve Rowley was on the phone.
"He's clean, Arsène. No underlying issues. Healthy as a horse. But he's weak. Lacks muscle mass, poor upper body strength, and his stamina numbers are worrying. His tackling is non-existent, but that's technical, not physical."
"Understood," Wenger's voice came through the speaker. On his desk, the full medical report was already open on his laptop. He studied the numbers, his expression thoughtful. "All of that can be fixed. Strength can be built. Stamina can be developed. The technical flaws can be coached. What cannot be taught, Steve, is what he did on that pitch against Everton. We'll see what he can do with players of a higher calibre around him."
The 2007-08 Premier League season was in full swing. With the European Championship and the Beijing Olympics scheduled for the following summer, the domestic calendar had been pushed forward. The opening round had been played on August 11th. Now, on the morning of August 27th, four rounds were complete.
Arsenal sat proudly at the top of the table: 2-1 against Fulham, a 1-1 draw with Blackburn, a 1-0 win over Manchester City, and a 3-1 victory against Portsmouth. Three wins and a draw. Unbeaten. Confident.
The atmosphere in the first-team cafeteria was buoyant when Jin Hayes walked in. The squad had returned late from their away fixture and were scattered around the tables, a collection of footballing talent that would be the envy of most clubs in Europe.
Seeing a young face in an Arsenal training kit, Brazilian midfielder Gilberto Silva grinned. "Hey, my friend! The youth academy pitches are the other way. Did you get lost? Do you speak English?"
A tall, bald defender with a French accent intervened before Jin Hayes could respond.
"Leave him alone, Gilberto." He extended a hand. "Hello. New academy signing? I'm William Gallas, the captain."
"Not signed yet," Jin Hayes replied, shaking his hand. "I'm here on trial."
Gallas nodded, unfazed. The club saw trialists all the time. "Get yourself a tray first. Find something you like. Training today will be demanding. You'll need the energy."
"Thank you, captain."
Under Gallas's guidance, Jin Hayes collected his food and was introduced, in passing, to the rest of the squad. Their reactions varied. The established stars – Van Persie, Fabregas, the emerging Theo Walcott – barely glanced up from their plates, engrossed in their own conversations. The Czech midfielder Tomáš Rosický offered a friendly wave. The Brazilians, Gilberto and Denílson, were curious, peppering him with questions.
"Do you still ride buffaloes to school in China?" Gilberto asked, his expression genuinely inquisitive.
"Is it true everyone wears those straw hats?" Denílson added.
Flamini, the French midfielder, leaned in. "Is the food safe there? I've heard things. You should eat up here, this is all organic, tested."
Jin Hayes stifled a sigh. The questions were well-meaning, but steeped in the kind of lazy stereotypes he'd always found mildly irritating. They might as well have been reading from an outdated travel guide.
He smiled politely and made non-committal noises, but inside, a small fire was lit. He'd have to make a name for himself, he realised. Not just for his own sake, but to challenge these lazy assumptions. When players like Cristiano Ronaldo and Messi became global stars, people became genuinely curious about Portugal and Argentina. They visited. They learned. They understood.
He wanted the same. But first, he had to earn the right to be noticed.
After the warm-up, Wenger did something unusual. He bypassed the standard drills and called for an intra-squad scrimmage. First-teamers versus a mixed team of reserves and academy players. And he assigned Jin Hayes to the latter, handing him a yellow bib.
The Arsenal players exchanged glances. A fifteen-year-old trialist, playing against the first team? This was unprecedented. What was Wenger playing at?
Wenger offered no explanation. He simply blew his whistle and set the game in motion. The first-team players, eager to impress and secure their places for the upcoming fixtures, approached the scrimmage with serious intent.
Jin Hayes pulled on the yellow bib over his unnumbered training shirt and jogged onto the pitch. As he stretched, a cold voice came from beside him.
"Try not to embarrass yourself, kid."
He turned. Cesc Fàbregas, the Spanish prodigy, the midfield maestro plucked from Barcelona's La Masia, was looking at him with barely concealed disdain.
Jin Hayes met his gaze and smiled. "I was about to say the same to you."
Fàbregas's eyes narrowed. "I'm Catalan, not Spanish. And do you have any idea who I am?"
"I don't care who you are."
The whistle blew.
Twenty minutes later, Fàbregas understood.
The Asian kid he'd dismissed, the one who, in his mind, couldn't possibly belong at this level, had just done something extraordinary. He'd picked up the ball in his own half, glided past Flamini with a sharp change of pace, nutmegged a lunging Kolo Touré, and then, faced with William Gallas, the captain, he'd executed a perfect elastico – a lightning-quick flick of the ball one way with the outside of his foot before dragging it back the other – leaving Gallas grasping at air. He was in the penalty area, one-on-one with Jens Lehmann, having made a collection of world-class players look ordinary.
"My God," Gilberto Silva breathed from the sideline.
The entire training ground seemed to hold its breath.
Then Jin Hayes shot. The ball soared, missing the goal by a comfortable margin and heading towards the corner flag with the accuracy of a misguided missile.
Jin Hayes stared at his foot, then at the ball, now resting against the advertising boards. "Still can't score?" he muttered to himself.