In 2017, Ming Che stood on the finals stage for the first time, brimming with confidence. The spotlight shone on him. In that moment, he was in his prime.
Then the match ended. Golden confetti fell on the other team.
The cheers all around him surged like waves, pressing down until he could barely breathe. A minute later, the victors were crowned champions.
In an interview, the host asked Ming Che, “How do you look back on your career? You’ve played for several clubs, yet you’ve never had a perfect result. It always seems like you’re just a little short on luck.”
Ming Che was silent for a long time before replying softly, “Compared to most professional players, I’ve been lucky.
“That year, I came within a step of winning the championship three times. Everything happened too quickly and went too smoothly.
“Afterward, I failed to qualify again and again. I started getting used to that kind of life, and finally understood just how hard it really is.”
“Which match left the deepest impression on you?” the host asked immediately.
“Those three matches in 2017 are all hard to forget. Back then, trying to take that one step felt like climbing a mountain with no visible end.
“But someone had already planted their flag on its summit,” Ming Che said softly.
It was as if he were telling someone else’s story, recounting his own experience in the third person. In essence, it was a mix of psychological defense and self-regulation.
An article about the interview described this phenomenon.
One comment beneath the article received tens of thousands of likes: The matches from years ago are memories that never end.
Like cold rain clinging to the marrow of your bones, dampness that never quite dries.
It has soaked through from the depths of time to the present, and even every breath is wrapped in a heaviness you can’t shake off.
