The town of Les Ulis was small and sparsely populated. Although it had an amateur team and had even produced a national team player like Henry, football here remained very backward.
But in a small town like this, finding a specific player was like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Fortunately, Ethan was not foolish. He took a taxi and quickly learned there was only one shabby football pitch in town. So, he simply went there to wait.
The Les Ulis amateur team was completely unstructured, just a group of locals who loved football and came together to compete in France's low-level amateur leagues. Their stadium was equally dilapidated, with a capacity of only 2,500, no real facilities, and no barriers to entry. Anyone could walk in.
When Ethan entered, he saw a group of children kicking a ball around. The oldest looked about ten, the youngest only six or seven. None of them had received formal training, yet every challenge for the ball was followed by peals of laughter.
Around 5 p.m., several young men in their twenties, wearing mismatched jerseys, walked onto the pitch with a ball. They paid no attention to Ethan sitting under the shade of a tree. After all, the pitch was open to the public, and anyone could be there.
Gradually, more people arrived, and soon they divided into two sides for a practice match.
It was very casual, more like street football. Apart from basic rules, there was nothing structured. No referee, no coach, no tactics. Players simply filled whatever position was open.
Ethan watched them carefully, but he did not recognize a single familiar face among the dozen or so players.
"Did I get it wrong? He's not here?" Ethan began to doubt himself.
But since he was already here, he decided to watch the game.
Like most amateur matches, it was fast and physical but lacked any real technical or tactical play. Both teams were chaotic. Even the goalkeeper would rush forward to join the attack, earning laughs from everyone.
Sometimes, the pure joy of football was best captured in this kind of street match.
Halfway through, a dark-skinned figure ran onto the pitch. He was short, maybe 1.6 meters, and looked very young. His pace was electric. Without resting, he pulled off the uniform of a part-time worker and immediately began dribbling along the sideline.
The moment he entered, Ethan's eyes fixed on him. After a closer look, he confirmed this was the player he had come for.
"I can't keep going, Patrice, you take over!" One of the players, exhausted, called for a substitution.
The young boy jogged onto the pitch. Surprisingly, instead of taking up a wide role as Ethan had expected, he slotted into central midfield.
But this was not a structured game. There were no systems, no tactical discipline. Centre-backs would push forward recklessly, even goalkeepers would leave their area. Midfielders often found themselves drifting out wide.
The boy was fast. Compared to these amateurs, his technique was solid, evidence of formal training. But to Ethan, who had seen countless stars and games, he did not look outstanding at all.
No wonder Paris Saint-Germain had discarded him.
Still, among this group of amateurs, he stood out clearly.
If nothing else, his sheer pace and explosiveness made him a weapon.
Of course, against experienced defenders with good positioning, speed alone might not be decisive. But among amateurs, speed meant everything.
Though nominally in midfield, the boy constantly drifted wide to use his pace against defenders. But once he got into crossing positions, disaster followed. His deliveries were wild, or no teammate was there to meet them. Chance after chance was wasted.
"What's his name?" Ethan asked one of the substituted players casually, in English.
"Patrice Evra. Why?" The man, surprised by the foreigner, replied in hesitant English.
"Nothing. I just noticed his speed and physical strength, so I asked." Ethan smiled.
"Yes, he's the fastest of us."
"If I'm not mistaken, he's had formal training, right? His basics are good."
The man nodded, glancing at the field. "Yes. He was in the PSG youth team, but the big club didn't rate him, so he came back. He joins us when he's free."
Indeed, Evra was 17 this year. Apart from his speed, there was little remarkable about him. Without knowing his future, no one would have paid him any attention.
According to Ethan's memories, Evra would move later that year to Marsala, a semi-professional Italian club in Serie C1B, but fail to impress. A year later, he would switch to Serie B side Monza, again without success. Only after returning to France with Nice in Ligue 2, where he was converted into a left-back, did he finally begin to shine.
His performances there eventually caught Ferguson's eye, leading to a move to Manchester United, where he quickly became first-choice and established himself as one of the world's best left-backs.
Now, though, this future superstar was reduced to kicking about with amateurs. Perhaps, Ethan thought, it was precisely these setbacks that forged him.
Ethan couldn't help but think of Ballack. If he had been a few years earlier, maybe he could have signed that future German star too.
After over half an hour, the players were exhausted and called for a break. Everyone left the pitch to drink water. Only Evra stayed, practicing volleys against the stands. The others clearly saw this as normal.
"Hello, Patrice Evra," Ethan walked over to greet him.
"Hello." Evra looked shyly at the stranger. "Who are you?"
"My name is Ethan Yu. I'm from Manchester. I'd like to know if you're interested in playing football in Manchester?" Ethan asked with a smile.
"Manchester?" Evra was startled. "Are you a scout for Manchester United?"
Ethan froze, then quickly laughed at the misunderstanding. "No. We are the new Manchester United. Next season we will play in the North West Counties Division Two. I'd like you to join us."
"North West Counties Division Two..." Evra muttered, trying to place it in the English pyramid. But he came up empty.
"We're a tenth-tier team. On league level alone, we're actually below Les Ulis. And we were only founded this year. But we've already signed several professional players, and you're another we hope to add."
"Is it full-time?" Evra asked cautiously.
"Of course. Though the wages aren't high, we guarantee playing time. And in England, the league system is rigorous, every level fiercely competitive, especially in Manchester. Even at the worst grounds, you'll find scouts from United and City. If you have the ability, you won't be overlooked."
At this stage, the new Manchester United had no reputation. Ethan could only borrow the weight of his two neighbors' names.
He then produced identification and handed it to Evra.
The boy studied it carefully, comparing the photo with Ethan, finally convinced. What shocked him most was that Ethan was actually the club's chairman.
"Our club was formed to resist Murdoch's takeover of Manchester United, so we call ourselves the new Manchester United." Ethan noticed Evra hesitating at the name and explained.
Evra's eyes lit up. "Oh, I remember. I saw your report on TV!"
"Really? That's great. At least it proves I'm not lying," Ethan laughed. For once, he was grateful to his counterpart in this timeline. The publicity had done him a favor.
"By the way, where are your parents?" Ethan asked. He knew that a 17-year-old could not easily make a life-changing decision. "Can you take me to meet them?"
Perhaps it was Ethan's honest manner, or simply Evra's own desire to pursue football, but he nodded and led Ethan out of the stadium.
"Patrice, heading back so soon?" the player Ethan had spoken to earlier asked in surprise. Evra usually trained until dark.
Evra only nodded, silent, and kept walking. Ethan followed closely.
From start to finish, nobody at the ground noticed Ethan's presence, nor knew his identity.
But for the next two days, Evra did not return to the Les Ulis pitch. When his parents were asked, they said simply that he had gone to England to play football.
(To be continued.)