Chapter Seventy-Two: The Highest Praise for an Actor!

“Who’s that old man? What role is he playing in the film?”
“What coach? Is this actor acquainted with Teacher Qiao?”
Hearing the entertainment reporters chattering and seeing Li Shixin standing in the corridor on the mezzanine, Wang Hai and Jiao Chendong were momentarily bewildered.

Of course Wang Hai knew—the person at the stairwell was Li Shixin.
His impression of the old man was so vivid that even if the old fellow turned to dust, he’d recognize it as the very dust that once tugged at his pant leg.

But now, looking at the elder dressed in authentic, old-fashioned sportswear with a whistle hanging around his neck…
If it weren’t for those somewhat familiar features, Wang Hai would hardly have dared to recognize him—the transformation was too drastic!

It wasn’t just the makeup: the shift was fundamentally in his demeanor.
From previous encounters, Wang Hai’s memory of Li Shixin was of a slightly stooped elderly man, hands often clasped behind his back, always smiling kindly, his crow’s feet folding into a benevolent expression.
Benevolent, at least on the surface.

But now, Li Shixin stood tall and straight, exuding a commanding presence as if he’d grown ten years younger. The benevolence and serenity between his brows were utterly gone, replaced by sternness. Even the lines around his mouth seemed to have deepened.

Thankfully, this was a film set—he knew it was an act. If they’d met like this on the street, he truly wouldn’t have recognized him!

“Uh…” Faced with the reporters’ questions, Wang Hai hesitated for a moment. “He’s the actor playing Coach Liu—Li Shixin, Grandpa Li.”

He patted Jiao Chendong beside him. “It’s Grandpa Li, right?”

As the director, Jiao Chendong was equally stunned by Li Shixin’s chameleon-like aura. However, he knew exactly what the character required, so he nodded, confirming, “That’s right, President Wang. It’s the old master.”

Hearing this, the entertainment reporters immediately sensed a story and hurried toward the stairs.

…

On the mezzanine landing.

Li Shixin gazed at Qiao Hong—who, though an old lady in years, wore the expression of a young girl—and frowned.

“Hello, Teacher Qiao.”

That single “Teacher Qiao” snapped Qiao Hong back to her senses.
She looked blankly around, then at the man before her. The shyness and panic faded from her face, and she resumed her previous composure.

Ignoring the fuss of Wang Hai, Yao Wenyuan, and others rushing to support and scold her, the old lady waved them away.

With a gaze sharp enough to dissect, she once more scrutinized Li Shixin from head to toe. Only then did she speak, a trace of wistfulness in her voice: “You… You’re not Coach Liu.”

She laughed at herself, “Look at me, muddled again. Coach Liu passed away back in 2002—I even attended the funeral. How could you be Coach Liu?”

Afraid she might become agitated again, Yao Wenyuan hurriedly supported her, “Teacher Qiao, please, don’t get upset.”

Qiao Hong smiled and waved her hand.
Once more, she studied Li Shixin carefully.
Several times, she raised her hand as if to touch him, but hesitated, as though afraid to shatter an illusion. At last, she put her hand down.

Her eyes turned red as she sighed, “But you really do look like him. So very much like him.”
She pointed to Li Shixin’s jacket, of which only one sleeve was rolled up. “It’s not just the air about you. Coach Liu injured his right arm—he was afraid of the cold. He always rolled up only the left sleeve of his tracksuit, just like you. Even that little habit is identical. You… did you know Coach Liu?”

By now, Li Shixin had more or less pieced together what had just happened from the crowd’s murmurs and the scene before him.

Facing Qiao Hong’s tear-reddened eyes fixed intently on him, he smiled gently. “I knew him—we’re newly made old friends.”

“What does that mean, newly made old friends?” Wang Hai muttered. “Besides, Coach Liu has already…”

He stopped mid-sentence, swallowing his words for fear of upsetting Qiao Hong.

Seeing Wang Hai’s discomfort, Li Shixin laughed heartily. “Why can’t a new friend be an old one? As for how we met… let’s call it a meeting of the minds.”

Indeed, it was a meeting of the minds.

In order to portray the role well, Li Shixin had not only pored over the original novel several times, but also scoured the internet for every shred of footage of Coach Liu.
There wasn’t much: a pre-Asian Games interview and a few local news segments.
He had studied and imitated these brief videos over and over—from clothing style to gestures, from subconscious habits to tone and accent.

Hearing the faint Hunan twang in Li Shixin’s speech, Qiao Hong could no longer contain herself. She seized his arm.

“You’re not just a kindred spirit of Coach Liu!”

In front of all the reporters and crew, the old lady wiped away tears and smiled with the pure innocence of a girl. “In you, Coach Liu lives on!”

Hearing these words—no mere compliment, but perhaps the highest praise an actor could receive—the set fell silent.

Then, somewhere in the quiet, a single echoing clap began, and soon the applause swelled and flowed throughout the room.

Ding!
A surge of admiration points laced with deep respect—47,569!

Silently accepting the acclaim, Li Shixin bowed slightly amid the waves of applause.

“Teacher Qiao, let’s return to the hotel. It’s been a long morning—please rest this afternoon. Tomorrow, someone from the Beijing Sports Bureau’s retirement home will come to escort you back. It’s a long journey by plane; don’t tire yourself,” Yao Wenyuan gently urged, wheeling the chair to her side as the applause continued.

But Qiao Hong stubbornly shook her head. “No. Xiao Yao, please tell the folks in Beijing—I’m not leaving.”

“What?” Yao Wenyuan’s face fell. “Teacher Qiao, how will you manage here? Your condition… you need regular checkups and treatment. The medical facilities here aren’t as good as in Beijing.”

“No.” Qiao Hong shook her head softly. “Honestly, you all know—and so do I. Whether Alzheimer’s is treated or not, the outcome is much the same. I’m grateful for your care, but I ask you all, sincerely…”

She glanced at Li Shixin, who had already returned to the set and was preparing to film, and smiled. “Let me remember, just once more, before I forget everything.”

She was already in the middle stages of Alzheimer’s: easily agitated, prone to breakdowns, with serious memory loss. Yao Wenyuan wanted to object, but thinking of the hardships and loneliness of this former world champion’s life, he swallowed his refusal and nodded.

In the center of the set, the crew bustled to restore order.
An Xiaoxiao, still trembling from Qiao Hong’s earlier outburst, watched in awe—Li Shixin had conquered the entire room with a single entrance. Her eyes shone differently now.

So this… this is what it means to be a true master.
There was no doubt—he was the real deal.

As Li Shixin approached, An Xiaoxiao leapt before him.

“Ma—Master! Mr. Li, do you need more hair on your legs?”

Li Shixin chuckled and patted her head.

“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

“I did! Mr. Li, look—my leg got banged by the camera rig, see? It’s bruised!”

Examining the slightly bruised shin, Li Shixin pressed firmly.
When An Xiaoxiao only winced, he withdrew his hand.

“It’s just a bruise, you’ll be fine. Xiaoxiao, next time something like this happens, remember to protect your head.”

“Oh, okay! But… why? At the dance academy, the teachers always say if I were just a bit slimmer, I’d have the best legs in a decade! They even suggested I insure them, saying that even if I don’t make it as a dancer, I could always become a leg model.”

Facing her boastful chatter, Li Shixin glanced skyward and sighed.
“My child, a person’s achievements aren’t measured by the length of their strengths, but by the shortness of their weaknesses.”

“Oh.”
Though she didn’t quite understand, An Xiaoxiao nodded seriously.

“But Mr. Li, what does that have to do with protecting my head?”