101. Because It Exists, or Not -4
"They're a completely different team."
That was the shared thought of the AC Milan players, and of Milan manager Stefano Pioli, when the first forty-five minutes came to an end.
It was Fiorentina—their third encounter in less than a month.
A month ago, and the week before last.
In both of those matches, Milan had come away with 2-0 victories. In other words, for a total of 180 minutes, they had not conceded a single goal, achieving utterly dominant wins.
Yet today, in just 45 minutes, they had already given up two goals.
Well, one could say that sort of thing just happens.
Soccer is a sport where keeping a clean sheet in previous games guarantees nothing for the next. It is also a sport where even a strong side can concede to a weaker one at any time.
But the real problem wasn't simply that they had conceded two goals. That was the real problem.
The problem was the quality of play.
The team's performance itself was that of a completely different side.
Of course, the return of their core ace, I Jian, must have been what created that difference.
Soccer is a sport played by eleven men, but it is also a sport where, on occasion, a single player can change the entire landscape.
He had been deeply involved in both of today's goals, and in that respect, it was possible to understand the difference from the previous two matches.
But the fact that the other players' performances had also changed to a night-and-day degree was utterly incomprehensible.
This wasn't about the overall performance as a whole.
Just as a machine won't run if an important cog is missing, it is common for the entire team to benefit from synergy when a key player returns.
But that wasn't the case this time.
Today, the Fiorentina players—not only their team movements, but also each individual's performance—were entirely different from the last match.
In other words, they were simply different players altogether.
That was precisely why the Milan players couldn't help but be bewildered.
Then what on earth was the reason?
Ahi ahi ahi-!
Magica Viola-!!
Heading toward the still-deafening pitch for the second half, the AC Milan players' steps were considerably heavier.
*
Even when walking the same long road, the difference between knowing the distance to your destination and not knowing it is enormous.
For example.
A person whose limit is 3km when running nonstop could somehow summon superhuman strength to run another 0.5km if they knew the finish line was at the 3.5km mark.
But if they ran without knowing where the finish line was, they would give up at their limit of 3km.
It's only natural.
The mental state of someone who knows the end is only 500m ahead and that of someone who runs blindly with no end in sight cannot help but be different.
That difference is, ultimately, hope.
Having the hope that you can make it, versus not being able to see ahead and not knowing if you can make it at all.
Humans are creatures capable of producing different performances from the same body depending on whether or not they possess that thing called hope.
"Gather around."
As halftime was nearing its end, Fiorentina captain Biraghi called the players together.
Soon, without distinction between those in kits and those in fluorescent bibs, they all gathered around Biraghi.
Shoulder to shoulder, everyone hunched slightly forward and listened as Biraghi spoke.
"You all felt it. That it's different from the last match. We're different, and the opponent has changed too."
Everyone nodded.
They had all felt it in their bones.
The difference.
Everything had changed compared to the match before last, and the last match.
The atmosphere of the stadium, the opponents' expressions, their movements, their momentum.
They had felt in their bodies that everything had changed.
Yet, in truth, only one thing had changed between then and now.
But that one thing had changed everything.
"We can win. No, this is a match we have to win. That's how I feel. This is a match we must win."
Whether there is hope that we can win or not.
Right now, there is a teammate who creates that hope simply by existing.
That was why none of them thought of giving up.
"Let's make sure of just one thing. Let's not get knocked out unfairly even if we win the match. Defense—let's fight with our lives on the line and finish with a clean sheet. If we just do that, it's a winning game."
"Sì!"
Biraghi nodded at their powerful reply and extended one hand forward.
"We're going to Rome."
The Coppa Italia final is held at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome.
Thus, as the team's captain, Biraghi wanted to turn the bow of the ship toward the final.
At that command, every sailor rowed with one heart.
"Uno, due, tre!"
On the following count, the players raised their joined hands to the sky and shouted.
"Andiamo a Roma (To Rome)—!!!"
With eyes that seemed to hold a touch of madness and a wealth of conviction, the Fiorentina players surged back onto the pitch.
*
Thwack—!
A pass from Theo Hernández sailed toward Rafael Leão.
Controlling the pass with the outside of his foot, Leão continued to guide the ball with the outside of his boot as he approached the box.
Then, in an instant, he slipped inside and struck the left side of the box.
Boooooom—!
A spine-chilling shot launched forth, but fortunately it narrowly missed the goalframe.
Disappointed by the close call, Leão kicked the turf and yelled in frustration.
"Focus! Focus!"
The atmosphere from the closing minutes of the first half was carrying straight over into the second.
The opponent, needing just one goal, was pushing up even more aggressively, while we were pouring everything we had into stopping them.
It was hard to keep count of how many shots had already threatened our goal.
One thing was certain—whether they were shots on target or shots that had missed by just a few centimeters—
a barrage of hair-raising shots had rained down on our goal, yet among them, not a single one had shaken the net.
78:25
FIO 2 : 0 MIL
I glanced at the scoreboard to see that so much time had passed.
But while the numbers on the clock had changed, the score had not.
Considering that two-thirds of the 35 second-half minutes had been consumed by the opponent's attacks, that in itself was a relief.
Anyway, I hadn't been given many chances during that stretch, but I was focusing on the things I could and had to do even without the ball.
Tap-tap—!
While we were preparing to take a goal kick, I stamped my foot as if I might dart into the space behind the defense, and the opposing defenders flinched.
Tonali, the player closest to me, actually broke into a few steps before walking back to my side.
Whether it was me or the opposing players, we were all people living our lives doing the same thing, only in different kits. When I thought of it that way, it felt almost wrong.
But today we had to be divided into winners and losers, so it couldn't be helped.
We had to be deceived, and we had to deceive in turn.
The manager had said to stay high up the pitch in the second half and draw the defenders' eyes.
He said positioning myself higher up would help more than dropping deep to help defense.
Apparently, my mere presence in a high position prevented the opponent from raising their line.
However, I couldn't just stand around idle, and since most of the time we were defending,
I too was doing my best to attract the defenders' attention.
I had always been taught that a striker should disappear from the defenders' sight, but I was learning that sometimes you had to draw attention instead.
So, while I did feel sorry for the opponents taking several futile steps because of my every move, I was merely fulfilling my duty as a Fiorentina striker.
Tap-tap-tap—!
Having roamed near the halfway line, I noisily stamped my foot again.
And this time, I really accelerated toward the opponent's goal.
If you want to deceive the opponent, you have to mix truth in among countless lies.
Why does Jiu suddenly come to mind here?
Whoooosh—!
The moment I made my run, a pass flew in, albeit slightly late.
A lobbed pass toward the left flank of the opponent's half.
Even though I had grown to a towering 180 centimeters, I wasn't particularly tall compared to the opposing defenders.
Since aerial duels aren't decided by height alone, it wouldn't be wrong to say I still lacked competitiveness in the center.
"I'll bring it down!"
Contesting the drop point and battling physically with the defender was Saponara's role; I headed for a position where I could collect the ball.
Thud—!
Soon, the ball struck my senior's head and spilled into the space behind the opposing fullback, dropping right under the feet of my run.
Tock—
I trapped the ball with the outside of my right foot, then turned my head slightly to take in a wide view of the pitch.
By this point, my teammates should have all pushed forward with me, but they hadn't.
Only Saponara, who had taken up position near the box, and Sottil, who had returned as a substitute, were there.
The rest were holding their positions, a mindset that made it clear preventing a concession was more important than scoring right now.
The urge to create a breather for those teammates welled up inside me.
A breather. I would carve one open.
Tok, tok—
With the ball under my center of gravity, I approached the opposing fullback who had stepped in front of me.
He dropped into a low stance, positioning his body diagonally so that his front faced my right side.
Meaning he was more wary of me cutting inside to the right—toward the center.
So I shifted my weight heavily to the right.
Tap!
Then, as if he were my mirror, the defender moved to the right in the exact same manner.
But I had only moved my body without touching the ball.
Tap!
I pushed off my right leg, which had been bearing my full weight, and with my left foot knocked the ball to the left, bursting past him like a spring.
Realizing he was already too late, the defender stuck out a leg, but it only swished through empty air.
Tap-tap-tap—!
I drove the ball diagonally toward the left side of the penalty box.
I had beaten one man, but the box was still swarming with defenders.
Perhaps because of that, I saw a large defender leave his post to come out and meet me.
Even seeing that, I kept running toward the byline,
until the moment I felt the hot breath the defender exhaled.
Tak!
I slammed on the brakes with my right foot and wrapped my left foot around the ball, folding it behind my right.
And after letting the defender who had been chasing me run past, I sprinted with large strides toward the rolling ball.
Then, lightly, I swept the ball with the inside of my right foot as if shaving it.
Boooooom—!
I don't know much about science.
Therefore, I can't explain why a spinning ball curves, at least not theoretically.
But I do know how to make it happen on the pitch.
The ball, struck with heavy spin, seemed to be heading wide before bending sharply toward the goal.
Swoooooosh—
Thwack!!!
And the moment that ball rippled the net, I was finally able to run to the fans.
I had been disappointed that I couldn't stand in front of the fans after scoring the first two goals, but now there was no reason to rush for time.
Smash—!
Had I always been such a violent person?
Without realizing it, I kicked the advertising hoarding.
And facing the fans roaring at me, I roared back, waving both arms.
The sight of us screaming at each other.
If anyone saw us, they might think we were fighting, but this was simply a way of confirming that we were on the same side.
*
Focusing more on my hearing than my sight, I controlled the ball every which way.
Like frantic fish swarming in from all sides, they rushed at me; to not have my prey stolen, I flailed with everything I had—tail, fins and all.
I must have looked fairly ridiculous, but I had to protect the ball first.
Tap-tap!
Evading a foot coming in from the right, I cut left...
Tap-tap!
Dodging a leg stretching out from the front, I dragged the ball and spun around.
Then a bit of open space appeared, and I moved toward it to survive.
Tap-tap-tap!
But as I ran, I realized.
In my dizzy spinning, I had somehow ended up at a dead end.
Before I knew it, I had reached the corner flag, and I could feel three or four players rushing at my back.
Concentrating on my hearing as much as possible, I shielded the ball with my body.
Then, when I couldn't hold out any longer and was pushed off, I caught the ball with my hand.
It wasn't that I wanted to keep the ball so badly I would do that; it was because a welcome sound reached my tilted ear.
Beep. Beep. Beeeeep—!
Not once, not twice, but three blasts of the whistle.
That meant the match was over, and that we had won 3-0.
Whooooosh—!
Today I had surprised myself many times, but just as I had kicked the hoarding earlier, I now sent the ball in my hand soaring high into the sky.
And beyond it, my teammates ran toward me.
"Jian—!!!"
"We did it! We won!"
"It's all thanks to you!!"
Soon I was buried among my teammates, nearly suffocating, when suddenly the world opened up beneath my feet.
Is this what it feels like to be three meters tall?
My teammates had lifted me up.
Thanks to them, I was taking in the fresh air, but soon I started choking.
"Kuh-ack!"
Because the ball I had kicked high into the sky had fallen, of all places, right onto the head of Romero, who was running up late.