118. Pre-Season -4
“What the hell. Is this an automatic door?”
“It opens this easily? What the hell is the defense doing!”
“Delay them! Delay! What are they thinking just letting them through like that!”
The moment the Serie A top scorer’s goal exploded in at England’s Old Trafford, the fans in the stands spewed curses and threw punches at the air.
They had finally gotten the manager change they had so desperately wanted, and after gnashing their teeth over last season’s poor results, everyone had prepared for the new season expecting things to be different—to see a changed side.
Different my ass, conceding a goal that easily.
“Wait, is it Maguire again?”
“Yeah. It was Maguire again.”
“It makes no sense that someone like that is United’s captain. If things are going to change, the captain needs to be the first one replaced!”
Immediately, the arrows of resentment poured down on Harry Maguire.
Because right before conceding, it was Maguire who had allowed the breakthrough.
Allowing such a breakthrough inside the penalty box—could that really be Manchester United’s starting centre-back and captain?
Well, it wasn’t as if Maguire making mistakes that made you doubt your eyes was such a rare occurrence.
But that was a bit much just now.
“Why’d he drop like a rhino shot with a tranquilizer gun?”
“A rhino would’ve held its ground. That’s just a wild boar piglet.”
“Why do I feel so ashamed…?”
He fell unsightly—far too unsightly.
Staggering from one upper-body feint, then tripping over his own feet and falling flat.
It was enough to make you worry he’d suffered an ankle injury.
Some fans with high empathy felt so embarrassed on his behalf that they squeezed their eyes shut.
“Hey, but you know.”
“Huh?”
“Maguire is Maguire, but it seems like that guy played that really well just now.”
However, fans with slightly more objective eyes looked not at Maguire to curse him, but at Fiorentina’s number 20.
It was true that Maguire, having allowed the breakthrough inside the box, bore a large share of the blame for conceding, but the failure to defend began up front as well.
First, they let him turn around easily up front.
Next, rushing in to snatch the ball only to allow the breakthrough.
After that, they gave up both the midfield and the space behind the defense at the same time, even conceding a fatal through ball.
Of course, even with all that, if Maguire had made a good defensive play at the last moment, the goal could have been prevented.
But since they’d allowed the ball to advance that far in the first place, it wasn’t something they could blame solely on Maguire.
“But… honestly, it didn’t seem like the press was bad…”
“The press was good.”
Then why had they allowed him to advance so easily? It wasn’t easy to point to anything specific.
First, Fred, who had allowed the breakthrough first.
Considering his position, he seemed to have pushed up a bit high, but that was simply a team-oriented movement to press the opponent from the front.
The press itself had been fast and not bad.
Then what about McTominay, who let him play a free kick in midfield, or the defense that left space behind and allowed the pass?
They probably hadn’t expected the front line to be breached so easily and quickly. Because until then, the opponent had been completely locked down by the press.
It had been Fiorentina, who found it difficult to even come up to the halfway line, releasing the ball with long balls that were closer to clearances.
So pointing out that they hadn’t prepared in advance for that situation was too harsh.
As for Maguire… he just did what Maguire does.
And De Gea, who plopped down without even being able to reach out his hand, likewise—complaining about him not saving it would be wrong, as it was an extremely precise and fast shot.
In the end.
Fans who reached their conclusion through such review looked at one player.
Fiorentina’s number 20, the Serie A top scorer, and the 17-year-old boy who had taken home Player of the Year.
“He’s good, that kid.”
“He’s the real deal. Doesn’t seem like he tore through Serie A on luck alone.”
“His talent is real, huh? I’d love to sign him. If only we could bring him in…”
If there was any fault, it was that they were deceived by that handsome, boyish face, forgetting the titles plastered all over him, and neglected focused man-marking simply thinking of him as a 17-year-old boy.
The goal just now was simply because that guy displayed an absurd play.
At the genius’s talent, revealed even at Old Trafford beyond Italy, everyone cast gazes close to awe.
It was a talent fated to draw people’s gazes entirely upon itself, no matter the place.
*
After scoring the first goal, and even after that.
As I walked around the field, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been thinking about something wrong.
That pre-season was merely pre-season.
What had I been expecting so much?
It must be my first time, so I hadn’t known anything for a while.
“Jian! Don’t drop back! Stay there!”
Without realizing it, I tried to drop back for defensive support, but stopped in my tracks at the bench’s instruction.
Five minutes remained in the first half.
It must mean not to waste energy or get injured doing anything unnecessary, and to take it easy.
Even I was being managed so as not to go all-out in pre-season.
Then what about the opposing players?
I recalled the conversation the seniors had been chattering about on the bus before the match.
It was about the Manchester United players’ annual salaries and transfer values.
I don’t remember exactly, but they all boasted figures that made you gasp.
So they must have received instructions over there too.
Not to get injured, to take it easy and play moderately.
Because today’s match was merely a pre-season game where the result wasn’t important at all.
Bruno Fernandes, whom I’d feared and looked forward to the most, as well as the other players.
The inexplicable emptiness I felt now that I was actually mixing it up on the pitch was probably for that reason.
Those people weren’t going all-out.
…Like me.
If they weren’t…
It wouldn’t be this dull.
“Hey—”
The moment the opponent’s pass was cut off in our half, I checked my surroundings and raised my hand, shouting.
Pa-ang-!
Soon the ball came to me, and I received it in the middle of the midfield, turning toward the front.
Tatatat-!
But with no movement ahead, as I waited briefly, I sensed someone rushing aggressively from behind, dodged, and shielded the ball to the left.
Then facing forward again and meeting my opponent, the one blocking my way was Bruno Fernandes.
“…”
“…”
I confronted him over the ball.
With about two steps between us, his eyes blazed as he lowered his stance and fixed his gaze on the ball.
Until before the match, his face had seemed like that of someone with a pleasant personality. Facing him like this, he felt extremely sharp.
…Just from that appearance, he didn’t seem to be taking it easy.
If I faced him during the season, he would probably feel much scarier than this.
Anyway, it was a shame I couldn’t see the play of a genius going all-out.
But there was something to be grateful for.
The fact that I had more chances to show off to Jiu, who would be watching this moment right now.
Tatatat-!
From a stopped position with my upper body raised, I suddenly knocked the ball to the left.
Tatatat-!
But the opponent quickly closed in.
To beat an opponent with pure speed alone, you need speed that transcends the level achievable through effort alone.
I don’t have that kind of speed that enters the ‘realm of talent.’
So from a very young age, I had to study all sorts of ways to deceive opponents.
Among the methods I found through trial and error, the simplest yet most effective was to change speed.
I wished I could be faster than whoever my opponent was, but if I couldn’t, I had to make the opponent slower.
Whether I’m fast or slow, as long as I’m faster than the opponent in front of me, I can beat them.
What makes that possible isn’t acceleration, but deceleration.
Tatat-!
After dribbling the ball about four steps, I plant my left foot firmly and stop.
Tatat-!
Then the opponent stops following, and the important thing here is ‘following.’
Unless a defender has precognitive abilities, if they move after seeing the attacker’s movement, they will inevitably be a beat late.
At that moment, I surge forward a beat ahead again.
Tatatat-!
Feeling the opponent’s presence fade away, I viscerally feel the results of the agility training I had devoted myself to so painfully over the summer.
Then from the left toward the center, I thread a pass to Saponara, my senior, who was making a run behind the defense.
Shwaaaaaa—
Vrooooom-!
The senior’s shot after receiving that pass missed the goal, but the sensation of the pass skidding across the turf was electrifying, so I was satisfied with that.
It’s pre-season anyway.
If the opponent takes it easy, I’ll take it easy too.
*
“Good work.”
“Nice, nice.”
65th minute of the second half.
Teammates held out their hands to Bruno Fernandes, who returned to the bench after being substituted.
Bruno Fernandes likewise bumped their hands and plopped down into his seat.
“Phew.”
Sitting on the bench, wiping sweat, Bruno Fernandes looked at the scoreboard and let out a sigh.
To some extent, it was a sigh of satisfaction.
Although it was the first pre-season match and had felt a bit off in the beginning, they had managed an equalizer and a comeback in the second half.
Because he had been deeply involved in both the equalizer and the winning goal.
He had thought they were really in trouble when they went into the locker room at halftime down 0-1, so this was a relief.
In fact, he had prepared intensely for this pre-season. Because last season had been one of the worst, both as a team and individually.
He had no strength to pull the ship up alone as it sank helplessly, and the devastation of taking 10 draws and 12 defeats while earning only 16 wins—failing to even achieve a 50% win rate—was indescribable.
That was why he had prepared to the point of excess for this pre-season.
He wanted to show a different side from last season, and he wanted to confirm it for himself.
So he had approached today’s match at nearly 100%, as if it were a real mid-season match and not pre-season.
“…”
Having wiped off all his sweat, Bruno Fernandes caught his breath and sent his gaze back to the field.
Then, seeming to fall into thought about something, his expression soon changed.
Anyway, it was okay to some extent, but it wasn’t to a satisfying degree.
Their performance had been good in the second half, but they had lost the first half.
Even though possession was higher on their side, and they had created more chances.
In front of a 0-1 scoreline, all of it was useless.
At the center of it was one player.
Fiorentina number 20.
That boy with the boyish face.
Truthfully, Bruno Fernandes had tilted his head when shaking hands with that boy before the match.
Because the feeling was quite different from what he had heard or seen in videos.
Rather than a player with fearsome talent, he just felt like a typical academy kid.
Well, his height was similar to his own, so it wasn’t about size.
What should he say.
He had a face like a country boy visiting the city for the first time.
He looked quite nervous, to the point where the manager’s pre-match instruction to mark him closely had seemed laughable.
But… once the whistle blew, the moment he faced the boy as an opponent.
The feeling from that moment on was completely different.
The innocent-looking country boy was nowhere to be found, replaced by a dangerous figure radiating an inexplicable sense of pressure.
There are players like that sometimes.
Players who make you keep glancing at them even when they’re just standing still doing nothing.
Players who feel more threatening the quieter they are.
And when those players receive the ball, it feels like a siren goes off in the stadium.
Warning bells blare loudly that if you leave him be, a huge fire will spread.
Until just a few dozen minutes ago, when he had faced that boy on the field, it had been like that.
The danger alarm had been ringing the whole time.
The instinctive intuition that he couldn’t be left alone kept drawing his gaze toward him.
So he kept glancing, and didn’t let his guard down.
And yet, even so, he had been beaten.
That conceding scene.
Truthfully, he hadn’t made any fatal mistakes.
He’d have to review it carefully after it ended to know for sure, but at least at the time, that’s how it felt.
Well, that final defense… he’d let that go.
The press from the front had been good, and the defense’s response afterward had been the best possible.
It was just that the boy had been too good.
To think of breaking through there, and to actually pull it off.
To put in a killer pass that quickened rather than killed the tempo, then diligently run to take a fatal position, receive the ball.
A dribble breakthrough that would have been hard to stop even if it hadn’t been Maguire, followed by a needle-sharp finish.
This was a play that wouldn’t even appear in textbooks.
Why?
Because it wasn’t something you could learn.
Recklessly trying to copy it would tear your groin. That’s the kind of play it was.
“…”
The funny thing was, after displaying that absurd play, when celebrating, he went right back to that pre-match boyish appearance.
If he hadn’t had such a side to him, he would never have believed it.
That this kid was 17.
Bruno Fernandes let out a wry smile.
Feeling such pressure from a 17-year-old player—he thought it was laughable himself.
There weren’t many players in the entire league who could give him that feeling.
Who would they be?
“…”
At best, only a few players from that sky-blue team next door came to mind.