121. Preseason -7
Tok-!
I tap the ball lightly with the instep of my right foot as I advance.
At the same time, I gauge my opponent’s steps and upper body lean with my eyes, running a simulation in my head.
Which way should I feint before breaking through here?
Feint left and go right?
Or would the opposite be better?
In that brief instant, various plausible methods flash through my mind, leaving me wavering.
According to the strength analysis sheet, this friend before my eyes right now, Gavi, is said to be quite strong defensively for his small frame.
Well, he doesn’t have the technical defensive skill of a defender, but he’s the type with a strong competitive spirit who sticks to you tenaciously.
Either way, he’s not an easy opponent for a 1v1.
But the reason I’m being so unusually cautious about how to break through in this moment isn’t just because of that.
That friend is a genius.
If a player who ran with Barcelona’s first team at seventeen isn’t a genius, there may be no geniuses in this world.
At least that’s what my common sense tells me.
That’s why I can’t help but overthink.
Somehow, it feels like he’s reading all my moves.
Somehow, it feels like my feints look obvious.
Somehow, it feels like my dribbling looks laughable.
Those useless worries wrap around my body, making me feel small—like the high stands of this stadium looming over me.
And on the other hand, remembering how I’d boasted to Jiu that I was a genius in front of these kinds of geniuses makes my face burn hot.
Tok-!
Still, I keep approaching, tapping the ball lightly. Instead of passing it behind or to the side, instead of running far away with the ball, I move toward the opponent before me.
Because I don’t want to look small.
Tat-!
The moment the distance closes enough that he could reach the ball if he stretched his foot.
I stretch my left foot far toward the left front as if I’m about to knock the ball left and run, planting it on the ground.
At the same time, I load my weight fully onto my left leg, and with my right foot, I form a hook to pull the trailing ball forward, bringing my foot to it.
Then I push off the ground hard with my weighted left foot to surge forward, while pulling the ball with my right foot.
In response, as if trying to block my path with his body, the opponent turns half a rotation and throws in his shoulder.
…Now.
Tat-!
I plant my left foot into the ground again. Twisting my right ankle, I push the ball I’d been pulling to the right, lightly push the opponent away with my hand, and burst out to the right.
The shape is complete: the ball and I head to the right, while Gavi goes to the left.
…I think I’ve beaten him.
Tat-tat-tat-!
Sprinting toward the rolling ball, I turn my head and glance behind me.
I see the opponent trying to catch up again, and before he can reach me, I knock the ball forward and begin to increase my speed.
I want to rejoice at having completely won the 1v1, but now is the time to continue the next play.
Thwack-!
I stab a ground pass between the opponent’s right center back and full back.
Because the opponent’s defensive line was quite high, I drove it in hard.
Swoooosh-!
Romero churns his legs chasing that pass, and I follow behind him.
At the same moment, just as I’m about to look around to find which way I should run to position myself.
Tat-tat-tat-!
I soon feel resistance from behind, and my speed begins to drop sharply.
It feels like I’ve suddenly put on a parachute.
Someone was tugging on my uniform.
When I turn my head slightly, Gavi is gripping my uniform with a face that looks thoroughly angry.
Thwack-!
In the meantime, Romero took a shot, but it sailed into the sky, and I had no choice but to stop in my tracks and turn my body.
And as I head back toward our half, Gavi’s rough, huffing breath continues to chase me from behind.
“…”
I couldn’t quite figure out what to call the emotion I felt at this moment.
*
The scoreboard clock is already pointing to the 35th minute of the first half.
The score is 0-0.
So if it went to a decision, one could predict a decision victory for Barcelona, who had dominated the match based on far superior ball possession, but—
Barcelona’s manager, Xavi Hernández, who had been standing in the technical area with his hand on his chin watching the pitch, didn’t look very pleased.
The reasons included transitions between attack and defense slower than ordered, creaking tactics in the final third, and so on.
Or the fact that some players still hadn’t found their form.
But in fact, the main cause lay more with the opposing team than with their own problems.
What kept drawing his gaze was Fiorentina’s number 20, Ijian.
“…”
Xavi’s gaze locked onto Ijian, moving like a hawk eyeing its prey.
He had been like this for some time now.
His gaze had been lingering only on Ijian.
As a result of watching continuously for tens of minutes like that.
Xavi harbored one question.
*Why isn’t he from La Masia?*
How can a player who didn’t learn football at La Masia, Barcelona’s youth academy, play like that?
Or why hadn’t such a player joined La Masia?
He had his reasons—Ijian’s play was exactly like that.
From basic passing and ball control, to the ability to understand space and utilize teammates, to the habit of constantly looking around to secure vision.
Everything was what La Masia emphasized to its young players, and what Ijian showed looked as though he had absorbed all those teachings and made them his own.
In short, Xavi’s question was why such a player was playing for Fiorentina instead of Barcelona.
“…”
Of course, it wasn’t a question born of genuine ignorance.
Rather than a question, it held the meaning of regret, or admiration.
Ijian had already been a player that Barcelona had been following closely, and Manager Xavi had personally taken a liking to him as well.
The reason this preseason match had been scheduled was partly because he wanted to see his play in person.
Of course, he had often felt admiration watching video, but seeing him in person made his mouth water even more.
Because his off-the-ball play, which doesn’t get caught by broadcast cameras, was even more perfect.
“…”
Xavi, still unable to tear his eyes from Ijian, soon turned his gaze to his pupils, Gavi and Pedri.
Gavi and Pedri, aged 17 and 18 respectively, were rising stars from La Masia who had recently emerged as Barcelona’s future.
In the years since the golden generation led by Messi, the players produced by La Masia had shown growth that fell short of those heights.
For the first time in a while, real talents had appeared, and the expectations poured onto Gavi and Pedri were enormous—there was even praise comparing the two to Xavi and Iniesta.
But inevitably, Xavi still couldn’t see their play as perfectly satisfactory.
The two were still at a level where they needed to grow much more.
“…”
Xavi’s gaze turned back to Ijian.
Gavi and Pedri, who still needed to grow, needed teaching material.
And that perfect teaching material was right there.
Manager Xavi intended to instruct Gavi and Pedri to watch and learn from today’s recording of Ijian’s play frequently.
Of course, it would wound their pride.
To tell a La Masia player to watch and learn from a non-La Masia player’s play.
Xavi himself, being from La Masia, knew full well how much pride such a thing would hurt.
He was naturally even angry at the thought of saying such a thing.
But precisely because of that, it was clear that the two would also have their pride wounded, and would devote themselves even more diligently to training.
“…”
Xavi, looking at Ijian, swallowed once more.
The question and regret of why that player wasn’t from La Masia rose again.
*
As the scoreboard clock approached the 90th minute, I was sitting on the bench waiting for the whistle.
The first 45 minutes, and the second 45 minutes spent on the bench after being substituted.
Perhaps because I had played and watched the match with more focus than ever, the 90 minutes felt remarkably short.
Anyway, at this point where the match was ending… there was still an unsettled feeling lingering somewhere in a corner of my heart.
Well, I don’t really know.
Today, I had expected that Barcelona’s players, at least, would show me *this is what a genius is.*
There were moments when that expectation was somewhat fulfilled, but it didn’t feel like everything had been completely resolved.
Was this also because it’s preseason?
Was I a fool who had fallen for the same thing twice?
Thanks to that, the whistle that rang out didn’t sound all that refreshing.
“Good work.”
“Good work, good work.”
As the whistle announced the end of the match, I stood up and exchanged customary greetings with my teammates.
After going to greet the away fans who had made the long trip, as I was walking across the pitch toward the locker room.
I saw a Barcelona player, his uniform stained with dirt here and there, walking toward me.
It was Gavi.
He extends his hand to me and speaks with a smile like a grimace.
“Ah, that was tough. Good work. Want to swap jerseys?”
It’s amazing that I can understand to some extent even though he’s clearly speaking Spanish.
I nod and clasp his hand, and he takes off his shirt without hesitation, so I awkwardly follow suit.
And we exchange them.
“Sorry, mine seems dirtier. Is that okay?”
“…It’s totally fine.”
“Totally fine? Haha. You’re funny. I was really annoyed back there. Let’s definitely meet again next time. I’ll do it properly then, so be prepared.”
…Hmm.
So today, he hadn’t been going all out?
I gulp and nod, and Gavi snickers before extending his hand again.
I grasp that hand and shake it.
He says let’s meet again.
I don’t really want to.
“…”
“…”
Anyway, after exchanging farewells and trying to go our separate ways… since there’s only one exit leading to the locker rooms.
An awkward situation is created where we walk side by side in the same direction after saying goodbye.
Perhaps it wasn’t just me feeling awkward; Gavi, walking beside me, glances at me and speaks again.
“How did you end up playing in Italy? You weren’t born there, were you?”
“…I came to study abroad.”
“Ah, really? Then come to Spain. Why did you go to Italy?”
“It just happened…”
“Hmm. You’re totally our style. It’d be much more fun if you played in Spain.”
As the conversation drags on, I get a bit flustered and just nod.
Because I had to pick out words similar to Italian from the rapidly flowing Spanish and translate them back into Korean in my head to understand them.
Thanks to that, I miss the timing to reply, and Gavi shrugs his shoulders alone and says.
“There are few geniuses like you even in Spain. So if you come, you’ll do well.”
But this time, I answer right away.
“I’m… not a genius.”
“Who? You?”
“Yeah.”
“If you’re not a genius, then who is?”
Hmm.
That’s a difficult question.
I shrug my shoulders and answer.
“Anyway, I’m not.”
At my answer, Gavi somehow stares at my profile intently and says.
“What’s your standard for a genius?”
“…Standard?”
The standard for a genius?
It feels like a philosophy class has started out of nowhere, and I fall into thought for a moment.
That thought stretched on so long that I open my mouth again only when it’s time to part ways past the exit to our respective locker rooms.
“Someone who can do everything they want without really trying…”
When I answer like that, muttering, Gavi makes a bewildered expression before bursting into laughter, stepping backward toward the home team’s locker room.
“What? Your standards are super high.”
Then he turns around and starts walking.
“Where does someone like that even exist?”
Gavi adds that one line and disappears into the Barcelona locker room.