September 5, 2022.
Stadio Artemio Franchi.
Today, the sky is blue as ever, and the stadium is loud with a crowd that fills every seat.
It's a scene I'd ordinarily see every weekend on a home match day, but today, something strangely unfamiliar hangs in the air.
If I had to pin down the source of that unfamiliarity, first, it's a weekday rather than a weekend.
And second, in one corner of the stands—the away supporters' section—I can see fans wearing jerseys I've never seen before.
Maybe it's just me, but seeing my teammates' expressions looking somewhat different too, I don't think I'm the only one who feels it.
No doubt, the air here today is different, and if I had to sum up the reason in one word... it's the Champions League.
Thud—!
Thud—!
While lightly bouncing the ball—instep, inside of the foot, outside of the foot—to wake up my senses, my gaze keeps flickering toward the stadium entrance.
On the pitch, only our players have come out to warm up; the opposing team hasn't appeared yet, so half the field sits empty.
When would they come out?
Are they usually the type to show up late?
Or do they think they can beat us even without a proper warm-up?
I catch myself already overthinking our high-priced opponents who don't easily show themselves.
On the bus, the manager told us they're just soccer players like anyone else, to not worry about their star power and just play the match.
But when that star power isn't merely the best in the world, but arguably the best of all time... no matter how badly you want to ignore it, it's impossible not to care.
"Why aren't they coming out..."
I guess I wasn't the only one waiting—I heard Romero muttering beside me.
Romero, too, was juggling the ball with his feet while his eyes remained locked on the entrance.
It's one thing for me, but Romero is Argentinian.
From the day the group draw was confirmed, he hadn't been able to hide his excitement.
He'd made a fuss, saying it was an honor to meet God on the same pitch, asking if such a thing was even real.
There was even a hint of madness in his eyes; it was as if he wasn't using 'God' as a metaphor—he literally meant God.
Thanks to that, he'd gotten a thorough warning from the manager today.
He was told not to do anything stupid at halftime and to come straight back to the locker room after the first half.
Seeing him sulk at those words, Romero had probably been planning to swap jerseys with Messi at halftime.
...He's lost his mind. And not even after the match—at halftime.
"...Uh, uh!"
While I was shaking my head, Romero's eyes suddenly widened, and I turned to look as well.
Then... slowly, unhurriedly.
As if they couldn't care less about the eyes on them, even tugging up their shorts in a manner befitting the locker room, the Paris Saint-Germain players finally came into view.
"..."
Among them, my gaze inevitably locked onto two players whispering to each other and bursting into giggles.
If it hadn't been a soccer pitch, you might have mistaken them for a café owner and a part-timer... but running into them here, my body stiffened instinctively.
So those are Neymar and Messi.
Tap—
I let the ball I'd been bouncing on my instep drop to the ground for a moment.
And while mechanically shaking out my legs, I began watching Messi and Neymar warm up out of the corner of my eye.
"..."
...Despite coming out so late, neither of them seemed rushed.
While the other players had started their warm-ups energetically, those two were still caught up in whatever hilarious story they were telling.
Covering their mouths with their hands, they whispered back and forth, bursting into laughter over and over.
Only after that did they start casually knocking a ball back and forth... and only then did I think I understood why those two were acting so relaxed.
Whoosh—!
Whoosh—!
The two who had been passing at close range gradually began to widen the distance, until eventually they were spread out near the touchlines, passing to each other.
Yet even as they separated that far, the ball never touched the ground.
From that distance... they were passing to each other without letting it bounce.
And still, the two were completely at ease.
They didn't look hurried in the slightest.
...It's nothing special.
Really, it's nothing special—but watching them, I felt like I was watching born geniuses.
Seeing that, how should I put it...
Us, who'd been nervously preparing for the Champions League—days, no, months in advance—suddenly felt like fools.
We'd prepared so hard... while they looked like they'd just come out for a stroll.
"Everyone gather!"
"Gather—"
"We're gathering!"
Having forgotten even my own duty while watching them, I snapped back to attention at the call and moved my feet.
It was time for everyone to gather and begin the full warm-up.
"..."
As I lined up behind the seniors with extremely tense faces, I swallowed dryly without realizing it.
Can we win against monsters like that, whom the word 'genius' isn't even enough to describe?
No, can we even do anything against them?
As I thought that... seeing their nonchalant attitudes somehow made me want to win even more.
*
Is it special because it's the Champions League?
Or is it the Champions League because it's special?
After finishing the warm-up, changing into the match kit, waiting in the tunnel, and entering the pitch at the signal... as we stood in a single line, that thought suddenly came to me.
As if the Champions League had to be special from the very start... in the center circle, the Champions League banner emblazoned with stars flutters at a size as large as the center circle itself.
As if that weren't enough, music that somehow made my heart feel reverent and pound with excitement echoes throughout.
It must be a famous song, if nothing else. Seeing the spectators out of their seats singing along...
"...the champions...!"
...Seeing the seniors standing on either side of me muttering the lyrics too.
...Though I don't quite understand why everyone sounds like they're on the verge of tears.
Anyway, I stood stiffly transfixed by the grandeur I'd never experienced before.
Eventually, the song stopped, and thunderous applause erupted from the stands while my teammates hopped up and down, shouting to get fired up.
Then the opposing players came toward us, shaking hands and passing by one by one.
"..."
Mbappé, Neymar, Messi... players whose names alone make you shrink passed before me, but it was so surreal that my mind went blank.
Should I say I couldn't think straight?
Rather, the one who stirred some emotion in me was Hakimi, who had an intensely strong impression.
At a glance... he looked incredibly manly.
Lasers practically shot from the captain's eyes as he shook hands with him, so despite being scared, I too glared into his eyes and clasped his hand.
...Of course, I pulled away quickly.
He glared right back without looking away.
His grip was incredibly strong.
Anyway, after that formal greeting promising fair play, we lined up in two rows again and took photos in front of the cameras. Then we huddled in the middle of our half, throwing our arms around each other to steel our resolve.
A strange tension was transmitted through the arms of the seniors draped over my shoulders.
"Don't be nervous. Do what you've always done, what you've trained for. Huh? Nothing to be scared of, XX."
The captain giving the speech was the same. Telling us not to be nervous when he seemed more nervous than anyone.
You could tell from the fact that he was cursing when he normally didn't.
"Let's not go easy on them just because they're expensive. If a lawsuit comes in, I'll take responsibility and pay it out of my salary. Okay?"
"Okay!"
...Hmm.
If something like that happens, maybe I should chip in too.
The captain has a family.
While my blank mind ran through such useless thoughts, the captain looked at me and spoke.
"Right. Look at the youngest. Look at that excited face. Let's enjoy this too."
"Let's enjoy it, enjoy it..."
...If there were a mirror, I'd like to look at my face for a second.
What part of me looks excited?
I was so nervous I could barely swallow.
Still, it was true that I'd been pretending not to be nervous because everyone else looked so tense.
Because the image of Jiwoo trembling at an awards ceremony had suddenly come to mind.
Well, anyway.
"Now, let's go! Forza—!!"
"Viola—!!!"
It was time to play.
*
Everything is special, but once the whistle blows, nothing is different.
The match began with our kickoff, and around five minutes into the first half.
I was watching the match a step removed from the players running around diligently.
Partly because, in the early stages of a match, I always need time to observe the opponents' movements and complete my own mental map, and partly because the manager's tactical instruction had been to "stay detached."
While loafing near the left touchline and watching the game as if it were someone else's business, my gaze keeps drifting toward the opponent's number 30, who is moving exactly like me.
Lionel Messi.
"..."
He, too, is walking slowly... as if the match had ended rather than just begun, only looking around at his surroundings.
At times, he even stands still, staring at one spot. I even wonder if the distance he's covered in the first five minutes might be shorter than the goalkeeper's.
But the important thing is that seeing him standing still and surveying the surroundings feels truly frightening.
Well, someone like me couldn't know for sure.
What exactly he's standing still and observing for.
Maybe, as I'd heard, it's just his style—he doesn't run much normally.
Or maybe it's the manager's instructions.
Or, like me, he is observing our formation and movements... figuring out how to break us.
If it's the last reason... it's terrifying enough to send a chill down my spine.
Even me, incomparable to him, sometimes gets a feel for how to break through when I observe my opponents.
Of course, that takes wracking my brain enormously, but still.
If even I do that... what about him?
If it were him, wouldn't brilliant ideas naturally spring forth with just a quick glance around?
Perhaps he's already finished envisioning how to score in his head.
It's just terrifying because my lacking mind can't read his thoughts.
"..."
To erase that terrifying imagination, I narrow my vision to my immediate surroundings.
Sometimes, rather than caring about everything, you need to focus on what's right in front of you.
Now is such a time.
Reading my opponent's thoughts is impossible for someone like me, so I decide to focus on what might be possible.
Right now, we have possession, and the ball is circulating on the opposite side of the pitch.
Standing with me in a position completely unrelated to the ball—at least for now—is the opponent's right fullback, Hakimi.
The manager had said that if I stand in a high position, Hakimi won't be able to attack as easily.
The captain isn't such a pathetic defender that he'd be beaten by just anyone, but Hakimi is a defender with better attacking ability than most forwards.
Making him stay around me is the top priority.
Repeating the manager's words, I've been standing quite high up... but the problem is that Hakimi has his back turned to me.
He is standing five steps closer to our half than I am.
Thanks to that, the space behind him is wide open before me.
Just from his positioning, I can feel that he isn't paying me any mind—that he's filled only with thoughts of pushing forward.
On any other day, I might have been grateful.
A defender not marking an attacker is obviously a good thing from an attacker's perspective.
But now, if Hakimi pushes up, the captain will be the one who has to stop him.
Because my role today is to make him drop back, and because I don't want the captain to have an uncomfortable reunion with him.
Feeling that it's time to move, I begin shifting my feet.
As it happens, the ball is at Senior Bonaventura's feet.
Tap-tap—!
I suddenly accelerate forward from a standstill, raising my hand high.
Having keenly spotted me, Senior Bonaventura draws his foot back wide.
Whoosh—!
Since the ball had been on the opposite side for a while, it soars toward the open space before me... and I run toward it.
Cheers erupt from the stands simultaneously, but while running, I glance back over my shoulder.
And at that moment, I realize Hakimi hadn't been ignoring me.
Tap-tap-tap—!
He was fast.
So fast that even though he'd been much farther ahead, he is closing in behind me in no time.
That speed is chilling enough to make my spine shiver, and my heart begins to race, but I try my best to stay calm and position myself where the ball will drop.
And after relaxing my ankle, I gently control the star-adorned ball.
Thud—!
In the meantime, Hakimi has already reached my side.
So much for breaking into an empty house—I feel disappointed, but at the same time, some childish emotion I can't quite name surges up.
Alright.
Let's see what you've got.
Tap-tap-tap—!
Messi is surely watching from afar, and for some reason, trying a dribble breakthrough here feels like showing off tricks in front of a master—embarrassing, to say the least.
But I have no room to worry about such things.
I begin feinting left and right with the captain's adversary directly in front of me.