Maybe it was because we had been told not to let our guard down.
Before the match, the coach had emphasized it over and over.
How technical La Liga teams were. How outstanding their positional understanding and passing play were.
He had emphasized again and again that Sevilla was a team stronger in international competitions than within La Liga, bringing up their Europa League three-peat.
But he had added one thing: what mattered wasn't the past, but the present.
Of course, Sevilla was indeed a strong team, but the coach said their current atmosphere wasn't very good.
Not merely bad—rumors were circulating that the manager was on the verge of being sacked.
And this was barely after the season had started.
Anyway, the point was that the opponent's atmosphere was not good.
And to exploit that, we decided to commit our strength in the first half.
The coach said that if we took the lead in the first half, the opponent's morale would easily crumble, and I agreed.
“···”
Ironically, despite having dashed out energetically at the whistle, I spent roughly five minutes loafing around among Sevilla's towering center-backs.
Feeling that it was time to move, I lightly stepped forward.
Tatatat—!
Feeling that it was time to move meant the map inside my head was complete.
The general picture had been drawn, so now it was time to test the opponent's reactions to my movements.
“Hey—”
Dropping slightly deeper, I asked for the ball.
At the same time, glancing back, I saw the shorter of the two center-backs following me.
Of course, “shorter” didn't mean he was actually short—just relatively so.
He looked about three or four centimeters taller than me... come to think of it, I'm quite tall myself.
Paaang—!
Paaang—!
I returned the ball passed by Bonaventura, my senior, with a one-touch pass.
Then I slowly moved back up to my original position, a slightly higher area.
At that, the defender who had been following me matched my pace, backpedaling to return to the line.
Of the two center-backs, it seemed that player had been assigned the role of marking me.
Check complete on that.
Then now it was time to check to what extent he had been ordered to follow me, and how far I had to move before he stopped tracking me.
Tatatat—!
Slowly moving up to my original position, I suddenly changed direction and moved left.
Seeing my movement, Saponara on the left moved to the center, switching positions with me.
In the midst of that, I turned my head frequently to check the defense's response.
...I think the boundary for left and right was the half-space.
The defender had been following me up until I entered the left half-space, but when I headed further left even after entering the half-space, he stopped following.
I saw him pause briefly before picking up Saponara, my senior, who had moved to the center.
“···”
Okay.
Arriving at the quiet left side, I stopped again and took a moment to think.
Honestly, at a glance, one might wonder what I was even doing.
Just loafing around, and when a pass came, returning it as if I had no desire to attack.
In football, every minute and second is precious, so this might look like I was wasting time.
This wasn't something I hadn't worried about.
I remember clearly: it was in a league match against Atalanta last season.
The moment I lost my temper at the opponent's provocations insulting my fellow senior teammates and let go of reason, my head felt like it burst open and the entire pitch came into my view... I had felt that for the first time.
That feeling was so good that afterward, I had worked hard to recreate that sensation.
But to do so, I needed time.
Time to look at the field without having the ball.
Of course, it would have been nice if I could see the entire pitch even while holding the ball, but I wasn't at that level yet.
I needed time to quietly focus alone, so I needed about five minutes at the start, or again if the opponent's tactics changed.
The problem was that in doing so, my activity level naturally decreased.
As mentioned, observing while running hard enough to be out of breath was too much for me, so I spent more time walking.
My time participating in defense definitely decreased as well.
It might have been an excuse, but if the coach had pointed this out, I would have given up on that sensation.
Instead, I would have run hard like my other seniors.
But the coach and the staff... rather than pointing it out, they called it smart play.
They even said this was the only way to get through the season without major injuries while my body was still unfinished.
So that style became ingrained in me like a routine, but even so, I couldn't stop worrying.
Whether this play truly helped the team, or whether it was selfish play only thinking of myself—I found it hard to be certain.
That had been my state until just a few weeks ago.
Then we played against Paris Saint-Germain, and I saw Messi's play.
And that Messi... he played just like me.
No, saying “just like me” sounds too arrogant, so it's embarrassing.
Um... how should I put it.
I should say it was like he showed me the direction I needed to go.
Of course, I don't think I can become a player like Messi just by imitating him.
But what can be learned should be learned.
In the early part of the match, he walked around as if he had no motivation at all, and when the ball came to him, he merely gave a return pass.
I could sense that he was testing our defense's reactions.
In fact, after reading us like that, he pierced our weaknesses like an awl and scored.
In the end... this work of drawing the underdrawing was not meaningless.
Think of it like this: in art class, when the art teacher draws.
They don't draw properly from the start; they roughly sketch in lines to capture the composition first, right?
If you only look at that underdrawing, it seems like meaningless scribbles, but in fact, every line is there for a reason.
It's the same now.
The opponent's defensive formation... the defenders' reactions to my movements, and their ranges—I sort them out one by one.
With that, I draw the underdrawing.
But what matters is from now on.
No matter how well you draw the underdrawing... if you can't draw the lines properly or color it in, the underdrawing becomes meaningless.
In the end, what matters is that I have to produce results through this.
I don't think everything becomes the correct answer just because Messi did it.
I still think these habits of mine are selfish and have aspects that are a minus for the team.
That's why I have to produce results no matter what.
Tatatat—!
Finishing my thoughts, I returned to the center.
At this, Saponara, my senior, headed back to the left, and I stood side by side with the opponent's number 4—that is, the defender marking me.
And while slowly watching the ball circulate in the midfield...
At the moment I thought, “Now,” I dropped down and asked for the ball.
“Hey—”
Then, just like before, a defender chased me from behind, and a pass headed toward my feet.
Paaang—!
I gave the return just the same.
Up to here, everything was the same as a replay, but the variation started now.
Tatat—!
After giving the return, I naturally backpedaled, and when I felt the defender behind me also falling back.
I stepped forward again and asked for a pass with my hand.
Paaang—!
The ball came again, and receiving it, I quickly turned forward.
Because the defender had backpedaled when I gave the return, the distance had opened up, and I had plenty of room to turn.
I drove the ball up the left diagonal.
Tatatat—!
The opponent's number 4 seemed to follow my movement, but I soon saw him hesitate, his gaze wavering.
Because Saponara, my senior, was making another incursion into the center.
At the same time, on the empty left side, our full-back went on an overlapping run.
In the brief opening created by the confusion in the opponent's marking system, I quickly drove the ball up the left half-space and soon reached the front of the box.
Then, almost anticlimactically, I was already facing the one remaining opposing center-back in a 1v1.
A relatively tall... defender.
Believing there must be a reason they assigned number 4 specifically to mark me out of the two defenders, I approached him.
Creating a 1v1 situation in an area where two or three defenders usually converge was a blessing.
If I couldn't break through this either, I would become a player who was a minus for the team.
That couldn't happen.
With that desperation... I leaned my upper body to the right, then bounced to the left, and simultaneously moved the ball in an L-shape using both feet.
This is called La Croqueta, and Messi is good at it too.
So I had practiced it like hell.
Tatat—!
Dodging the opponent's outstretched foot as he lost his balance, I controlled the ball and entered the box.
At the same time, I glanced at the opposing keeper; his reaction was quite fast.
He rushed out the moment he saw he had been beaten.
In response... I turned my body, planted my left foot, and lightly pushed the ball with the inside of my right foot.
I felt no need for a fast, powerful shot because there was plenty of space on the far post.
Shhhuaaaaa—
A shot like a pass rolled toward that space...
Thwack—!
Soon the net rippled.
With this, I had avoided being a minus.
*
Prejudice is a frightening thing.
Perhaps because I had heard beforehand about the current situation of a team called Sevilla.
After our opening goal, the opponent somehow looked like their motivation had completely crumbled.
Their overall movement visibly slowed, and they made more careless passes and mistakes.
It even felt like they were going through the motions.
Of course, it was probably just my imagination.
It was simply that our coach's plan to target the first half had worked well.
We finished the first half leading 2-0.
Thanks to that, there was a slightly lax feeling at halftime, but the atmosphere was reined back in by the coach's roar.
Bonaventura, my senior, had made a remark about them intentionally going to the Europa League to win it, and got thoroughly scolded by the coach.
The senior went into the locker room looking crushed for his loose lips and received another lecture from the coach on what the Champions League is, while we pretended not to notice and kept our mouths shut.
Anyway, thanks to the senior, we armed ourselves mentally again and went out for the second half, managing the match quite well.
Honestly, the second half was also a bit frightening.
I had felt it since the first half, but the expressions of the crowd filling about two-thirds of the stands were too cold.
As if staging some kind of protest, even the usual cheers didn't come out when the opponent attacked.
They even seemed to be cheering for us.
The thought that if our results hit rock bottom... our fans could be like that too made my head snap clear.
Seeing that sight, the opposing players who had looked unpleasant at the start even felt pitiful.
Anyway, around the 15th minute of the second half, we scored another goal. The scorer was Romero, and I assisted that goal to make the score 3-0.
And around the 25th minute, I was substituted, holding hands side by side with Romero, and sat on the bench.
Romero chattered on about how our chemistry was perfect and how we should make history together for the remaining time, but.
Sorry to say, my nerves were constantly drawn to the clock on the scoreboard.
Of course, I wanted the match to end like this, but... I won't deny that the desire to finish quickly and go home was greater.
...Really.
I don't know why I feel something strange near my heart. Whenever I think about going back.
Have I really caught some kind of disease?
I didn't know why I was like this, so I was a little scared.
Because I felt like strange words might pop out of my mouth without me knowing when I got back.
Anyway, time—which had felt like it would never pass—eventually went by, and the match ended.
“You little punks!”
The coach was furious at conceding a goal right before the final whistle again, just like the last match, but.
Still, we had achieved victory against that fearsome La Liga team, and the fact that I could now really go home put me in a good mood.
The weather in Seville, now darkening into evening, was incredibly good, but... the weather wasn't what mattered.
*
90:00
SEV 1 : 3 FIO
-13’ Lee
-31’ Nastasić
-62’ Romero
-88’ Rakitić (PK)
Group H
1- Paris Saint-Germain 1W 1D +4
2- ACF Fiorentina 1W 1D +4
3- Sevilla FC 1D 1L +1
4- Maccabi Haifa FC 1D 1L +1
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