136. Listen Well to Your Elders -2
Tatatat-!
I keep the ball glued to my right foot and charge straight at the defender ahead without slowing down.
Then, when the distance between me and the defender closes to about two or three steps...
Tatat-!
Without any elaborate feint, I simply choose the left and knock the ball long before chasing after it.
Because the defender had opened his body to the right.
Breaking through toward his blind side would inevitably be harder for him to react to.
Tatatat-!
However, from what I catch in my peripheral vision... I begin to wonder if choosing a pure speed contest was the wrong decision.
Since I burst past him toward his back, normally I should see him turning away from me.
But instead, I see his face.
Does this mean he's turned his body forward to chase me?
Tatatat-!
He's even starting to stick right to me.
I thought that if I broke through just once, the shooting angle would open right up, but thanks to the defender catching up in an instant, I can't see the goal.
Just how is his body balanced?
To think he's changing direction in that situation and keeping up with my built-up speed.
On top of that, he's a giant a whole span taller than me.
And that giant is moving like a small player.
It even feels like he's defying the laws of physics.
Tatat-!
If there's one saving grace, it's that I've already reached the box.
If we were outside the box, there probably would've been a physical clash—we were running side by side toward the rolling ball.
If I'd fought a shoulder battle with this giant... I definitely would have fallen spectacularly.
Maybe I would've ended up yielding position first and just patting his back, feeling like an elementary schooler.
But since we're in the box and I'm slightly ahead, he can't touch me with his body. Thankful for that, I stop the ball to contest again.
Tatatat-!
As I slam my feet into the ground to brake hard, the impact shoots up from my knees.
But I have no time to care about that as I face the defender who stopped with me again on the left side of the box.
...I feel it once more.
This speed combined with that frame is a cheat.
I've met plenty of big players and faced plenty of fast players,
but I've almost never seen a player who combined both.
Normally, I should've blown past him without needing to face off like this.
But since I'd already expected this to happen, I don't panic. I approach and feint with my upper body.
Again, we're in the box.
It's a space where I can be as bold as I want.
I see Romero raising his hand beyond the defender, but right now I want to finish this myself.
Srruk-!
I step over and roll the ball with my right foot.
That movement makes the defender follow me to the left.
Then, aiming for a split-second timing, I knock the ball to the outside of my right foot.
Tatat-!
While springing my upper body in the opposite direction, I push off my left foot hard and burst to the right with the ball.
And at the same time, I prepare to take the shot.
Normally, I would've had the leeway to dribble inside once more, but not now.
The monster is following me to the end.
Because of that, I even doubt myself—whether I've decided to shoot now because I truly have to,
or whether it's impatience born of fear, wanting to get the shot off quickly. I'm practically confused.
Either way, the conclusion is the same—I have to shoot—so I run toward the ball and set my strides.
Tatatat-!
And I draw my right foot far back.
Given the angle, my only option is the far post anyway.
The goal doesn't move, so I focus only on the ball and wrap my right foot around it.
Pbbaaaaaang-!
...That was close.
The moment I strike the ball, the defender's foot passes in front of me. If I'd been even a little later, it definitely would've caught my foot.
If I weren't in such insanely good condition today, wouldn't I have been blocked?
But it's a meaningless what-if.
If I weren't in good condition, I wouldn't have tried to contest the 1v1 to the end in the first place...
Shooooooong-
Thwack-!!
The heavily curled shot swerves into the far side of the net.
For now, the little black-haired one won.
*
Near the end of the first half.
"..."
I suddenly feel relieved.
That I scored a goal earlier.
Otherwise, wouldn't I have ended the first half trailing?
43:47
FIO 1 : 1 NAP
We conceded.
Not to Osimhen, who we'd marked as the biggest threat, but to an attacker whose name is difficult to pronounce.
Dribble and pass, dribble and pass again.
And at the end, a shot like a pass after a dribble.
Like a snake slithering over a wall—srrruk—and before we knew it, a viper had approached our goal and bitten us.
They say humans are animals of forgetting, but they're also animals of adaptation, aren't they?
Since we conceded again right before the end, I wonder if this has become a habit by now.
I can already picture the coach, face flushed red to the crown of his head, fuming in anger.
"Huu-"
But I can't just watch this like it's someone else's problem, since it was also a mistake by our attacking line.
Scratching my heated head, I head toward the center circle.
A through pass in the final third was cut off, providing the opening for the counterattack.
We should've finished with a shot no matter what, but we couldn't.
Whether it was the one who gave the cut-off pass or the one who demanded it.
I wasn't on either side, but if I didn't feel a sense of responsibility, it would only prove I'm a blockhead who hasn't grown.
I bear responsibility too.
"It's okay, it's okay! Let's focus and try again! My bad!"
True to his role as captain, rather than blaming us despite having to face a sudden counterattack, he calmly encourages the players.
I don't know if everyone is like this, or if I'm just particularly twisted.
While being explicitly called out for something I already know often makes me rebellious, the moment someone says it's okay and lets it go, I become even less able to tolerate my mistake.
Seeing the defenders unnecessarily shouldering the blame, I'm filled with the thought that I need to score another goal quickly to lessen their burden.
But the remaining time was barely enough to boil a cup of ramen, and it proved insufficient to score, so the chance to reclaim the lead had to be postponed to the second half.
The weather was definitely cool.
Yet on the way to the locker room, sweat poured down like rain.
*
"Let's focus on defense. Don't lose focus. Keep thinking about counterattacks."
"Okay."
"If we defend just as well as they do, we win this game. You know what I'm saying?"
"...If it were just that, but that guy over there is a monster. Why are there so many monsters in Korea?"
"Anyway, let's not drag the team down. It's a game we can win if we just keep up on defense."
On the way out to the pitch for the second half.
I hear the defenders clustered tightly around the captain vowing to fight.
As expected, during halftime, we got chewed out for conceding right before the end.
The coach's anger had been directed at all of us.
It was only natural, but as we left the locker room, the captain encouraged us, saying they'd defend better so we should focus on attacking.
So my determination to pull ahead surged even more.
Actually, what the coach told me at halftime was the opposite.
Run just a little less.
Not run one step more, but run one step less—and we're not even winning.
The coach had said that I'd run much farther than usual in the first half and that I needed to manage my stamina, but...
It's hard to take it at face value because today I feel like I'm in better shape than usual and can run even more.
...Does that mean I have to remain a nuisance who makes everyone else run one step more because of me forever?
I hated that idea, so I trained my stamina until my face was tanned black.
Thanks to that, now as the second half is about to start, I don't even feel the usual heaviness in my calves.
Today is a day I must run one step more.
Pbeeeeep-!
The second half begins energetically.
1-1, perhaps because the first half ended evenly, there are no visible changes.
No substitutions, no formation changes.
So the flow doesn't change either.
As if sped up to 1.5x, the ball goes from here to there, there to here.
Whether it's us or them, once we get the ball, we only look forward.
Both sides seem intent on scoring first, giving the feeling that whoever scores first will decide the match.
Caught up in that feeling, my feet quicken, while at the same time I brood over what excuse I should give the coach after the match.
He told me to run less, yet I'm running even more.
If this were Korea, I might use the excuse that I misheard because of similar pronunciation, but regrettably, Italian is quite different.
In the end, I have no choice but to answer with the results.
Right now, I can run even more.
Tatatat-!
I move quickly, scanning the opponent's defensive positioning.
In the first place, running less makes no sense. After scoring in the first half, the level of marking against me has risen excessively.
Kim, in particular, has been following me around.
Whether it was the bench's instructions or his own judgment, I have no way of knowing.
Having a monster tailing me everywhere wasn't a pleasant feeling; it felt like I'd get devoured if I stayed still.
It was the same now.
In the ten or so minutes that flew by chaotically, as if saying that since two Koreans met we should wrestle, our bodies kept colliding even without the ball.
So I had to move.
Tatatat-!
Paaang-!
The moment I move to create distance from the monster, a pass comes to me.
But was it my illusion that I'd created distance?
Immediately, physical pressure is applied from behind.
"...!"
Barely maintaining my balance and receiving the pass, I struggle for a moment, shaking my body left and right to fool the monster.
Tatat-!
I push the ball to the outside of my right foot and turn to the right.
Sometimes, both hands substitute for the eyes.
Now, when my back is turned, is one of those times.
If soccer were a mixed-gender sport, this would've been problematic, but since it isn't, I freely used my hands to feel where he was... and based on that judgment, I turned to the right.
Tatatat-!
After successfully turning, I run away first.
However, I get caught before getting far and have no choice but to lay off a short pass.
Paaang-!
I don't stop running.
It was a pass given expecting a return in the first place, so I immediately run toward the threaded return pass.
Feeling my breath rise to the tip of my chin, I stretch my foot to pull the ball into my embrace.
Soon, I confront the monster blocking my path on the left side.
In my head... there's nothing but the thought that I have to break through.
I am afraid, but since I've already broken through him once, there's no need to lose confidence.
It's also not something to worry about that my body isn't as light as in the first half.
If I'm tired, the opponent is just as tired.
No, if I'm tired, he should be even more tired.
He'd been defending almost by himself.
Tatat-!
I sweep my left foot over the ball, plant that sweeping left foot on the ground to use as a pivot, and burst to the right.
And the instant I try to dash toward the ball...
I collide with a massive wall.
Thwack-!
I close my eyes without thinking and when I open them again, the world is higher up. Is this what it feels like to look at the world from the grass's perspective?
The grass, mowed down before it can grow any taller, suddenly seems pitiful.
...I see the ball rolling far away, flowing toward the opponent's feet.
At the same time, I unconsciously look toward the referee... but realizing this isn't a situation to throw a tantrum, I spring to my feet.
I see the opponent who took the ball quickly darting off, as if trying to launch a counterattack immediately.
I had to stop him.
Tatatat-!
Since I lost it, taking it back is also my responsibility.
I chase behind the opponent quickly driving the ball up.
Perhaps sensing my pursuit, he glances my way and then raises his head to check the situation ahead.
And he takes a posture as if to send a pass; I had to catch him before that pass left.
"...!"
I threw my body in first.
Thanks to that, the fatal pass didn't head toward our half, but the opponent ended up in the same state I was in just now.
Meaning he rolled on the grass.
...And the referee was strict with me.
Pbeeeeep-!
The responsibility for trying to take responsibility came back to me in the form of a yellow card.
The sight of that card, which I was facing for the first time... snapped me wide awake.