There is one thing you come to feel when you make a career as a professional footballer.
That the world is vast. No, damnably vast.
It’s just, how should I put it?
When you’re hopping on a plane every few days and traveling here and there, you can’t help but think that way.
The world is truly wide.
Sitting in a tiny attic and looking up at the night sky, sometimes this world feels like nothing more than a speck of dust.
But isn’t everything relative?
Because we are not even that speck of dust, the world is truly vast.
“It’s my first time since my honeymoon.”
“You came to Paris for your honeymoon?”
“Yeah. We went to Paris and Nice. Three days each, I think? Personally, Nice was much better.”
“Is Nice a coastal city?”
“Yeah. It had an Italian vibe. Paris, on the other hand, is a bit gloomy. It feels dirty, too.”
“Dirty?”
“Just step a little away from the tourist spots. The smell is no joke.”
On the road into the city, loaded onto a bus almost the moment we got off the plane.
I eavesdrop on the idle chatter of the seniors sitting behind me and gaze out the window with half-closed eyes.
Perhaps because I slept the whole flight, my eyelids are impossibly heavy. Yet the exotic scenery passing by outside catches my gaze, so I barely keep them open and sightsee through the city with glazed eyes.
“It’s the Eiffel Tower.”
“That thing’s creepy no matter when you see it.”
“Creepy? Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just creepy.”
The sight of that massive tower in the distance flaunts that this place is the capital of France.
I’d only ever seen it on bread wrappers, but seeing it in person, the scale is quite magnificent.
The seniors who were born and raised in Europe react as if they’ve just come to the next town over.
But for me, the streetscapes are sufficiently exotic that the sight is enough to fill me with the sentiment of having arrived in yet another new place.
These days, I’m growing accustomed to opening my eyes to a new world spread out before me.
Close my eyes and open them, and it’s Korea; close them and open them again, and it’s Italy.
Come to my senses once more, and here I am, living in Paris, France.
Jiu used to say she envied me traveling the world for free, no, even getting paid to do it.
She’s not wrong, but I’ve never felt like this was traveling.
I’ve gone out to eat a few times, pulled along by the seniors, but mostly my time is just spent going back and forth between the hotel and the stadium.
More than anything, isn’t travel supposed to be an escape from daily life?
But for me, this is daily life, so… hmm.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt excited about going on an away trip to a new city as if I were traveling.
Should I still be grateful?
I suppose I should.
Because no one’s forcing me to do this.
…At least, not anymore.
Anyway, as one thought led to another.
Even though the sights of downtown Paris were spread out before my eyes, my mind was heading to the deserts of the Middle East.
Just the day before yesterday, I was bombarded with frantic congratulations from Korea.
They were congratulating me on making it to the World Cup.
Especially from the seniors who couldn’t go—I received concentrated congratulations from them.
Even amid all that, their extremely envious looks helped me understand a little of what the World Cup means.
Honestly, I didn’t feel much myself; I think it’s because it still doesn’t feel real.
I Jian and the World Cup.
No matter how I try, the connection doesn’t come to mind. Doesn’t it feel like they exist in completely different worlds?
That’s why I’d never really set it as a goal.
Of course, someone other than me might have desperately wanted to play in the World Cup, but I didn’t.
Thanks to that, I still don’t have many thoughts about it.
Rather… to be completely honest.
I’m not even happy about it.
If you ask me why, well.
My body slumped in the seat and my eyelids, heavy as lead, might be the answer.
Of course, I know it’s pointless whining.
Playing matches every three days, crossing borders at that, was no easy task.
League matches, cup matches, Champions League matches on top of that.
The matches I’m handling now are enough to cause indigestion.
Because of that, the reality is that worry takes precedence over anticipation for the match.
Even if we arrive at the hotel and rest well, finish acclimatization training… I’m worried about what I’ll do if my condition isn’t recovered by tomorrow.
Moreover, what weighs heaviest on my chest is that the season isn’t even halfway over yet.
I feel a bit hopeless—what am I supposed to do if I’m already this exhausted before even reaching the halfway point?
The kids at school are worrying about what to do and where to play during vacation.
If I say I envy friends like that, would it sound like an ungrateful complaint?
It probably would.
…But envy is still envy.
“…”
Anyway, in this situation, I can’t hide my worry at having to participate in a tournament held in the desert for a month.
And it’s not even a tournament of moderate scale—it’s the biggest tournament in this wide world.
One where the nation’s honor is on the line, no less.
To be honest, I’m filled not with confidence that I’ll do well, but with pressure wondering if I can even get through it.
Of course, I know in my head.
That to reach the summit of a mountain, you can’t only take the easy path.
Isn’t it greed to want the result without the process?
I know in my head that it’s wrong to want the peak to lower itself instead of climbing up with effort… I know that in my mind.
But… hmm.
When I’ve already crawled my way up an extremely rugged path and now face an even rougher one.
Isn’t it only natural to want to rest for a moment?
Hmmm.
Suddenly, I wonder what mental strength even is.
As my body grows tired, my mind follows it; is it really possible for the mind to lead the body?
“…”
Lost in these thoughts, I was silently gazing out the window and waiting for us to arrive at the hotel.
“Having a hard time?”
Startled by the low voice from beside me, I turn my head.
Then I see a middle-aged man smiling as if he understands everything.
…Hmm.
Is it rude to call him middle-aged?
“I’m fine.”
I answer, shaking my head, and Senior Antonio Rosati… clicks his tongue.
The reason the title ‘senior’ feels especially awkward is that Rosati feels closer to a coach than a senior.
That is, he is thirty-nine this year.
As the backup goalkeeper, he is the oldest player in our squad.
He is actually close in age to some of the coaches, so he often feels more like a coach than a teammate or senior.
Of course, it’s not just his age—it’s also that he’s the nagging type, just like the real coaches.
Hmm.
Come to think of it, was that why the bus seat felt especially uncomfortable today?
“You say fine, but you look like you’re dying.”
“…I’m not.”
“It’s strange if you aren’t tired. A schedule like this is hard even for me, who doesn’t play, so how much harder must it be for you?”
I denied it with words, but had it all been written on my face?
His words—that it’s strange if I’m not tired—somehow comfort me.
Honestly, everyone was only congratulating me, so I couldn’t say I was tired to that; I was just thinking it to myself.
Though I’m embarrassed that my feelings were found out, it feels nice to have someone who understands.
Perhaps because my heart opened up.
I suddenly voice a simple curiosity that came to mind to this active middle-aged player.
“What’s the secret?”
“Huh? What secret?”
“That… the secret to keeping at it for a long time.”
I had been about to ask how he endured in this industry without getting tired at his age.
But I asked it in a roundabout way, thinking it might come across differently from my intention.
At that, Rosati snickered, ruffled my hair, and answered.
“I’m a goalkeeper, after all.”
…Hmm.
It’s a much clearer answer than I expected.
“Now, let’s get off.”
Before I knew it, the bus running through downtown Paris stops, and everyone rises from their seats with groans.
I too stand up like a zombie, get off the bus, and drag my suitcase into the hotel that will provide a bed for two days.
The name of the hotel we’re staying at this time… I couldn’t care less.
I don’t have the energy to pay attention to every little thing, including the hotel’s name.
I thought I should go straight to my room, read some match analysis sheets, and then sleep.
…
Even if I don’t know the hotel’s name, knowing the name of the stadium I’ll play in is probably the least I can do.
The first impression of Parc des Princes, which I came to for the second leg against Paris Saint-Germain, the final match of the Champions League group stage… was pungent.
“…Hoo—”
I blow out a breath, but the thick white smoke isn’t something that will be purified by doing so.
Just how many red flares they had lit.
The entire stadium was so acrid it seemed like clouds had settled in the stands.
I even end up doing useless things like worrying whether using a place like this as a home ground will ruin their lungs soon, and worrying about the opposing players’ respiratory systems.
Anyway, in the midst of that.
Before I knew it, the players line up on the pitch, shake hands with one another, and disperse to their positions.
Though it’s not my first time seeing him, so I should be numb to it, when I shook hands with Messi, I found myself making eyes like the home fans without realizing it.
He is clearly an enemy we must defeat, so glaring at him with fierce eyes wouldn’t have been enough.
I suppose the reason I couldn’t do as I willed is that I couldn’t hide my envy.
Messi was the human incarnation of my shameful, dark desires that I’m too embarrassed to reveal to anyone.
The greatest genius in the world, beyond reach.
A player with greater talent than anyone, a being standing at the summit.
He is such an incredible existence that even making him my role model feels embarrassing, which is why I couldn’t help but open my eyes wide like that.
Be that as it may, it’s time to throw away useless thoughts and focus on the match.
Looking at Messi standing in the center circle for the kickoff, I shake out my legs.
Currently, we are first in the group, but we are only ahead of Paris in goal difference, not in points.
If we lose today’s match, we’ll be pushed down to second place.
Therefore, it’s a match where both sides absolutely must win, so it’s a game we have to focus on even more.
In that regard, the fact that our opponent is a team teeming with incredible players who force you to concentrate even when you don’t want to is rather welcome.
The problem is… that perhaps even if we lose today, there might be no issue with advancing to the knockout stage.
Beeeeep—!
The whistle blew, and the match began.
*
Even when my physical condition isn’t very good, if I just keep my mind focused, I can sufficiently pull my weight.
I suppose this is why experience is important.
Recalling the things I learned through experience, I drag my body—heavy compared to the clock on the scoreboard—and weave between the opposing players.
Early in the match.
The home team, Paris, comes out quite aggressively and dominates the game, while we take a stance of tightening our defense and trying to weather the storm for now.
Today, the player of utmost caution seems to be Mbappé rather than Messi or Neymar.
The moment he touched the ball, the defense line swayed and buckled.
He appeared to be playing as the right winger today, so it was our captain who faced him.
Unlike the first leg, it’s fortunate that Hakimi isn’t starting, but seeing Mbappé’s movements burdening our captain as if he didn’t need help from the backline…
I can’t help but think there’s a reason his name comes up first before Messi or Neymar when people talk about the Paris ace.
If Messi feels like a wise archmage, Mbappé feels like a ferocious beast full of vigor.
That’s why he was one-dimensionally more threatening.
“Hold out! Let’s just get past this momentum!”
“Keep your heads up! We just need to endure!”
Before such a beast, humans unite using their greatest weapon: communication.
They keep calling each other’s names, exchanging rough words to keep their minds from wandering.
People say football is a battle of momentum, and since the result of a match can be determined by whether you can score when momentum comes, it’s not wrong.
In the midst of struggling not to get sucked into the opponent’s flow, which had continued from the early minutes of the match.
Around the 14th minute of the first half.
A corner kick is given to the opponent from the left corner.
The taker is Neymar.
While he watches the box with sharp eyes, a fierce battle breaks out in front of goal over a sliver of space.
The fight is so intense that the referee calls out several players to warn them, to the point that it takes several minutes just to take one corner kick.
And Neymar’s corner kick barely rises in front of the goal.
The ball floats a bit high toward an ambiguous space.
Thwack-thwack-slap—!
Goalkeeper Terraciano rushes out toward that ball.
His position looked quite far from the goal, but it seems he judged he needed to catch it since the ball had risen high.
But… soon his painful scream echoes across the pitch.
“Kuaaack!”
Because the two hulking figures who had been running only looking at the ball collided.
Even in the midst of that, having cradled the ball, he clutches his chest and voices his pain, and the medical staff with first-aid kits burst out from the bench.
The match is temporarily halted, and the atmosphere begins to grow chaotic.