Murky air.
A hair-raising scream followed by silence.
And the jeers and curses of the home supporters echoing from the stands.
Amidst that grim atmosphere, we cruelly had to keep tapping the ball around, exchanging passes.
As could be guessed from the volume of the scream that rang out at the moment of impact, Terracciano’s injury did not appear to be a light one.
Since the emergency treatment was taking long, we had to maintain our feel for the ball to prevent our bodies from cooling down.
The fact that I couldn’t even go to my fallen teammate and had to keep kicking the ball.
It was a moment I hated being a professional player, but there are always things you must do, even if you hate them.
“Jian!”
“...Ah.”
My head had turned toward the goal for a moment, but I came to my senses at Saponara’s call and sent the ball on.
Of course, even while doing so, it was difficult to concentrate on the ball.
For a moment, I thought I saw the doctor making an X gesture toward the bench.
Was it serious enough that he couldn’t continue?
...It seemed so.
After the signal was sent, the bench soon grew hectic, and I saw someone hurriedly preparing to enter the pitch.
The one quickly putting on goalkeeper gloves while talking to the coach was... Antonio Rosati.
“Will he be alright, that old man? I can’t even remember the last time he played.”
As the match showed signs of resuming, Saponara, who had kicked the ball out, scratched his head and said this.
He seemed worried not only about Terracciano, who had gone out due to injury, but also about Rosati, who had suddenly been made to put on gloves.
And he had every reason to be, for it was always Terracciano who guarded our team’s goal.
Since goalkeeper is a position that rarely changes, aside from a few Coppa Italia matches, opportunities hadn’t gone to the other keepers.
I couldn’t even remember when Rosati had last played in a match—to the point where I suspected it hadn’t happened once since I’d been promoted to the first team.
If you don’t play matches, your feel for the game naturally dulls.
Moreover, it was doubtful whether he was prepared for such a sudden appearance, and of all opponents, it had to be Paris, who were demonstrating formidable attacking power.
So it was no wonder that Saponara was worried about our back line.
With so many reasons piling up, even the captain was wearing an uneasy expression.
An unavoidable substitution was made.
Terracciano left the pitch on a stretcher, and Rosati—whose match uniform felt strangely unfamiliar—entered the ground, slapping his gloves together with loud pops.
But... it was somewhat strange.
Had I been in that situation, my expression would have been quite a sight to see.
Yet Rosati’s face as he stepped onto the pitch and headed toward the goal was utterly tranquil, as if he had started just yesterday.
Watching him, I realized anew that he was a man who would turn forty the day after tomorrow.
For someone who had spent more time on the pitch than I had been alive, perhaps this was nothing to be flustered about.
For a moment, I wondered who had been worrying about whom, thinking that I ought to come to my senses first.
*
One might call it poor sportsmanship, but in any case, the match hadn’t been stopped because of our foul.
I had hoped that the roughly five-minute break might disrupt the opponent’s momentum somewhat.
But as soon as the match resumed, I realized that hope had been in vain.
Rather, as if their bodies had heated up further during the stoppage, Paris began to push their line even higher and come out more aggressively.
While preparing for a counterattack, I tried to position myself high so that the opponent’s defensive line might form a little deeper.
But I couldn’t even cross the halfway line, because all of the opponent’s deepest defenders had crossed it and were standing in our territory.
In short, the entire opposing team was playing in our half.
To the point where I wondered if the first leg had been nothing more than a probing match, it was so difficult to maintain my composure under the relentless, swirling onslaught.
Consequently, I was already anxious about whether we could hold out, and with the one guarding the goal not being the starting keeper, I couldn’t help but worry even more.
This isn’t to say Rosati is an unreliable goalkeeper... but the situation itself made it inevitable.
It was an offensive wave hard to stop even with full preparation, and he had been thrown in suddenly.
Since it was quite an important match, the pressure would be immense—a perfect environment for mistakes.
Yet it was remarkable.
Though he had obviously been thrust into guarding the goal suddenly, it would have been natural for him to seem somewhat flustered.
But his figure, skillfully commanding the defensive line, looked so familiar—like a man who had been in that very spot just last week.
“Left! The line’s opening up!”
At his voice, clear enough to be faintly heard even from afar, none other than the captain jolted to attention and reorganized.
Even the players who had been in the starting lineup were struggling to keep their heads on straight, yet the man who had just come on was steadying the center.
Suddenly, I felt what a great power experience holds.
When I thought about it, he was a player who had stood in that spot for decades.
He had lived in that position, wearing those goalkeeper gloves, for longer than I had been alive.
Such years don’t simply vanish just because he hadn’t been able to play frequently for a mere few months or seasons.
“Here he comes! Let him through and I’ll kill you!”
...While I’d been briefly lost in thought, I snapped my eyes toward the cry that broke the atmosphere and saw a beast trapping the ball.
Near the right side of the penalty box.
Mbappé swayed his upper body this way and that in front of the captain, then gave the ball a light tap and sprinted away.
Tap-tap-tat—!
At that absurd speed, to the point where even the threat of “I’ll kill you if he gets through” didn’t work, the line crumbled.
Had the speed been merely moderate, there might have been room to recover, but Mbappé, having penetrated into the box in the blink of an eye, didn’t allow even that much time.
His shooting timing was disgustingly quick, too.
Bbaaaaaang—!
A heart-dropping sound rang out, and a sharp shot drilled low toward the near post.
He had dug in from the right side of the box, feinted slightly to the left, then cut back to the right to strike.
Just how many times had he cut in that brief instant?
While I marveled at that absurd athleticism, the shot was so sharp that it made me think what we needed now was an equalizer.
In the moment when everyone’s resigned feet stopped, the sole person who moved was a man who would turn forty the day after tomorrow.
Paaang—!
...He saved it.
The ball deflected off his hand, which he had flung his body with all his might to extend, and went outside the goal.
For an instant, it was a save so sublime that I wondered why he wasn’t the starting goalkeeper.
“—!!”
As could be seen from the groans erupting from the stands, the opposing players clutching their heads, and Mbappé’s hollow smile.
At the unbelievable save, the defenders yelled and swarmed around Rosati.
And then a commotion of untimely chest-bumps broke out.
“Uwoooh!”
“Waaah!”
We weren’t excited gorillas, and the sight of us slamming our chests into each other in praise might have seemed barbaric.
But humans are animals at their core, and it seems I too cannot escape that nature.
“Heeeh! I’ll save everything!”
...If watching that made my chest burn hot, then surely I can’t.
*
To be honest, until the match began, I hadn’t been fully immersed.
Of course, given the opponent and the unwelcoming atmosphere of the stadium I was visiting for the first time, I did feel some tension.
But compared to certain matches I still remember vividly—such as when Jiwoo first came to watch my match, my first-team debut, the match against Juventus, the Coppa Italia final, and so on.
Compared to when I played matches filled with a desperate feeling that losing meant it was over, or that I wanted to win so badly... I hadn’t been in that immersed state.
Thinking about the reason, first, our advancement to the knockout stage was already confirmed, so it wasn’t exactly a desperate situation.
More than anything... I think it was largely because I was somewhat tired.
As much as one might say such a me is uncool, it was hard to deny that I had a sly personality.
Just how sly? I had acted as if I could do anything as long as I got the results I wanted.
But once I had obtained a certain degree of results, I had become someone who now thought of what was hard for me first.
In a way... one could say I was sufficiently satisfied with my current situation.
Playing in matches every week, scoring goals.
Receiving various awards along with embarrassing praise calling me a genius.
Having reached a point where I could be satisfied even without doing more, I no longer wanted to struggle and suffer so much anymore.
Of course, my head knew that was a very uncool thought, but as the life of catching sleep on planes and buses continued, I couldn’t help it despite knowing.
This too was nothing but excuses and justifications, but anyway, because of it, I felt the embers in my heart gradually cooling.
That was also why, on the bus before this match, I had asked Rosati that question.
What the secret was to being able to play consistently for so long.
What his driving force... was.
Well, Rosati had merely answered nonchalantly that it was because he was a goalkeeper, nothing special.
But seeing him suddenly thrown into the match today, and just now.
Seeing him in the locker room after the first half, I felt like I somehow understood what that secret was.
It would be rude to say it was unexpected, but in any case, the opponent’s offensive had been terrifyingly fierce.
Returning to the locker room having finished the first half with a better-than-expected 0-0 score, he was joyful like a child, his age showing no sign.
He said it was so much fun playing after so long, asked if everyone had seen that save he made earlier, enjoying himself so purely that it made me smile to watch.
I hadn’t spoken with him separately during halftime, but merely seeing that figure, I felt as if I had heard the real answer to the question I’d asked on the bus.
That he had been able to endure for so long... wasn’t it because he enjoyed the process itself rather than deriving satisfaction from some outcome?
Not only feeling satisfied when achieving a certain goal or producing a certain result.
But enjoying the very process of getting there—perhaps that was how he had endured for so long.
Well, of course, the actual reason might be entirely different.
I don’t know. I’ll just think of it that way.
Truthfully, it doesn’t matter.
What matters is what I felt.
Looking back, was I only happy and joyful when I won the top scorer title or was chosen as player of the year?
No.
Earlier, just as my heart had burned hot watching my teammates chest-bumping and roaring like beasts over a single saved shot... there were plenty of times in the process toward the result when my heart burned hot too.
Like when I executed a play exactly as I’d imagined, or when I used something I’d practiced countless times in a match, or when we combined our strength to defeat an opponent who had seemed fearsome.
Wasn’t that itself... at times so enjoyable it was hard to contain?
But it seems I had forgotten that for a moment.
Fooled by the deception called exhaustion.
Since when had I become such a complacent person?
“...So, let’s go harder in the second half. We were too tame. Pietro’s (Terracciano’s) in that state, so why the fuck are we playing so tame?”
“Okay, let’s fight!”
“Let’s just charge right in. Good. Forza—!”
“Viola—!!”
After shouting a spirited cheer with my arms around my teammates’ shoulders, I head toward the center circle for kickoff.
The ecstasy of overcoming an opponent who seemed difficult to beat is incomparable to anything else, and racking our brains feverishly and combining our strength together to feel that ecstasy is a fun game.
“...Hoo.”
Looking at the referee placing the whistle to his mouth, I let out a sigh because my heart was pounding.
Perhaps because it was time to play that fun game, my heart was fluttering with excitement.