My youth.
Of all the maxims my coaches would often share, if there was one that stuck with me the most, it was probably something Messi had said.
That every weakness can become a strength.
The reason that saying comes to mind anew is not only because the very person who said it is on the same pitch, but because it fits our current situation perfectly.
Come to think of it, there's a saying in Korea with a similar meaning too.
Turning misfortune into blessing.
Hmm, actually, maybe that saying isn't even originally Korean.
Anyway, I found myself wondering, for no particular reason, if it wouldn't be fun to tell Messi that we have a saying like that in the East as well.
Anyway, I had to admit that the first half had been completely Paris's match.
I hadn't checked the exact stats, but we were so thoroughly pushed back that for every one shot we took, the opposition must have taken five or more.
It had clearly been forty-five minutes where we'd been overwhelmingly outmatched in possession and pass count as well.
Thanks to that, there hadn't been much I could do, which meant I was still in good physical condition.
Since I was already dealing with physical strain, if the first half had been a tight contest, I would definitely have been exhausted by now.
So the fact that I had nothing to do during the first half had actually worked in my favor.
That was why you could call it turning misfortune into a blessing.
Of course, that was thanks to Rosati, who had been suddenly thrust into goal but showed no panic, fulfilled his role, and displayed the dignity of a veteran.
Moreover, thanks to that, I had gained a small realization as well—perhaps misfortune was something you could accept and turn around depending on your attitude.
What matters isn't what's behind, but what's ahead.
Tap-tap—!
And more important than the future is the present.
While constantly looking around to secure my vision of the surroundings, I move down below the halfway line.
Even after the second half began, the opposition showed signs of pushing their line up and coming out aggressively.
Having pressed the entire first half without scoring, they looked desperate, resorting to a high press they hadn't used before.
Players like Neymar and Mbappé were busily moving to win the ball back.
Among them, Messi alone still seemed to be observing the situation, but in his place, the midfielders were stepping further forward to fill the gaps.
A rather wide net was cast before our defensive line.
That encirclement felt quite threatening, yet on the other hand, I sensed it could be an opportunity for us.
Because the midfielders joining the high press meant that space was inevitably opening up in the middle of the park.
The opposition weren't fools, so to fill that gap their fullbacks were pushing up like midfielders and their center-backs were stepping up to keep the spacing relatively tight.
Still, that also meant space was opening up in the back, so the fact remained unchanged that a single pass could create a big chance.
From the back to the middle, and from the middle to deep in the attacking third.
A path to a shot with just two passes was visible, so I stood at the point where I could be that link and waited for the pass.
Fortunately, it seemed the opposition hadn't practiced this kind of high press very often.
The press didn't look all that organized.
Thanks to that, I was able to quietly make eye contact with Bonaventura.
"..."
"..."
In that fleeting moment of eye contact, while Bonaventura moved as if reading my intention, I turned my head to the left to find Romero.
And after a brief second moment of eye contact, I soon saw Romero ready to dash forward as well.
It's fascinating, isn't it?
How we can read each other's thoughts with just a look.
It's fun.
Fwaaang—!
For just a brief instant, the opposition's net loosened.
Through that gap, Bonaventura's pass broke through.
Swishhh—
As the pass came toward me, I could feel defenders closing in tight behind me.
Judging by the speed of the incoming pass and the approaching defenders, I concluded that the defense would reach it a step ahead.
Tap-tap—!
Having no intention of battling the defenders shoulder-to-shoulder, I moved out to meet the pass.
Yet I could feel the defense still coming, so I decided I had to shake them off first.
But I couldn't spend too much time on that.
A counterattack is most effective the faster it is, so even when shaking them off, I had to do it with as few touches as possible.
If we're talking about the fewest touches... obviously, a one-touch play would be the minimum.
But numbers smaller than one certainly exist.
Swishhh—
As if to stop the rolling ball, I put my foot out while glancing back to check the defense...
Tap-tap—!
Then, without hesitation, I turned my body and spun around.
I didn't touch the ball.
Bonaventura's pass was so good that leaving it alone would be no problem.
Swishhh—
Shrugging my shoulders as if about to get caught, I quickly brushed past the defender's side and reunited with the ball slipping through his legs.
And immediately following the flow, I threaded a forward pass.
Romero had started from the right side, but trusting his speed, I pushed the ball slightly inward in a straight line.
Fwaaahng—!
The pass sent off like that slid across the turf, and Romero ran tirelessly toward it.
Sometimes, there are moments where the pass is more thrilling than the goal.
When the ball leaving my foot meets the teammate running into space with perfect timing, at the exact spot.
At that moment, how should I put it... I even feel a sense of wonder, as if beholding the mysteries of nature.
Of course, it might be an exaggeration—no, perhaps it isn't one after all.
Fwaaang—!
Romero, running in diagonally from the right, latched onto the ball and drove inward.
The point where that touch happened matched exactly the point I had calculated in my head.
This feeling... those who haven't experienced it wouldn't understand.
Boom—!
Shoooooom—
Thwack—!
Romero's shot, struck right after his first touch, made the net ripple.
And soon, Romero started jumping up and down, pointing his finger at me.
Seeing his mouth moving busily in the process, he seemed to be shouting something...
"Genius! Genius! Cross!"
...Hm.
It was a remark I wanted to brush off as nonsense, but I too ran toward him with my hand outstretched.
The uncontainable ecstasy surging out of me was greater than the exasperating embarrassment.
*
They say even a worm squirms when stepped on, but what happens when you step on a lion?
Naturally, it won't end with just a squirm.
Having conceded a surprise strike around the 10-minute mark of the second half, Paris attacked even more fiercely than before.
Perhaps because our goal looked endangered by that furious counterattack, the bench began to move, and soon substitutions were made.
Senior Saponara, the left-sided attacker, came off, and senior Torreira, a midfielder, came on.
The three-top was dismantled into a two-top, with four midfielders standing in the middle of the park to create an additional defensive wall before the last line of defense.
We were ahead by a goal with about thirty minutes left, so it seemed the manager's thinking was to lock things down tightly.
But... hmm.
I wouldn't dare question the manager's judgment with my standing, but what can I say.
As the tactical shape changed, so too did the flow of the match.
I couldn't help but wonder if committing to defense was truly the safer choice.
Because as we dropped deeper, the opposition began to focus solely on attacking with even greater determination.
Moreover, the attacking line pouring forward without restraint consisted of Neymar, Mbappé, and even Messi.
Amid a faint feeling that something felt off, when the stadium clock passed the 70-minute mark, that anxiety became reality.
Ever since our defense began to settle into waiting and closing down space, if there was one player whose presence began to grow... it was Messi.
While most players stood in place rather than running around—a static situation—the number of touches Messi took began to increase, and then, in an instant.
The archmage unleashed his magic.
It was difficult to explain, but if forced... it was a play that seemed to deny all the footballing common sense I had learned until now.
The basics of attack are to avoid the defense, and my basic understanding was that you should attack into open space rather than where players are congested.
As if to say such formulas were mere theory, Messi squeezed through dense defense and forced the door open.
Honestly, in that moment, I felt grateful that he was nearly twenty years older than me.
When the group draw put us with Paris, the seniors had said we were lucky not to have faced him in his prime.
If that's what he's like now, past his prime, I couldn't even imagine what level he was at during his peak.
Anyway, it was something like a typhoon or an earthquake.
A force of nature beyond human control.
Thanks to that, I didn't even feel we had done anything wrong; instead, I felt fear.
Somehow, it felt like if I stayed still, I would be swept away without having done a thing.
As if my survival instincts had kicked in, I felt my mind beginning to spin furiously.
I had a gut feeling that I had to change the momentum somehow, but the tactical change meant there were fewer teammates to combine with.
As I racked my brain for a slightly different method, I eventually had no choice but to adopt an approach that strayed from common sense.
Of course, I didn't dare claim to know magic like the archmage, but watching Messi's play, I felt that sometimes you need to overturn common sense.
Even after the equalizer, the opposition's attacks didn't stop, and when the ball finally found its way to me after a difficult defensive stand, I decided to attempt a play that went against my own common sense.
Though in truth, it wasn't anything particularly special—just trying to go for a shot through individual dribbling instead of continuing the counter with a pass.
Of course, Romero, who had scored the first goal, was still on the pitch, and the moment I took the ball he ran into space; not passing to him was definitely a play that went against the basics for me.
I kept feigning as if I would thread the pass, gauging the timing, but ultimately went forward with the ball at my feet.
Romero had run into a good position and drawn the defense's attention, so I couldn't say I did it alone.
Anyway, having chosen not to pass, I carried the ball in alone until near the box, and by then I was already gasping for breath.
Feeling the truth of the saying that a sparrow trying to follow a stork will tear its legs, I ultimately had to take a shot without managing the final breakthrough.
Fortunately, the shot I took slipped between a defender's legs, and thanks to that, from the goalkeeper's perspective the ball must have appeared suddenly.
So even as the ball passed by, the goalkeeper merely stood and watched.
Hmm.
Earlier, when I had assisted Romero's goal, I had thought about how sometimes a pass is more fun than scoring.
But in that moment, my thoughts changed again.
Well, it's not like this is the first or second time I've changed my mind.
*
"Good work, good work."
Exhausted.
Leading my weary body onto the bus, I plop down and sink into the leather seat.
My calves are tight, and my ankles feel as heavy as if weighed down by sandbags.
Perhaps because I had been breathing in the smoke from the flares for ninety minutes, my throat feels a bit scratchy.
Anyway, the match is over, and now it's time to return to the lodging.
"Phew..."
Because the space is cramped, I stretch with some ingenuity and let out a sigh.
It is a sigh mixing relief at finishing the match with lingering regret, but soon a larger sigh overwhelms mine.
"Ugh, I'm dying."
"You worked hard."
"That's right, that's right. You worked hard too, kid."
Speaking to Rosati, who groans as he sits in the seat beside me, he ruffles my hair.
He had been groaning until the bus departed, yet unlike me, the youngest, as befitting the oldest.
"Hey, get your arm off me."
"No."
Without caring that he's being a nuisance, he stretches and suddenly speaks to me.
"Well, I'm sorry about that."
I looked at him as if asking what that sudden apology was for, and Rosati smacked his lips.
"I don't know about the rest, but that last one, I should have stopped that one. Ha, if I were five years younger, I would have stopped it. Being old is a sin, being old."
"..."
"Sorry. If it had been Terracciano, we would have at least kept a draw. But we lost because some old geezer came in as a stopgap."
...I blinked my eyes at this incomprehensible self-deprecation, not knowing how to react, and Rosati, glancing at me, burst into hearty laughter.
As he said, today we lost.
Two to three.
Because we ended up conceding two goals to Messi and Mbappé after the 35th minute of the second half.
Honestly, it was hard to express disappointment; after all, we had conceded over ten shots on target.
It was a match where I sometimes thought we were lucky to have only conceded three, so while there was regret, there was no remorse.
Still, Rosati seemed deeply disappointed.
"Ah, damn it. How could I not stop that? I should have expected he'd shoot near-post."
"It couldn't be helped."
"No. I could have stopped it."
"But you stopped so many other things."
"Well, that's true."
"..."
Is it that I have a talent for consolation, or that Rosati is simpler than he looks?
Unable to get a read on him as he alternates between self-blame and laughter.
"Sorry. I should have kept us in first place but failed."
Now apologizing again with utmost sincerity, I stared at him dumbfounded.
A draw would have kept us in first, but because we lost, we were pushed down to second.
As a result, we would face another group's first-place team in the Round of 16.
Hmm.
But is that even important?
"It was fun, so it's fine."
"...Hm?"
"You looked happy."
"...Did I?"
"Yes..."
"Hehe, how embarrassing."
Seeing Rosati scratch his head and laugh, I let out a hollow laugh myself.
It's a shame we lost, but still.
I think the process being fun is enough.
Regretting won't change the result, and suffering only makes me suffer.
Like this man who laughs again right after blaming himself, isn't enjoying the process how you last long?
The evening scenery of Paris passing by the window was breathtakingly beautiful.
"..."
As we sped toward the lodging like that.
When a phone screen was suddenly thrust in front of my face, I turned my head to the side.
Then Rosati pouted his lips and spoke.
"I thought there'd be some news about me since I played for the first time in a while, but there's nothing. It's all about you. Read it."
Wondering what it was about, I took the phone.
And reading the article on the screen...
...Hmm.
I feel an urge to find out who wrote such a thing.
—PSG vs. Fiorentina: There Were Two Messis at the Parc des Princes
...Although Paris ultimately took the victory with two goals from Messi and one from Mbappé, the play shown by Fiorentina's Jian Ri was reminiscent of the Messi of old, making it seem as if there were two Messis running on the same pitch...
Please, at least make sense.
Who are they comparing to whom?
Gritting my molars and swiping my fingers furiously, I looked closely to find the journalist's name.
No doubt it must be some Italian journalist who loves to sensationalize.
Let's see...
"..."
Hmm.
Santiago González... that doesn't seem like an Italian name.