The locker room after returning from the first half.
“Hey! You really…”
“What the hell are you, man!”
“How much more are you going to surprise us, you crazy bastard!”
The moment I step into the locker room, shouts fly from everywhere and rough hands come at me from all sides, sending my mind flying far away.
Whether it’s the seniors who ran and came back with me, or the seniors who were already in the locker room. They all swarm me, ruffling my hair, and anyone watching would think I’d set fire to my own house.
Why are they making such a fuss.
What’s so surprising about scoring just one goal…
“Hey, hey. You’re going to smother the kid. Back off, all of you.”
“Sit. Sit down and rest. I’ll bring you water.”
On the verge of suffocating from the seniors’ sweat, I barely catch my breath thanks to the captain’s help and head to my seat.
Then I plop down, take water from a coach and drink while getting a leg massage.
The water tastes especially sweet today… The first half really must have been brutal.
“Huu—”
…Actually, well, I put on a brave face, pretended like nothing was wrong.
But I was probably the most surprised of anyone.
Scoring a goal.
Against those monsters.
No, to be more exact… Rather than me scoring being surprising, it’s surprising that they allowed me the ball.
At a glance, you could say it’s the same thing, but the feeling is different.
So what I’m saying is… It’s more appropriate to say that it’s surprising they even made a mistake at all.
Because throughout the match, they hadn’t felt human.
It felt like facing soccer machines equipped with precisely designed, ultra-high-performance AI.
Like competing in mental arithmetic against a calculator, I just felt helpless about how I was supposed to win.
So I was actually a bit bewildered.
At that moment in question, when the referee declared the goal.
I thought it was offside.
Clearly, my feeling was that it wasn’t offside, but the Man City players had all raised their hands, appealing for offside.
Common sense says a calculator doesn’t make wrong calculations.
If the calculator’s answer and my answer differ, obviously I’d assume I was the one who was wrong.
So when the referee’s decision said I was right and they were wrong, I was left utterly dumbfounded.
Only then did I realize that they, who had looked like machines, were human too.
Well, of course… That didn’t suddenly fill me with confidence or anything.
I simply realized they could make mistakes too, but clearly, we hadn’t shown the better performance.
Rather, I even felt a bit of a chill.
Because a mistake is only a mistake when it happens once, and I had a feeling that would be the last one.
But… Honestly, if I said that was all I felt, it would be a lie.
It was thrilling at the same time.
Right?
I got a problem right that even those geniuses got wrong.
Of course, solving it felt like my head was splitting open, but the catharsis that came from solving it… was tremendous.
That must be why my heart is still pounding even now.
“Everyone shut up and calm your breathing! This isn’t the time to get excited and mess around!”
Amidst the raucous locker room, the manager’s roar, coming late, silences the room.
As could be seen from his expression and voice, the manager’s thoughts didn’t seem so different from mine.
It hadn’t been a first half that we won.
“Everyone shut up and listen. Honestly, if our luck had been slightly worse, it wouldn’t have been strange to have conceded five goals in that first half. Matija!”
“…Yes.”
“Why are you so out of it? Are you scared facing someone bigger than you? What do you think you’re doing, giving them space all the time!”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Giacomo!”
“Yes…”
“What are you so scared of? Are you scared of having the ball? Why do you keep blindly booting it away!”
One by one.
Busy bowing their heads at the lightning-like scolding falling on each of them in turn.
Normally, he jokes around like a friend without hesitation, but when he’s this furious, his head burning red, avoiding eye contact is the best policy.
Thanks to that, the locker room atmosphere quickly changes from that of a team winning 1–0 to a team losing 1–5.
So I too lower my eyes and put my mouth to a water bottle I’m not even drinking from.
“…”
“…”
Doing that doesn’t make me invisible, so eventually, I make eye contact with the red-haired manager.
I swallow hard without realizing it, but the manager quietly puts his hand on his hip and… raises a single thumb.
“You were incredible.”
“…”
…Hmm.
Is my Italian still not good enough?
It doesn’t seem like something you’d say in this situation.
Anyway, since it doesn’t seem like I’m being scolded, I let out a sigh of relief inwardly.
I couldn’t openly enjoy it because I was mindful of the seniors.
“Everyone, focus! Look here!”
In any case, everyone focuses on the manager, who claps his hands and stands in front of the tactical board.
I listen to the plan for a better second half.
And shortly after, I get up from my seat to execute that plan with my body.
There is still a lot of time left.
45 minutes of the second half.
And we have to think about the 90 minutes of the second leg at our home, too.
The thought of having to watch the opponent’s passes to the point of exhaustion for that long makes my head spin.
But on the other hand, I feel greedy—I want to taste that catharsis from earlier one more time, and I want to keep the reckless promise I made to the seniors.
“Kid.”
“…Yes?”
“Do what you did earlier one more time. You’re the only one I can trust.”
Walking down the hallway toward the stadium, Senior Bonaventura approaches with an exhausted face and says.
When you ask with a face like that… I can’t refuse.
“Yes.”
“I trust only you.”
I nodded and headed for the pitch.
*
Thwack—!
Thwack—!
Almost simultaneously with the start of the second half, my stomach begins to churn at the opponent’s passing play starting up again.
Somehow, the passing tempo seems even faster than in the first half.
The ball is faster than a person, and the eye is faster than the ball.
To the point where it’s overwhelming just to keep up with my eyes, the opponent starts the second half, passing quickly.
Thwack—!
In the midst of that, my brow furrows at an inexplicable anxiety.
Their tempo has increased a little, but the first half had been similar in that I just watched the whole time.
There’s no reason to be newly anxious, but as my heart grows impatient, I rack my brain for a moment to find the reason.
I find the reason without difficulty.
Thwack—!
The ball that had been moving around enters the feet of the short blond head.
Then I see our defenders’ vigilance toward his feet instantly peak to the maximum level.
It’s Kevin De Bruyne.
That he is the core of Man City’s midfield—no, the core of the entire team—is something everyone already knows.
The manager’s order was to go into concentrated checking unconditionally the moment he takes the ball.
Following that order, two or more defenders immediately block his front.
However, in the first half, such instances were fewer than expected—whether due to tactical movement or his condition.
Rather than holding the ball for long or attempting aggressive passes, he often lightly gave the ball to those around him.
Thanks to that, during the first half, the ones who were actually more threatening than him were on both wings—players like Grealish and Bernardo Silva.
But entering the second half, his touches have increased.
At the same time, the time he holds the ball seems to be getting longer, too.
Is the strangely quickened tempo of the match also his influence?
Though I don’t know the reason, the moment his cheeks, flushed red as if fully heated, look terrifying.
“…!”
Inappropriately for the time and place, I stand stock still, my jaw dropping.
Bwoooong—!
As De Bruyne’s foot swings with two defenders in front of him, the ball draws a trajectory like something from a video game and breaks through the defense.
And beyond that, I see the long-haired human weapon infiltrating behind the defense.
The important thing is… that pass was not a lob pass, but a ground pass.
Swhoooo—
The ball slides across the grass, passes between the defenders, and enters the box.
And sticks like a magnet to the foot of Haaland, who was infiltrating.
…No matter how much I’m not a defender, it’s even less the time to be admiring that.
My body feels frozen and I can’t move.
Whether it’s the strangely bending trajectory like a snake, or the delicacy of the strength control that stops right in front of the infiltrating attacker’s foot.
It’s a pass that draws admiration no matter where you look.
But even if I make a hundred concessions, if that had been a lob pass, I might not have been this surprised.
But the fact that he implemented that kind of pass with a ground pass—no, the very idea of attempting it—goes beyond surprise and approaches shock.
Until now… had I ever seen such a pass?
I don’t know.
Bwoooong—!
I wake from my dazed state at the thunderous roar that follows soon after.
By the time I come to my senses, our goal net is already shaking violently.
Did it go in.
It must have been a shot too fast to see.
Waaaaaaaah—!
Soon, the cheers of tens of thousands of home fans fill my ears, and I see my teammates sighing with hands on their waists.
“…”
Standing in the midst of it… A chill runs down my spine at the thought that this is only the beginning.
*
As De Bruyne’s breathing grows rougher, and accordingly his cheeks redden more and more.
We had to face a fatal crisis.
An interview from before the match suddenly comes to mind.
What the opposing manager said about our team being like an awl.
Actually, I wonder if the awl wasn’t De Bruyne’s feet.
Because every time those feet moved, it stung as if being stabbed.
“Huu—”
I let out a sigh and look at the scoreboard.
The score that had been in our favor until the first half has been turned around before I knew it.
78:33
MCI 3 : 1 FIO
We had held out for 45 minutes without conceding, but we gave up three goals in 30 minutes.
The problem is that, even so, I feel lucky.
And the bigger problem… is that I don’t even have the energy to care about a score like that.
Thwack—!
Thwack—!
As if to say they won’t finish at this level, the opponent’s passes still quickly roam our territory.
Thwack—!
Among them is De Bruyne again, and the fact that all the defenders hesitate just from him catching the ball.
It’s enough to make my heart ache, wondering how tired my teammates facing him must be.
But as if he cares not, the merciless awl aims for our heart and stabs in again.
Paaaang—!
This time too… through the center again.
A through pass to Haaland running in heads into the box.
We’ve already fallen victim to that pattern three times, yet the pass still forcefully squeezes through the narrow gaps.
Swhoooo—
As I said, since I’ve already been victim to it several times.
The trajectory and strength control are newly admirable, but I don’t feel the same shock as before.
Because after seeing it a few times, that path is gradually becoming visible to my eyes too.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I can blame the defenders.
Knowing it and being able to stop it are different things.
And at the same time, I realize that it’s not necessarily a good thing to be able to foresee it.
Even if I estimate this way and that.
What good is it to realize in advance that there’s no way to win?
Thud—!
The net shakes for the fourth time.
And now, the size of the cheers coming from the stands seems to have decreased a bit, too.
Until the third goal, it had been like an earthquake, but now there doesn’t seem to be much excitement.
“…”
“…”
The teammates are quiet, too.
Everyone just kneels and bows their heads; even the captain can’t say it’s going to be okay.
“…”
At that moment, I suddenly feel anger boiling up.
What the anger was about was complicated.
Well, it could be about failing to protect a 1-point lead and conceding four goals.
It could be frustration from being dragged around the whole match and barely touching the ball.
It might be anger from the helplessness of not seeing a way to win.
But if I had to say what made me angriest among them… it might be me failing to keep the promise with the seniors.
They said to believe only in me, and so I said I would believe only in me.
Because I can’t live up to that trust, I’m angry at myself.
It’s different from anxiety or fear.
…I’m angry.
Seeing my teammates with faces that say there is no hope, something suddenly bursts from my throat.
“Get up!”
My hands even move on their own, clapping vigorously.
“We can do it!”
I don’t know what we can do.
“You said you believed in me!”
Then do something that can give them trust.
“Give me the ball!”
Did I lose all sense of hierarchy because I’m a little angry?
I shout and wave my hand hard, and the ball flies to me with a whoosh.
I take it and walk to the center circle, placing the ball in the middle.
Then I turn back and yell at my teammates.
“Let’s try one more time!”
We probably can’t do it two or three times.
But maybe we can do it just once.
Then and now.
I’ve always hated the idea of becoming someone who betrays trust more than death.