I guess I've been under a huge misconception this whole time.
I'd thought I hated receiving someone's expectations, receiving someone's trust.
But seeing my teammates hanging their heads as if all belief in victory had vanished, I find myself furious… which means that wasn't true at all.
Even as I said I hated it, even as I called it a burden.
The truth is, maybe I liked it—maybe it was that expectation and that trust that gave me strength.
Well, perhaps it wasn't so much a misconception as it was me myself who had changed.
Just as nothing in this world is eternal, people are bound to change, and I am only human.
Whatever the case, what matters is that the current situation makes me unbearably furious.
Why is everyone hanging their heads as if there's no hope left?
That means they don't believe in me.
It means I… betrayed their expectations.
*Beeeeeeep—!*
The whistle blows, and play resumes with a short back-pass.
*Taptaptap—!*
At the same time, our cruelly relentless opponents begin pushing into our territory.
There are barely ten minutes left, and the score is already comfortably separated by three goals.
Yet they don't seem satisfied even at that; with eyes bloodshot to steal the ball, they charge at us.
*Swish—!*
*Swish—!*
Because of that, the ball frantically retreats further and further backward.
Back pass, back pass, back pass.
They don't look like passes—they look like simple flight.
After eighty minutes of torment, my teammates have become mice before a cat.
Their bodies freeze the moment they meet eyes with the opponent, their spirits so broken they can't even think of baring their front teeth.
It seems the only thing they can do is flee.
*Taptaptap—!*
I drop down, stepping to the rhythm of the Manchester City players' feet as they ascend toward our half.
I chase after the ball, which retreats helplessly, endlessly backward.
I sprint past the sky-blue kits even faster, like a student racing toward the cafeteria at lunchtime.
*Swish—!*
In that time, the ball has somehow been driven all the way to the final line.
The opponent's high press has invaded near the box, and to evade it, the ball has ended up at the goalkeeper's feet.
"…"
Yet the opponent's pressing doesn't stop, and goalkeeper Terracciano steps back from the ball.
A motion to boot it far away.
It seems he can't even see me in his field of vision anymore.
If this were a league match, if the opponent weren't Manchester City, he would have spotted me dropping back and passed to me.
But now—has he forgotten my very existence? Even though I'm right here, he doesn't spare me a single glance.
Seeing that, I want to throw a tantrum with all my might, like a seven-year-old standing in front of a toy store.
After drawing a deep breath into my lungs, I throw a tantrum with everything I've got.
"Give me the ball—!"
I won't ask for much.
Just give me one chance.
Let me prove that I'm someone worth believing in, worth expecting from…
"Ball—!!"
*Swoosh—!*
The moment I shout out once more.
The ball leaves Terracciano's foot and begins breaking through the defense.
It wasn't a ball booted powerfully, nor a long ball floating from afar.
Not a clearance merely to escape the situation, but a pass aimed at someone.
*Whoosh—*
As that pass approaches me head-on, I nod and prepare to receive.
The chance for redemption has come.
I must somehow live up to that trust.
*Swish—!*
I take the ball with the outside of my right foot, push it to the right, and turn my body around in one motion.
Then I kick the ball forward with my left foot and set my bearing toward the opposition's goal.
*Taptap—!*
Immediately, I face the enemy.
The Manchester City midfielders who've pushed up to support the high press.
Bernardo Silva stands at the very front, and behind him stands Ilkay Gundogan.
And beside him is Kevin De Bruyne, and beyond him I can faintly see Rodri and Stones.
Each and every one of them is a great mountain and a deep river.
At the fact that I must break through that bleak, treacherous terrain with my bare body, my muscles stiffen just from the sight of it.
…Can I do it?
Who knows.
At this very moment, what are my teammates thinking?
With what thoughts are they watching me?
Would they believe I can do it, or have they long since put aside such expectations?
Of course, I wish they would believe.
But if they can't, there's nothing to be done about it.
If no one else can believe in me anymore, then I have to believe in myself.
I nod once more to myself, kick the ball forward, and take a step.
I will break through.
*Taptaptap—!*
No matter how hopeless and stifling it is, I mustn't lose my composure.
As I charge at Bernardo Silva, my mind begins climbing back through the memories of the past eighty minutes.
Ironically, the opponent's play that had rendered us powerless is now serving as a hint for me.
Taking a cue from Silva's dribbling—which he never lost even when it looked like he would—I put it on display right in front of its originator.
*Taptap—!*
I approach close enough that the defender can't help but stick his foot out.
And when his foot comes,
*Swish—!*
I touch the ball a split second sooner, change its trajectory, and move it in a zigzag to avoid his outstretched leg.
I suffered against this two-footed dribbling for eighty minutes.
Those eighty minutes of endurance have become a time of learning, and the strongest enemy has become the greatest teacher.
*Taptaptap—!*
Of course, it's mountain after mountain.
After getting past Bernardo Silva, Gundogan and De Bruyne simultaneously block my path.
But those two are no different as the greatest teachers.
I repay their lessons with my body.
*Taptaptap—!*
Just as I did when Silva was before me, I charge as if I'll dribble between them…
*Swish—!*
I flick a pass with the outside of my left foot.
Amrabat is there, and while the opponent's gaze follows the ball,
*Taptaptap—!*
I quickly sprint through the gap between them.
At the same time, a return pass comes back in front of me.
*Swish—!*
While running fast, I adjust my stride to receive the ball and continue surging forward without losing momentum.
I've crossed the high mountains and deep rivers, yet there's no time to catch my breath.
Still deep in the mountains upon mountains.
Moreover, the players now blocking the way ahead… are players who train every day against the likes of Silva and De Bruyne.
Thanks to that, even as I run, I do my best to suppress the doubts seething up within me.
It was only a few seconds ago that I said I must believe in myself if no one else would.
I ought to at least keep that resolve for thirty seconds, let alone three days.
I force my feet, which keep trying to stop, to move, and push my speed even higher.
*Taptaptap—!*
Fortunately, from a defender's standpoint, stopping an attacker who's already built up speed is incredibly difficult.
Whether defending or attacking, getting past a defender when both are stationary requires tremendous technical maneuvering, but in a situation like now, going straightforward is actually better.
It means charging into open space is the most effective play right now.
*Taptaptap—!*
Rodri to the right, Stones to the left.
The fact that both are fearsome opponents rather eases the difficulty of my choice.
Since it's hard no matter who I face, I'll just pick one.
The left.
*Taptaptap—!*
I pass by Stones just like that.
If the score were level, I might have faced fiercer resistance, but perhaps thanks to the comfortable margin, there's little pushback.
Maybe they're thinking they'd rather trust the defense behind than needlessly pick up a yellow card.
While that attitude from the opponent feels obstinate on one hand, I'm in no position to be choosy, so I simply send my thanks.
Thanks to that, without my jersey being grabbed even once, I finally succeed in entering the final third.
"—!"
It's been so long since my breath rose to the tip of my chin that I can't even exhale.
I can feel lactic acid building up in my thighs and calves in real time.
They say the mind rules the body, but in moments like this, I truly realize how absurd that saying is.
When you're working yourself to death, your head goes blank too.
It's like that right now.
I finally came all this way, and I only have one step left.
But my head has already frozen, so I can't form a plan for how to move.
However, this is exactly why we train.
The work of engraving the same movement into your body through thousands of repetitions, so you can move without thinking—training.
Now is the time for my body to move on its own.
*Taptap—!*
With the final defender before me, my left foot brakes sharply while my right foot knocks the ball to the right.
And from there, I cut inside toward the center once more, securing a slightly more open shooting angle.
Then, before the defender on the opposite side closes in… my right foot cocks back with all its might.
And I strike toward the corner.
*Booooom—!*
Have I been sincere in my training all this time?
If so, I will be rewarded with its fruits; if not, I will be punished.
Is it a reward, or is it a punishment?
*Swoooosh—*
…It seems I haven't lived too lazily after all.
*Thwack—!!*
The low, curled shot bends inward, buries itself in the right corner of the goal, and sends the net rippling.
In that instant, the stadium falls as silent as the grave, and the thwack assaults my ears, but without even a moment to feel it, I dash toward the goal.
I pick up the ball rolling inside the net, tuck it under my arm, and turn back toward the halfway line.
And as though I've forgotten every shred of shame, I shout at my teammates.
"I told you we can do it!"
I guess my mind had wandered far away, because it was so hard.
*
["Yes, and so the whistle blows, wrapping up the first leg of the Champions League Round of 16 between Manchester City and Fiorentina!"]
["It was quite an entertaining match to watch. Six goals were scored as well."]
["Yes. 4-2, Manchester City succeeded in scoring many goals and took the first leg victory. Of course, it is quite an overwhelming scoreline, but compared to the flow of the match, it might actually leave some lingering regrets."]
["That makes sense. There were plenty of scenes where they could have scored more. Moreover, the two goals conceded were both absurd ones as well."]
Three whistles announce the end of the match.
Players who poured out everything for ninety minutes crumple onto the pitch, and the managers of both teams exchange handshakes.
Meanwhile, the commentators give their overall assessment of today's match—quite unlike the usual case.
The name of a player from the losing team keeps being called.
["Although the defeat is regrettable, Lee's struggle was quite remarkable."]
["Creating two goals alone against this level of difference in strength is nothing short of tremendous. The first goal was clever, and the second was destructive. As a team, Manchester City took the victory, but if we're talking about who played best, I honestly think I'd raise Lee's hand."]
["Thanks to that, with this scoreline, the second leg might not have been something to look forward to much, but you never know, right? Now Fiorentina welcomes Manchester City to their home. Everything else might be a constant, but the variable called Lee makes predictions impossible."]
["That's right. Manchester City won't be able to let their guard down either. Because of one man."]
The countless cameras at the stadium usually follow the winning team's players, but today they are distributed a bit differently.
Because several cameras have flocked to Lee Ji-an.
Lee Ji-an, who had collapsed onto the pitch the moment the match ended, lay there for quite a while.
Then he was lifted up by the hands of his teammates who gathered around him, and afterwards shook hands with the approaching Manchester City players.
What was impressive, however, was the deep regret visible on his face throughout all of this.
A very, very deep regret.
As if he had truly intended to win this match.
When that frustrated, bitter face was captured on the big screen, the Manchester City fans, despite having secured a comfortable victory, had to feel a strange sensation.
How should I put it—a somewhat eerie feeling.
It was a match where the objective difference in ability was clearly visible.
Yet that appearance of his, regretting it as if he could have won, kept them from setting their minds at ease.
Because somehow, he seemed like he would appear in an even more frightening form in the second leg.
However, regardless, the first leg was Manchester City's victory.
The content of the match was overwhelming, and the score was a large 4-2 difference.
The player ratings for both teams reflected that, with a disparity as well.
Most Fiorentina players received harsh ratings, while the Manchester City players recorded very generous ones.
And accordingly, immediately after all Round of 16 first legs concluded.
Through match ratings and expert analysis, UEFA announced the Team of the Week for the first week of the Round of 16.
The most represented were undoubtedly the Manchester City players, followed by Real Madrid and Bayern Munich, and a few Napoli players.
Among them, occupying the central position in the attacking trio was Lee Ji-an.
Of the eleven named to the Team of the Week, Lee Ji-an was the only one selected from a losing team.
They say you can't hide an awl in a bag.
Lee Ji-an's talent was a brilliance that even the team's defeat could not obscure.