March 9, 2023.
Florence, Italy. Stadio Artemio Franchi.
Today is the day of the second leg of the Champions League Round of 16 between Fiorentina and Manchester City.
The area around the stadium is packed with people in purple uniforms and people in sky-blue uniforms, a veritable sea of humanity.
On top of that, the weather is nice today, so even people with little interest in soccer have come outside for outings, making the atmosphere all the more vibrant.
To be fair, one could usually say spring arrives around March.
The truth is that Florence in March tends to be relatively chilly, with temperatures typically fluctuating between five and fifteen degrees Celsius.
However, it is unusual that this year spring came early compared to previous years.
It definitely felt colder than usual even through February. In March, the rapidly rising temperatures peaked today, soaring well past twenty degrees at midday.
Thanks to that, people were enjoying the sunshine in light clothing, and here and there you could see colorful flowers that had bloomed early.
"Dad, it's hot here, right? I guess it's spring!"
"Sure seems like it."
"Why? Why did spring come to Italy first? It comes late to our house!"
Beneath that warm sunshine.
A young boy who flew in on a plane holding his father's hand, wearing a Manchester City uniform, looks around before asking his father.
Even though his home in Manchester is still cold. The weather here is warm and flowers are blooming everywhere; it's the perfect place to play, and he looks slightly jealous.
"Well. You see."
At that, the father—holding the child's hand with his coat slung over his shoulder—answers.
"It's called global warming. People are destroying the environment, so the Earth is getting hotter and hotter."
"...Huh?"
"It means the Earth is sick. If it's already this warm, we'll be roasted alive in the summer."
"...Huh."
At that nerdy father's answer, the child's mouth falls open slightly.
Visibly quite shocked by the scientific fact he had learned against his will.
Seeing that, the father snickers.
"Oh, James. Look over there."
A father is still a father, after all; he points across from them to the blank-faced child.
A stall selling sweet cookies was set up.
The child's face brightens instantly at the sight.
As if the terrible reality that the early-arriving spring was actually evidence of the Earth falling ill had vanished beyond reach with a single cookie.
The child pulls his father's hand and runs excitedly toward the cookies.
Meanwhile, not far away, another child was asking the same question.
"Wow, Dad! Look over there! The flowers bloomed! They weren't there until last week!"
"Indeed. Spring came early."
"Early? Why? Why did spring come early this time?"
To the child's question—and just by looking at the flower pattern drawn on her clothes, you could tell she loved flowers—
"Well, you see."
The father, wearing a purple Fiorentina jersey with a similarly flower-shaped emblem, smiles brightly and answers.
"I suppose the flowers got a little confused this time."
"Confused? About what?"
"About the time to wake up from sleep. Originally, flowers normally nose
-sleep through the winter like our Monica, and wake up when the alarm rings, you know?"
"Yeah!"
"But one flower woke up early on its own. So the other flowers thought it was time to get up and woke up early too."
"Whoa—"
So that's how it is—
—that look settled in the child's pure eyes.
Then suddenly, a curious light fills those eyes again.
A child's curiosity naturally begets more curiosity.
"Then who is it?"
"Huh?"
"The one who woke up alone! What kind of kid is the flower that bloomed the earliest?"
"Well, that's..."
Having been bombarded with questions the whole way here, the father could have been annoyed by now, but—
Showing no sign of it, he smiles and pats the child's head, then straightens his back; the gentle voice from moments ago is gone without a trace, replaced by a solemn voice as he speaks.
"Of course, it's the one who, at age sixteen, simultaneously captured the league scoring title and assist title, achieving the unprecedented feat of winning Player of the Year in his debut season. The following year, at age seventeen, he played in the Champions League and carried the team to the Round of 16, where he faced Europe's strongest team, Manchester City, and pounded in two goals on his own, the best performance of either team. And today, the flower who is destined to cause the greatest upset in Round of 16 history and write his name into the annals—that flower's name is...!"
Like a believer reciting a litany, the child was already clutching his mother's skirt hem at this ambush worship that had started out of nowhere, while the mother clicked her tongue and looked at her husband.
But the man paid no heed and continued his worship.
"The pride of Fiorentina. The most beautiful lily in Florence. The beautiful flower that bloomed early. The boy who brings spring. No, the boy who is spring itself. That name is Jian... Ri...!"
Before anyone knew it, he even looked sublime, both hands stretched toward the sky as he shouted the name.
But the problem... was that the believers worshipping Ri were not the only ones here.
"Ri! Ri! Ri!"
"Worship him!"
"O Jian!"
As if holding a tube of Churu before a sleeping cat's nose, the surrounding fans who reflexively reacted to the name Ri began raising their hands and shouting.
Soon, the surprise sermon thrown by one man became a group worship.
"He is sixteen years old! His face is still covered in downy hair—!"
"But even thirty-year-old sly old foxes couldn't stop the boy! Why!"
"Because the boy was a genius!"
"The flower that bloomed early! The most beautiful lily!"
"The boy's name is Ri!"
"Ri! Ri! Ri! Ri! Ri!"
The chorus of fanatics shouting I Jian's personal cheer song filled the front of the stadium.
Their fervor was such that even the Man City fans entering from the opposite side burst into snickers.
Among them, a few rowdy fans drew near the police line and threw out taunts.
"Where will the Ri you're all shouting about be next year? I bet he'll be wearing a sky-blue uniform."
The Fiorentina fans were not the type to just listen, of course.
"What? That bastard?"
"We don't solve everything with money like you lot!"
"You rootless wretches!"
The atmosphere overheated in an instant.
Fans from both teams gathered near the police line, turning the air hostile.
Shouting back and forth across the police, the atmosphere teetered on the verge of crossing the line, and the police, as if unable to stand idly by, stepped in with practiced ease.
"Step back, step back! Don't cross over!"
But the undeniable fact is that this is Florence.
Which means the police are all Florentine police.
"You won't step back? Are you hooligans?"
"Why, why are you only pushing us!"
Thanks to the police pushing only the Manchester City fans back, some tried to protest their unfair treatment, but it was no use.
Emboldened by this, the Violas raised their voices even louder.
"We'll make you regret coming here!"
"How did Manchester City become a strong team!"
"If we complete the Treble, I'll confess to her!"
This is why away matches are never easy.
The second leg of the Round of 16 between Fiorentina and Manchester City.
It was the moment with one hour left until kickoff.*
"Tactically, well, we did everything in training, so there's nothing else to say. I just want you all to remember one thing and approach the match with that in mind."
Returning to the locker room after warming up, having changed into the match kits, just before heading back out to the stadium.
Without distinction between starters and substitutes, everyone stands in a circle with arms over each other's shoulders, listening to the coach.
The coach standing at our center looks around at all of us and continues speaking.
"Let's play without regrets. For ninety minutes, and when the whistle blows at the end. I mean do it with the thought that it's fine as long as the first thing you feel isn't regret. If it's joy, nothing could be better; even if it's disappointment, that's not too bad. Just don't let it be regret. Got it?"
The moment those words ended, a thunderous roar rang through the locker room.
"Yes—!!"
Perhaps satisfied with the answer, the coach nods and holds out his hand in front of him.
And hands pile on top of it one by one, rising until they seem to touch the ceiling.
All the gathered hands.
The coach shouts.
"FORZA—!"
We respond in kind.
"VIOLA—!!"
A feeling of victory's wish filling my body, shouting with hands raised high as if to pierce the sky.
Then everyone starts clapping and shouting fighting spirit as they exit the locker room.
*Crack.*
—I, too, cracked my neck side to side and followed behind.
...At times like this, I always feel like a beard is growing.
Maybe it's the male musk wafting from everywhere that makes me feel like I'm becoming a man too.
Well, it's not like I'm usually a woman or anything.
It might be more accurate to say I feel like a warrior heading into battle.
Anyway, feeling that way, I soon come face-to-face with the enemy.
"..."
"..."
If I'm this worked up, the opponents are probably even worse.
A peculiar tension fills the narrow tunnel where players from both teams stand side by side in a single file, as if it might overflow.
At the same time, that tension seeps into my body.
"..."
They're faces I've seen before, so you'd think I'd feel some familiarity... like hell.
Perhaps because of the memory of the first leg, where I needed permission just to touch the ball once, my body stiffens just looking at those faces.
No matter where I turn my gaze, not a single face looks easy.
But it's fine.
Today, the color of the uniforms they're wearing is the Rossoneri, a uniform of mixed red and black.
The uniforms we're wearing are purple.
And once we walk out beyond that tunnel, what awaits us will be a purple wave filling the stands.
The host has no reason to feel intimidated by the guest.
"Hoo—"
Thinking that, I tap my legs to shake off the tension when a sudden thought occurs to me.
The thought of whether the old me could have drawn strength from the fact that this was a home match.
My head shakes.
Far from drawing strength, I would have been terrified.
Caught in all sorts of pressure, I would have been lucky just to stand properly.
But now, seeing that I'm standing here just fine... seeing that I want to get out there quickly and hear the fans' cheers, I realize I've really changed a lot.
That coward who was afraid of everything has now become a brave coward who doesn't close his eyes even when scared.
In that sense, I think once again that being able to wear this team's uniform was a blessing.
Because if I hadn't gotten the opportunity early on, I would still be nothing but a coward.
I didn't know it at the time, but leaving Torino and coming to Florence might have been the second-greatest fortune of my life.
So I just want to repay them.
Because the experiences of fighting in this uniform made me who I am now, I want to make the people who wear the same uniform and fight alongside me happy.
I want to do that.
I want to get out... quickly.
I feel like a puppy trapped in a pen.
"Enter!"
The gate opened.
Impatient, I try not to step on the senior puppies' feet as I walk out.
And the moment we escape the narrow tunnel and finally breathe in fresh air.
Waaaaaaaah—!
A purple wave and cheers surrounding us on all sides greet us, and at the same time, the muscles throughout my body begin to twitch.
Is this what a phone feels like when it's plugged into a charger?
Feeling as if something is filling me up to the brim, I stand side by side with my teammates before the crowd.
Then the Champions League anthem, player introductions, shaking hands with the opposing team.
And after gathering on the pitch once more to shout for victory.
I step alone into the center circle for kickoff.
What suddenly flashes before my eyes at this moment... is white rice and green peas.
Quarterfinals.
Beeeeeeep—!
GO!