“If I were to say it was a truly wonderful match, would it be rude? But even at the risk of being discourteous, I want to say that it was a wonderful match. It was a match wonderful enough to count on one hand in my entire life.”
“···Thank you.”
I scratch the back of my head and dip my head slightly at the excessive praise from the interviewer holding the microphone. Being praised face-to-face like this is always awkward. Even now, I haven’t found the proper way to react. So all I can do is offer a slight bow.
“I dare say with certainty that the fans must not have been disappointed at all. Rather, I believe your fanbase has grown through this series. It was that kind of wonderful performance, that kind of wonderful mentality. Once again, I express my gratitude for showing us such a match.”
I really don’t know what to do with myself. It’s not a figure of speech. I truly don’t know how to position my body, so I just fidget with my hands.
“···I hope so.”
The thought crosses my mind—was it really to the extent of saying all this?—but that lasts only a moment. The pride asking, ‘But wasn’t it enough to warrant this much?’ breaks through the mask called humility.
We played a wonderful match. We fought until the end and did our best. I have no grievances and no regrets. Perhaps because of that, even my bad habit doesn’t seem to raise its head today. The bad habit of twisting every pleasant word into something else. If it were any other day, I would have been suspicious from the start. But those words that make my body tingle reach my ears exactly as they are. Of course, the fact that I can feel sincerity in the interviewer’s eyes probably plays a part too.
“Manchester City was a strong team. Right?”
Though it ended in a question, I nod at a sentence that isn’t really a question.
“To what extent? When you were standing on the same pitch facing them, the pressure must have been considerable, I imagine?”
The interviewer furrows his brow and asks with a sharp inhale.
To what extent... well. It’s hard to explain in words. I rack my brain over how to express it so that even someone who knows nothing about soccer can instantly relate. The pressure of facing a team like Manchester City...
“···The feeling of having done none of your vacation homework even though school starts tomorrow?”
“···You mean it felt hopeless.”
...Hmm.
Was it a strange analogy?
The interviewer nods while bursting into a snicker. I want to make a plausible analogy too, but I wonder if I haven’t lived in this world long enough to do so. That was the best I could do—other than that, only childish things came to mind, like the feeling of covering yourself head-to-toe with a winter blanket in the middle of summer, or opening your lunchbox and finding no fork.
...I should read more books from now on.
Anyway, now that the second leg is completely over, I honestly and freely spill my impressions from facing Manchester City.
“They were that good of a team. Actually, before the Round of 16, I had gone to watch a Manchester City match.”
“Yes. I know.”
“...You knew?”
“...It was a huge topic, wasn’t it?”
“...Well, anyway. That’s how I felt watching the match then. A sense of ease. Like watching a puzzle where every piece fits perfectly into place. Or like a perfectly drawn circle.”
“May I interpret that as meaning there were absolutely no gaps to be seen?”
This man is sharp.
When I nod to signify agreement, the interviewer makes a proud expression.
“So honestly, it felt hopeless. Could we beat a team like that? What would we have to do to win?”
“I’m sure everyone felt the same.”
“Even when I tried to come up with an answer, I was anxious because I didn’t know if it was the right one or not. They were a team scary enough to feel fear.”
I confess everything as if a weight has been lifted from my chest. Saying I was scared is embarrassing, but for some reason, I don’t feel particularly embarrassed right now. Because, first of all, though I was that scared, I didn’t run away, so I feel proud. And I suddenly remembered what my father said. He said that those who face the best are also the best. So there is no need to spare praise for the opponent.
“I see.”
The interviewer suddenly grins slyly. At that smile, I feel like my sinister inner thoughts have been caught. As expected.
I was caught.
“But you eventually found the answer against a team like that. And five times at that. My goodness. You scored five goals against Manchester City. Manchester City had only conceded two goals in six group stage matches.”
The more you praise your opponent, the more those who faced them are also elevated. Thanks to my father, I realized that, which is why I could be so honest. However, the point the interviewer picked up on deviates slightly from my intention, so I shake my head.
“It wasn’t me who found it. It was our team. To be exact.”
“Well, let’s just say that.”
“...?”
What is with that fishy reaction? When I shrug my shoulders, the interviewer just smiles.
“Anyway, you fought really well in such a hopeless and even frightening situation. Though you lost by just one goal on aggregate, looking only at the match results, you were tied with one win and one loss.”
...Technically, that’s true.
“What mindset did you prepare for this Round of 16 with, and what attitude did you take the pitch with that allowed you to play such a great match? May I hear it?”
This is a question that doesn’t require much thought, so I answer immediately.
“The coach told us to do it with the mindset that as long as we don’t have regrets, nothing else matters. And personally, um... I wanted to become a reliable player.”
“...How much more reliable do you plan to become? You really are greedy. That’s why you improve every single time.”
...Is this praise or an insult?
“Anyway, very good. You need to rest quickly, so I’ll ask just one more question and wrap up. If you have anything you’d like to say in closing, please go ahead.”
Hmm. When asked to say one last thing, I feel like I should say something important. I feel like I’ve already said everything noteworthy, so nothing particularly comes to mind. I’ll just say whatever and go home now.
“I hope Manchester City wins the championship.”
“Why?”
“Then we can just say we were originally runners-up, and we only lost because of bad bracket luck.”
No matter how I look at it, after saying it out loud, it really was just something random.
...
“Hey. Stop growing up now.”
“...?”
“It’s no fun teasing you anymore. You need to cry and fuss a bit for it to be fun to tease from the sidelines. It’s no fun when you act like it’s nothing.”
I come home and shower with cold water. Steam rising from my body, I’m about to sit at the dining table when, the moment I sit, Jiwoo spews more nonsense.
What’s this ‘fun to tease’ supposed to mean?
The best response to nonsense is with nonsense.
“The jam is in the fridge over there.”
At that, Jiwoo furrows his brows and then looks at me with his mouth agape in shock. Pretending not to notice that expression and the frosty air, I take a spoonful of rice.
...No matter what, he doesn’t have to look so contemptuous.
“Even you think it’s absurd, right? Your face turned red.”
“...It’s because I just washed up.”
“How do you wash to make your face that red? You’ve become a human tomato right now.”
“...”
...What is he saying?
Someone says my face is red... but I feel my ears burning hot, so I have nothing to say. So I bury my head and shove rice into my mouth, and a giggling sound is heard.
“This is the taste. This is it. You really are best like this.”
“...Is it fun for you to tease people?”
“No? It’s not fun. But teasing you is fun.”
“Why me, of all people?”
“Well, because you’re just the most satisfying to tease?”
Good grief.
I’m speechless.
“Wow, but thinking about it again, it’s crazy. ‘The jam’s in the fridge over there,’ he says, even though it’s not funny.”
“...Can you stop?”
“Why? Even you think it’s a lame joke, right? Huh?”
“...”
*Hehehe.*
The sight of him covering his mouth with his hand and laughing annoyingly is especially irritating today. I can’t just take this lying down. Unfortunately, I have no room to counterattack. Even I think the fridge jam thing is an absurd joke...
Hmm.
In times like these, it’s better to go on the offensive. Because the best way to stop an opponent’s attack is a counterattack.
“...”
But... there’s nothing to attack him with. Come to think of it, why does this guy have nothing to be teased about? Thinking about it, I think I understand what he means when he says it’s no fun. Think of something. Anything to tease him about.
Think, Lee Jian...!
“What are you worrying so much about? Human tomato.”
...Ah.
Talking about tomatoes gave me an idea.
“...Your face was tomato-colored earlier too.”
I play the card I found with difficulty, and Jiwoo looks at me with an expression asking what I’m talking about.
“When did I?”
“Earlier...”
“So when exactly earlier?”
...Hmm.
But the thing is, even after bringing it up, I can’t answer. I’m not shameless enough to play this kind of prank like Jiwoo is.
“When was my face tomato-colored?”
“Earlier.”
“When is earlier?!”
But under Jiwoo’s continued pressing, along with regret that I shouldn’t have picked a fight and should have stayed quiet as usual... to escape this situation, I resolve to brazen it out.
“...After the match.”
“After the match?”
“When you hugged me, your face turned tomato-colored.”
“...What?”
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The basics of teasing is interpreting the opponent’s actions or state differently from their intention, isn’t it? How do I know? I learned it while being teased by Jiwoo.
“W-what nonsense. Absurd.”
They say the first step is the hardest, and it’s smooth sailing after that. Once I become shameless, courage is born. Jiwoo’s flustered reaction amplifies that courage even more. A counterattack must be finished properly once launched.
“Why did your face turn red?”
“Who? Me?”
“Yeah. What, were you embarrassed?”
“...Hah, good grief. Absurd. Me? My face turned red because I was embarrassed? Why? Why would I?”
...It’s working.
It’s really working.
Just like the opponent’s defensive line breaking and collapsing when a counterattack moves up. Jiwoo is so bewildered that he stammers. At that sight, which is rarely seen, I perfectly understand what Jiwoo said earlier. I’ve never found it fun to tease other people, but somehow, with him, it’s fun.
“Well. I wonder why.”
“No, I’m asking. Why would I be embarrassed? You, don’t tell me you’re misunderstanding something weird on your own?”
He tries to act like it’s not true, but it’s all visible in his eyes. Jiwoo feels threatened by my counterattack. I can see his defensive line retreating. At the same time, he can’t think of attacking, and mistakes are showing. I pierce through the gap he created himself.
“Misunderstanding? What misunderstanding?”
“...Huh?”
“What misunderstanding do you think I’m having?”
“T-that, you know. Why are you asking me?”
“You said it. You asked if I was having a weird misunderstanding. What is this misunderstanding? I don’t know.”
Words flow out smoothly enough to surprise even myself. Offense is more fun than defense, after all.
“No, I don’t know. I have no idea, and first of all, my face was never red to begin with.”
“I clearly saw it.”
“I told you, there’s no reason for it to turn red.”
So absurd, so utterly absurd—Jiwoo looks positively aggrieved, and a laugh is about to burst out. But if I laugh, it might escalate into violence, so I need to hold it in. However, a counterattack shouldn’t be done half-heartedly. If you’re going to do it, you have to do it properly and finish it—that’s a counterattack. I have to finish it.
“Well, I guess you were embarrassed hugging me.”
Could I really be this shameless? It’s such an absurd thing even to me that after spitting it out, I tense my body so that I can dodge even if a spoon flies at me right away. Because it was obvious Jiwoo would get angry asking what kind of nonsense that was. Then I’d duck to the left to avoid it, play a bit of tag, and then tell him to stop teasing people and eat his meal. A perfect plan.
Nodding inwardly to myself, I move only my eyes slightly to gauge Jiwoo’s movements.
But...
“Whoa, did you eat something wrong...?”
Hm.
This is completely different from the plan.
“What are you really saying...?”
Jiwoo just mutters with his face red, without picking up a spoon to throw.