Episode 195: Value Judgment -2
Suddenly, I find myself thinking this.
A thought that perhaps “trial” could be another word for “opportunity.”
When I first started studying Italian, I began by rote-memorizing vocabulary.
First, I’d open an Italian dictionary online. If there was a word, I’d memorize it.
Then I’d look up its antonym and memorize that, and then its synonym, and so on.
I still study that way even now, but I don’t recall ever memorizing the word “trial.”
Since what I actually need is conversation with people, there are still many words I don’t know—words not often used in daily life.
Anyway.
If I were to memorize the word “trial” in that manner.
If I were to memorize the word “trial” in that manner… pressing the antonym search would probably yield things like happiness, blessings, joy, and so on.
If I pressed the synonym search, I imagine crisis, misfortune, hardship, and the like would come up.
However.
If there were one hidden word among those synonyms, it might be “opportunity.”
Meeting Inter when the team is in such a difficult situation had felt like a trial.
But on the other hand, looking at the kind of performance we’ve been putting out that doesn’t seem the least bit difficult because of it.
Shwaaa—
Thwack—!
The opponent’s attack down the right is cut off by a defender’s sliding tackle.
The ball caught by the tackle goes out over the touchline, and the player who made the stop springs up and returns to his position.
“Nice tackle!”
“Great!”
“That’s it! Focus! Mark your man!”
Praise pours down on the captain who made the stop, but the captain pays it no mind and prepares for the next play.
He had been like this for several games already, but the captain had clearly been looking significantly off his game.
It was only natural.
He had spent more time in the treatment room than on the training ground.
Today was no different.
In fact, the captain had nearly missed today’s match.
Perhaps because accumulated fatigue and pain had worsened after the last match, the treatment team had said he should rest for at least two games.
I had heard that even the manager had been inclined to listen to the medical team.
Even if two games was too much, he was to rest for at least one. And schedule-wise, that one game was today.
But the opponent was Inter.
Not only was Inter the kind of opponent who absolutely needed their core captain on the pitch, but more than anything,
Inter was a very special opponent for the captain as well.
The captain had a long conversation with the manager and eventually had his name placed on today’s starting list.
Perhaps thanks to that hard-earned appearance.
Now, with nearly thirty minutes gone in the first half, it’s the point where everyone is already feeling their legs grow heavy.
Yet the captain alone was putting in a performance so incredible it was hard to believe he was someone whose very availability had been in doubt.
Thwack—!
The opponent’s right-sided attack resumes with a throw-in.
Inter’s right wingback Dumfries takes the ball and attempts to break through once more.
A tremendously fast player.
Just watching him run, he gave off something of an American football player’s vibe—an athlete whose physical ability was plainly obvious at a glance.
In short, he was the captain’s polar opposite in style.
Tat-tat-tat—!
With astounding focus, the captain tracks Dumfries’s breakthrough.
If you’re a step slower off the mark, you simply start a step earlier.
But that’s easier said than done.
Predicting the attacker’s direction and moving first from a defensive position is no easy task.
Yet he does it.
A scene that makes plain just how intensely the captain is focused.
Thwack—!
Thud, thud.
Dumfries and the captain get tangled up, a fierce scramble breaking out as they vie for the ball.
And in the end, it’s the captain who muscles his opponent aside and emerges with the ball.
Tat-tat-tat—!
I quickly drop down to receive the ball from the captain.
He has his hands full with defending alone; I can’t leave it to him to move the ball forward too.
Thwack—!
The ball comes straight to me.
While the ball is on its way, I check my surroundings, gauge the distance to the defenders, decide that I can trap and turn, and take the ball.
Thwack—!
And I turn.
Immediately, I see Brozović rushing at me.
And not just him—around him, a pack swarms in, eyeing the ball like hyenas.
…A sight that makes my head throb.
Don’t they ever get tired?
If this were a game of tag with people, I could accept it. But trying to play tag with zombies leaves me feeling helpless.
Tap—!
But is there any other way?
The captain is going through all that.
I can’t show that I’m struggling.
Besides, if the opponent catches on, it’ll only be seized upon as a weakness.
Rather than having my teammates become “it,” it’s better if I become “it.”
So I willingly become “it.”
Tat-tat-tat—!
Catch me if you can.
*
Marcelo Brozović, the Croatia international and Inter midfielder, is called a “madman.”
It was because of his work rate.
Normally, when measuring the distance a player covers in a 90-minute match, around 10 km is average.
Over 11 km means he runs a lot; over 12 km, he’s a player whose stamina and work rate are strengths; and over 13 km, he’s called a monster.
But Brozović was a player with a record of running over 14 km.
In 90 minutes, at that.
If you extend that range to include extra time, in the last World Cup match against Brazil, he even had a record of running 15.7 km in 114 minutes.
Stamina that goes beyond amazing to the point of being uncanny.
Even when everyone else is exhausted, Brozović alone traverses the pitch as if the match has just begun.
That was the kind of player Brozović was.
“Hoo… hoo…”
Yet that same Brozović is now hunched over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
He’s catching his breath during a brief stoppage after the ball went out of touch.
Anyone who knew the usual Brozović could tell in an instant—his breathing was unstable.
What was surprising was that only seventy-five minutes had passed.
“Hup, hoo—”
Still, as if nothing had happened, Brozović exhales deeply as play resumes and starts running again.
And when the opponent’s number 10 takes the ball, he rushes forward as if he’s been waiting and stands in his way.
Tatat—!
Of the many roles Brozović had today, his main one was to hound this number 10—the opponent’s ace.
Not just moderately, but relentlessly enough to make the opponent sick of him.
Manager Simone Inzaghi had given exactly that order while preparing for the match.
He told him to follow Lee to the bathroom if he caught the ball.
Truthfully, it could be seen as a somewhat humiliating remark.
As a central midfielder, it was only natural that Brozović would have the role of checking the opponent’s ace who played through the middle.
Brozović wasn’t a player whose strengths were limited to work rate and defensive ability; he was also capable of building up play.
Because ordinarily, rather than focusing solely on defense, he had performed various roles.
Yet now he was being told to mark just one opponent and nothing else.
From a certain perspective, wasn’t this a kind of suicide tactic?
Like grabbing the opponent from behind and jumping into the water together.
But Brozović said not a word in complaint; he was fully prepared to carry out the role.
Because the player he had to jump in with was Lee Jian.
Lee Jian was a player who made up more than half of Fiorentina’s strength.
Therefore, it went without saying that if they could shut him down, the game would become easier.
So he was confident he could hound Lee relentlessly, not looking at anything else.
Tatat—!
Brozović chases after Lee Jian, who has his back turned, glancing over his shoulder as he inches away.
He doesn’t stick tight to be a nuisance; rather, he maintains some distance and pressures him like herding cattle.
Frankly, even doing this felt like half a failure.
Normally, he would have stuck tight, used his hands, and kept sticking a foot in to be irritating.
Maintaining even this slight distance itself gave the opponent some breathing room.
But it couldn’t be helped—there had been several moments earlier when he had pressed like that only to allow a turn.
And one time, that turn had led to a fatal breakthrough and even a goal conceded.
Of course, he could have kept charging in all the same.
Even if he had failed a few times, if he kept hounding him without rest, the opponent would get tired eventually—he was only human.
Then his concentration would fall, and the original objective could be achieved.
Truthfully, he would have kept up that tight pressure normally.
But… the saying that a person is bound to tire applied to Brozović as well.
And that exhaustion referred more to mental fatigue than simple physical stamina.
Continuing to attempt something that doesn’t work tires you out faster than attempting something that seems like it will work.
And that makes you give up faster too.
An extremely obvious thing to say.
That was the feeling.
Stick close, engage physically, commit to tackles even at the risk of fouls.
Still failing to snatch the ball away at all made him sigh.
If the opponent had shown signs of tiring too, Brozović would have kept at it until the end.
But no such signs were visible.
It just felt like he was playing along lightly.
Like right now.
Tatat—!
Lee Jian, who had been glancing back, seems to decide it’s okay, and steps on the ball with his sole before turning back.
Brozović lowers his stance and waits.
Lunging in recklessly might allow a breakthrough with that freakish two-footed dribbling of his, so for now, he waits.
“…”
Then… the opponent waits too.
He simply stands still and rests.
Left with no choice, Brozović runs in to threaten him.
Tatat—!
Only now does Lee Jian turn slightly and slip away.
To the right.
As Brozović closes in, Lee Jian shields the ball with his body and turns left—toward the Fiorentina half.
The speed at which he’s retreating isn’t even that fast.
If Brozović charged at full power, it was a speed he could easily catch.
The problem was not knowing when he might turn back.
If he upped his pace recklessly and allowed a turn, there was no way he could recover in time.
Moreover, Lee Jian was controlling the tempo so that Brozović couldn’t simply charge at full force.
Tatat— tatat—!
He runs a few quick steps away, then slows down as if beckoning him to follow.
Because of that, Brozović’s timing keeps getting thrown off, faltering step by faltering step.
It really felt like his patience was being tested to its limit.
He had been enduring this for seventy-five, no, now eighty minutes.
So it was only natural that even Brozović would weary.
Tat-tat-tat—!
Still, as if his teammates were trying to relieve his burden.
They soon swarm around to restrict the opponent’s options.
If he charged in during this window, he felt like he could steal the ball.
He’d try to charge in…
Thwack—!
…His judgment was a hair too slow.
Sensing the danger, the opponent had already released the ball far behind him.
Really… what quick wits.
Just like a cat.
“Hoo—”
After sending a back pass into open space, Brozović also retreats, following the opponent who leisurely advances back up.
Now, on top of mental fatigue, physical issues were setting in as well.
He had run hundreds of kilometers over a season.
Dozens more in the World Cup.
Not long ago, he had played in the Coppa Italia semifinals, and around the same time, the Champions League semifinals too.
So perhaps it wasn’t all that strange.
That a player from Inter’s bench was walking out, adjusting his kit.
“…”
But Brozović could only sigh when he realized it was Çalhanoğlu, who played in a similar position to his own.
Soon the ball goes out and play stops.
And an Inter substitution is announced as the fourth official raises the board.
Number 20 in, number 77 out.
It was almost the first time that Brozović had broken down and become useless before his opponent had.