Episode 220: Different Footwork -1
August 7, 2023.
England, London.
Wembley Stadium.
Boasting a total capacity of 90,000, the mecca of English football, Wembley Stadium, is packed with spectators.
It’s Arsenal-!
Ar-se-nal-!
We’re by far the greatest team-!
The world has ever seen-!
From one half of the stands, where red and white mixed, Arsenal’s chants rang out, and from the other half, a sky-blue wave, Manchester City’s chants rang out.
Blue moon-!
You saw me standing alone-!
Without a dream in my heart-!
Without a love of my own-!
Blue moon-!
Arsenal and Manchester City.
With the clash between the two teams that had fought for the league title last season approaching, Wembley’s atmosphere was reaching its peak.
Truthfully, the competition called the Community Shield itself was a tournament difficult to regard as having such high prestige. Partly because it was held before the season opener, but more than anything, because it ended in a single match, there was something ambiguous about even calling it a “tournament.” Therefore, the Community Shield was perceived not so much as a tournament one absolutely had to win, but closer to an exhibition match.
However, today’s stadium atmosphere looked as though it were a Champions League final. The faces of fans shouting chants at the top of their lungs were full of excitement, and as tens of thousands of voices became one, it was enough to ring deafeningly even outside the stadium.
That the fans were so full of anticipation for today’s match was, of course, partly due to their excitement for the new season after the long summer. But the fact that they could finally see the new face they had so eagerly awaited was also a large part of it.
“I didn’t think he’d start right away.”
“Right. He didn’t play in preseason, so I was a bit worried. Guess his condition has improved a lot.”
“I’m dying of anticipation. Are we finally seeing him?”
“I hope he does well.”
On one side of the sky-blue wave.
Several Manchester City fans were talking.
They all had expressions of being glad they had come to London to see today’s match.
Because the starting lineup announced about an hour ago had contained a welcome name.
The 18-year-old boy who had newly joined the team this summer, I Jian.
That name had been firmly planted in the center of the lineup.
“Looks like it’s a 4-2-3-1… For now, it seems he’s playing as an attacking midfielder.”
“Seems like it. Standing behind Haaland.”
The formation listed was 4-2-3-1.
The goalkeeper gloves were worn by the second keeper, Ortega; in the back line were Akanji, Dias, Stones, and Walker. Above them, Kovacic and Rodri formed the pivot; on the left and right of the second line were Grealish and Bernardo Silva; and at the very front was Haaland.
And into the spot corresponding to the center of that second line was where I Jian was placed.
“Guess he must have been good in training. Seeing as they stuck him right into an important position.”
“Right? Seems he’s lived up to expectations, hasn’t he? They put him in De Bruyne’s spot.”
It was a spot that would normally be occupied by Kevin De Bruyne.
Sometimes dropping deep to help the build-up, but in the opponent’s half, a role responsible for both the start and finish of attacking moves. That this position was important was something everyone knew without needing an explanation. It was also why it was mainly taken by De Bruyne, who was called the core of Manchester City. And because it was located at the heart of the attacking line, it was also a position where chemistry with fellow attackers was crucial.
That a newcomer was starting in such a position, and that he was doing so in place of De Bruyne, was in itself something worth looking forward to.
“Well, whether he exceeded expectations or fell short, they had to play him. They brought him in for 150 million euros.”
“That’s why I’m a bit nervous. He needs to do well.”
“He came from Serie A, so he’ll need time to adapt, but with that transfer fee, he really has to do well right away.”
“They brought him in expecting a De Bruyne, not a Grealish. Please.”
However, as great as the anticipation was, a hint of anxiety could also be seen.
Because of the enormous transfer fee, as enormous as the expectations.
Indeed, it was no less than over 200 billion won.
An amount unprecedented even for Manchester City, a club famous for being a rich outfit.
It was a somewhat special case, but theoretically, it was an amount that could buy two Haalands and still have change left over.
Therefore, if he failed, it was naturally a massive failure; even if he performed moderately well, it was a failure.
He needed to put in at least a top-of-the-league level performance just to barely break even.
The fans waiting for the 200-billion-won debut were inevitably excited yet quite anxious.
Moreover, the Premier League was famously a difficult league to adapt to in a short time.
Due to its tempo, fast enough to differentiate itself from other leagues, and its rough atmosphere.
Because of that, there were countless cases where players failed to settle in and returned to their original leagues, or became deadwood.
It was only natural that gazes both expectant and anxious were focused on I Jian, who had shown nothing during preseason and for whom today was his Manchester City debut.
Amidst all that.
“…They’re coming out.”
“Here they come!”
Players began walking out of the tunnel toward the pitch one by one.
*
Suddenly, a memory from that time surfaced.
Two years ago.
It wasn’t summer then, but autumn.
It was the day of my Fiorentina first-team debut.
That day, I had been sitting on the bench when the match started, but my name was called in the second half, and when I came to my senses, I was standing on the touchline.
The feeling right before entering the pitch then—where nothing could be heard and no thoughts came to mind—is still vividly remembered.
A feeling more surreal than a dream.
So engulfed by extreme tension that I couldn’t even feel the sensation of breathing or blinking, one might say.
That feeling was still vivid even now, but I had been so out of it that I couldn’t remember how I had played the match.
Back then.
“….”
And two years had passed.
Two years older than I was then, I was now standing inside the tunnel for another debut.
Did all the unbelievable experiences I had gone through during those two years make me unable to feel tension at this moment? It didn’t seem that way.
I was still trembling now.
So nervous that my breathing grew rough, and my head felt like it was going blank.
Then had the past two years been meaningless?
No, I didn’t think so.
Though my nervous heart was the same, there was definitely something different between then and now.
Back then, the path to the pitch had been frightening.
I hadn’t wanted to go out, but I had to, so it felt like I was being forced out, pushed from behind.
I shouldn’t say this, but it had even felt like I was going to my death.
But now, it wasn’t like that.
Even if I didn’t have to go out, I would want to.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t nervous, nor that I felt no pressure or worry, so what was the reason?
Who knows.
I didn’t really know.
Now didn’t seem like the appropriate time or place to be searching for such reasons.
Now was the time to remind myself how I should play, and the important thing was just that I wanted to get out on the pitch quickly.
Thud.
As the referee took the first step, the players at the front began exiting the tunnel side by side.
The rest followed in line, and I too matched my steps and headed for the ground.
Soon, the bright sunlight dazzled my eyes, and simultaneously, cheers that made my ears go numb began to press down on my body.
Waaaaaaah—!
…Hmm.
Coming out onto the pitch, I felt nervous again—enough to be embarrassed by how I’d tried to act like I was something special back in the tunnel.
But it wasn’t like before.
Clapclapclapclap—
We lined up facing the fans, showed our faces, then passed by the opposing players and shook hands.
Tap-tap!
And after jumping up vigorously to check the spring in both legs, I gathered with the players in the center of our half.
To me, they were all players no different from gods of football, so it felt utterly surreal to be linking arms with them as teammates.
When would I get used to this sky-blue uniform instead of the purple one?
“Okay-!”
“Let’s GO-!”
Everyone let out a shout and scattered to their positions.
My position was the center.
A role hiding behind a sturdy striker, just like when I had first debuted.
Thanks to that, memories of that time sprang forth even more vividly.
Back then, I had played for childish reasons: to avoid disgrace, to look cool in front of someone.
Then what about now?
…Surprisingly, it was the same.
Even now, it was for those reasons.
Don’t be a burden to my teammates.
Just pull my own weight.
Don’t embarrass myself in front of anyone.
Beeeeep—!
With the whistle, the opponent kicked off, and I began sprinting forward in step with the teammates to my left and right.
*
Before the match.
I had heard many things from the manager, the coaches, and my teammates.
About today’s opponent, and about what kind of place the Premier League was.
Among them, what I had heard most was definitely that it was “rough.”
Honestly, I thought Italy was no less rough in that regard. My teammate Kovacic, who had played for Inter, agreed with this.
However, if there was a difference, his opinion was that it lay in the referee’s standard for blowing the whistle.
In other words, while rough play happened just the same, Serie A referees blew for fouls consistently, whereas referees here didn’t blow the whistle unless it was really bad.
Therefore, there would be quite a few unfair situations.
But honestly, just hearing about it hadn’t given me a good grasp.
How rough was “rough”?
How high was a “high” threshold for fouls?
But they say seeing is believing.
Just five minutes after the match started, I learned it through my body.
Thwack-
Bang-!
The moment I lost my balance from a body check coming from the side, the opponent took the ball, but no whistle came.
…No, I fell over.
He hadn’t even touched the ball first with a tackle; he pushed me down and then took the ball.
Yet the referee, looking resolute, paid no attention.
“…”
So this was what it was like.
This was what “rough” meant.
It was a bit absurd, but without even time to feel aggrieved, I sprang up and ran again.
Tap-tap-!
The moment the ball was stolen, my teammates quickly applied pressure as if in a training rondo.
Pressure has to move like a net, so gaps mustn’t form.
I quickly found where I should be and plugged the gap.
Bang-!
Bang-!
But the opponent’s response was also skilled.
Even as they rushed in with loud, rough footsteps, they safely played the ball back with short passes.
For a moment, I was conflicted.
Should I push the line up and approach more?
Or stop here and form a defensive line?
…I wasn’t in a position to make that call anyway, so I had to match my teammates’ movements.
Since my teammates weren’t stopping, I kept pressing higher as well.
Bang-!
Bang-!
Even amid that, the opponent stubbornly stuck to short passes.
By now they should have cleared it long, but they seemed quite confident.
As I had heard, I could feel that the opponent played a similar brand of football to ours.
But if there was a slight difference, it was that our pressure eventually succeeded.
Whoooosh-!
The ball that had been played back to the goalkeeper was launched long to the back.
And that ball struck our defender’s head and dropped to our feet.
When we trained with this exact same situation in practice, no matter how hard we pressed, our teammates would always manage to escape the pressure accurately. I had marveled at that more than once or twice, but it seemed the opponent wasn’t at that level.
Thanks to that, my mind eased slightly, on one hand.
But realizing now was not the time, I quickly moved into space and surveyed my surroundings.
Tap-tap-!
I felt one opponent following from behind.
It was the player who had shoved me and stolen the ball just now.
His name was Thomas Partey, if I recalled.
He wasn’t overwhelmingly bigger than me… but the strength I had felt when our bodies collided was definitely far superior.
With such a player chasing me down like he wanted to kill me, and having just realized I couldn’t expect the referee’s protection, a sudden fear gripped me.
But even so, I had to receive the ball.
If I didn’t receive the ball, there was no reason for me to be on the pitch.
Whether in training or before the match, the manager had given me only one order.
Relay the ball coming from the back to the front, and up front, look to score aggressively by any means necessary.
To fulfill the first task, I had to receive the ball.
But shielding the ball with my body looked difficult.
Then I had no choice but to move one step faster and judge one step ahead.
Tap-tap-!
Reading the flow of the pass circulating in the defensive zone, I dropped below the halfway line.
I approached Rodri and Kovacic, who were positioned above the back line.
Both had a marker attached to them.
Of course, I too was being chased by a marker.
But for us, there was always an obligation to create a numerical advantage of one.
Tap-tap-!
The defenders spread the space wide, and Rodri dropped between them.
Because of that, a vacant space appeared in the center.
Thanks to Rodri dragging his marker down.
Tap-tap-tap-!
I quickly occupied that space.
And I secured my vision of the surroundings in advance.
I was ready to receive the ball.
Bang-!
At the perfect timing, Rodri played the pass.
It was coming to me.
The moment the ball came to me, the sound of footsteps felt from behind quickened.
But this time, since I had already finished judging how to move, there was no need to be scared.
Bang-!
I feinted as if turning to the left, then touched the ball to the right and moved.
In that instant, I could see the surrounding opponents being pulled toward my direction.
Their reactions were a beat late, so they rushed frantically as if without time to look around.
Two in total; one was the marker who had originally been following me.
The other was the marker who had been attached to Kovacic.
If this happened, the one who naturally became free was Kovacic.
Bang-!
Before getting unnecessarily close to the opponent, I quickly switched the pass and sent it to Kovacic.
Tap-tap-tap-!
As the opponent’s gaze turned to that pass, I quickly spun back and advanced one line up.
Now the one who became free was me.
Kovacic too saw me and played the pass back.
Swish-
And without trapping that pass, I immediately sprayed it to the right.
Whoooosh-!
When Rodri had dropped deep earlier, I had checked that a back three was momentarily formed and the right defender, Walker, was pushing high up.
Swishhh-
The pass toward him reached him quite nicely, skimming the grass.
Bang-!
While Walker, having received the ball in the open space, knocked it forward and pushed up, I too ran upward again.
And suddenly, such a thought crossed my mind.
This kind of football… it was fun.
It was a different kind of fun from what it had been at Fiorentina.