Chapter 221: Different Footwork -2
Arsenal is a strong team that wouldn't be strange winning the league title at any time.
To someone whose last Premier League viewing stopped three years ago, this might sound like an absurd joke, but at the very least, those words had become true since the year before last.
After Mikel Arteta—who had been Manchester City's chief assistant coach and could be called Pep Guardiola's disciple—was appointed as Arsenal's manager.
As the future they had prepared, centered around young players, became the present, Arsenal was reborn as one of the teams that played the most refined football in the Premier League.
In fact, Arsenal finished 2nd in the league last season. They held onto first place until April but were overturned at the final stretch, regrettably missing out on the title.
Even after that, they received more praise than criticism, and expectations for the following season, so there was no need for a detailed explanation of how good the performance Arsenal had shown throughout the season had been.
And this summer.
Arsenal succeeded in signing the Premier League's best defensive midfielder, completing the final puzzle for the title—the finishing touch.
It was the man worth 180 billion won, Declan Rice.
Declan Rice, the heart of West Ham and the starting midfielder for the England national team, who had been courted by all the big clubs, chose Arsenal, and expectations for the new season began to pierce the sky.
The dominant assessment was that the time had truly come to win, that the right time had come to drag down Manchester City, that tiresome hegemon, from its throne.
Thanks to that, today's Community Shield held an important meaning for Arsenal fans, not as a light pre-season event but as a kind of send-off ceremony—a preliminary skirmish in the championship race.
What they had been looking forward to was Arteta's reborn complete squad and Declan Rice's one-man show.
But unfortunately, there was a different protagonist.
Thwack-!
Around the time the first half passed the 15-minute mark.
Manchester City circulated the ball in the midfield area.
Tap-tap-tap-!
Arsenal's midfield didn't back down and applied strong pressure.
It was the middle, not the flanks—a zone they absolutely couldn't allow easy entry into.
Circulating the ball inside there was nonsensical.
Yet, the opponent was doing exactly that.
Thwack-!
Thwack-!
The ball circulated near the pressure as if deliberately provoking them.
Rodri was a given, but Kovacic also looked to be in better form than expected, barely making mistakes.
The movements of Stones, who came up fearlessly despite being a center-back, and both full-backs narrowing inside were also endlessly tricky.
But the most infuriating sight among them was that new face standing at the center of every triangle.
Thwack-
Tap-tat-!
The boy who had pushed Declan Rice—who had risen to 2nd place in the Premier League's all-time transfer fees—down to 3rd place in just a few days was stirring up and roaming the midfield.
He looked too young to be playing in the middle of a battlefield, yet when you saw him on the ball, he felt more like a veteran than anyone.
When the boy moved, space opened up, and the ball that passed through the boy's feet was always freed.
It was truly something magical.
"..."
Manager Arteta watched the midfield battle that looked fierce at a glance, keeping his mouth firmly shut.
The players were definitely struggling hard to occupy space.
Yet every time the ball went to the opponent's number 7, and every time it came out, cracks formed.
A hollow laugh escaped him.
Those cracks in space.
Football managers are people who rack their brains 365 days a year to create and block even a 10㎡, no, a 5㎡ crack in space.
All tactics exist for that purpose.
Someone worries fiercely over that.
That young boy creates it with light body movements that look like he's playing, tap, tap.
"..."
Since taking charge of the team, Arteta had always emphasized to the young players.
Football players can be divided into three levels. The first is a player who doesn't know what is happening on the pitch.
The second is a player who knows what is happening.
The third is a player who knows what will happen beforehand.
And he told them that players must always strive to become the third-level player.
He had always emphasized that, and as a result of the players' overflowing talent combined with relentless effort,
Arteta could now proudly say that Arsenal players could read the next play 0.5 to 1 seconds faster than their opponents.
They had finally reached the third level.
But that boy was already playing at a level above that.
He judges and moves 1 second faster than players who move 1 second faster.
As a result, he looked like he was walking in a different time alone.
It wasn't because of his physical abilities.
In terms of pure physical agility, speed, and explosive power, he was merely adequate—barely enough, and nothing more.
But because he moved one step, two steps ahead of others, he merely appeared that much faster.
"..."
He said he was 18.
Arteta had played as a professional for over 18 years.
Only when his career, longer than someone's entire life, was nearing its end could Arteta gain the confidence that he could get ahead of others by 2 seconds.
But by then, he was already past his prime, and just when he felt he was starting to understand, Arteta had to face retirement.
Yet that boy seemed to already know all of that at such a young age.
Envy and jealousy welled up simultaneously, yet there was no way to explain how it was possible.
But the universe has always been that way.
There are more things whose 'why' cannot be explained than one would think.
The world is full of things that are 'just' like that.
That boy was simply born with such talent.
Thwack-!
A pass drawing the side of a triangle entered the boy's feet.
In an instant, the boy's body, which had been looking to the side, opened toward the front, and his gaze went forward.
"...!"
Manager Arteta flinched as if that gaze had stabbed a vital point, and hurriedly reached out his hand.
And the moment he tried to shout something,
Swishhh-
the already fatal pass cut across the formation, heading toward the blonde striker's left foot.
Thanks to that, Arteta couldn't let out the voice he was about to use.
Boooom-!
Swoosh-
Smack-!
The goal net rippled.
It was a pass so sweet that it was barely a bite-sized morsel for the monster striker to devour.
But the important thing was how he and that boy could see that path simultaneously from a third party's perspective.
That was the only thing Manager Arteta couldn't understand.
*
"YEA─!!"
My whole body stiffens in an instant.
Because of the giant of a man pointing his finger at me and running toward me.
...That face, that shouting voice.
That sight is as terrifying as if it would appear in a nightmare.
"Lovely pass!"
Thanks to that, while I was unknowingly stepping back, I realized he wasn't approaching for a bad reason and stopped retreating.
Still, it's just as scary, but...
"Nice!"
"Come on!"
Then I'm surrounded, grabbed by the players.
Thump, thump.
The palms thumping on my head make me dizzy, but on the other hand, those very touches awaken my sense of reality.
The crowd's cheers now finally reach my ears.
Waaaaaaaah─!
The stands are buzzing.
The fact that the color was sky blue and not purple felt awkward for only a moment, before I belatedly realized I was in the middle of my Manchester City debut match.
...I must have been overly focused.
To the point where I briefly forgot what match I was even playing in right now.
Right.
I was facing Arsenal as a member of the team called Manchester City.
I had been so focused on the act of kicking the ball that everything else had disappeared from my head.
That's how much concentration I had poured out.
"Good, good!"
Having come to my senses for a moment, Haaland, with his arm around my shoulder, gives a simple smile and shows a thumbs-up.
I respond with an awkward smile and nod.
Doing this, I feel like a little kid.
"One more! one more!"
"...O-okay."
Still, it's not entirely bad.
Haaland, who had returned to our half together, pats my back and pushes me toward my position, and only then does a sigh of relief burst out.
Not because I escaped from Haaland's embrace... but because I think I managed to do one thing right, fortunately.
"Nice!"
"Keep going!"
Praise pours onto me from those around me, but...
the one who should actually receive the praise isn't me.
I merely passed because I saw him.
Wasn't it Haaland who jammed it in?
Honestly, I didn't know that pass would become an assist.
Because he was standing with his back turned, I passed it and tried to run, but Haaland let the ball roll, turned, and then immediately fired a left-footed cannon.
Perhaps that's why it felt even less real.
I even felt somewhat empty—how could he score so easily?
Of course, there's no such thing as an easy goal.
To put the ball into the opponent's goal, which they're trying to defend with their lives, we too must stake our lives.
But just now, with a swish, swish, the goal went in.
I wondered what all the things I had done until now were even for.
"...Whew."
Anyway, my mind feels a bit lighter.
The level of focus I'd had on the match was the extent of my worry.
I pretended otherwise, but the truth was I had been scared everything would reveal itself to be a bubble.
But if my teammates are at this level, I think failing would actually be the harder thing to do.
I'm saying that in a team like this, not being able to pull your weight seems like it would be harder.
If you just honestly pass, they'll put it away on their own, so.
Beeeeeeep-!
The match resumes with the whistle.
At the same time, I erase the previous events from my head and run again with the thought that the whistle just blown is the first whistle.
My footsteps are much lighter.
It finally feels like my body is loosening up.
The narrowed field of vision on both sides seems to open up clearly too.
Tap-tap-tap-!
Setting up the line with my teammates, becoming one axis of the net, we push the opponent up again.
The opponent seems to dodge this way and that as expected, but at some point, the ball is driven into a dead end.
Whooosh-!
An inaccurate pass heads toward our half.
A pass heading toward our half shouldn't be welcome, but it feels so welcome that I nearly burst into a smile unconsciously.
Because I know that if we win that ball, the fun game will start again from there.
Thwack-!
The defense wins the ball with a header, and after a few connected passes, the ball is safe.
There's no rush, but I drop down.
Tap-tat-!
In a rondo, everyone wants to circulate the ball; nobody wants to be it.
Because being it is no fun, and provoking it is fun.
I guess I'm unknowingly dropping down because I want to do that fun thing again.
Thwack-!
Going down below the halfway line, a pass comes to me.
I quickly turn my head to check front, back, left, and right, receive the ball, and turn right away.
"..."
There's no pressure like before.
Casually, the opponent is merely stepping back.
I can't hide my disappointment at that sight.
It's more fun when the tagger charges in for real.
If the tagger takes a step back, the fun of provoking them diminishes, doesn't it?
Still, it's fine.
Because though they pretend not to care now, it's not difficult to make them reveal their true intentions.
Thwack-!
Passing to the right side, I immediately approach.
Tap-tat-!
Bernardo Silva receives my pass.
It's quite a high position, so the opponent can't just stand and watch.
As expected, signs of pressure slowly begin to show.
Tap-tat-!
I marvel every time I see him, but Silva rarely loses the ball.
It's even more amazing how he makes opponents look like fools with just direction changes, without any big or flashy skills.
But there isn't time to just marvel.
I want to join in and play together too.
Thwack-!
Silva, who was cutting from the right side toward the center, passes to me again.
I was heading from the center to the side, in the opposite direction.
The meeting point was the right half-space, so the opposing defenders immediately rush in.
Thwack-!
I play it simply to the right.
Walker is there.
Walker is more destructive than most wingers, so the opponent can't just leave him like a fullback.
So when a defender immediately sticks to him,
Thwack-!
the ball comes straight back to me.
Since the opponent is starting to stick strongly again, from now on we can't rest our heads or feet either.
Thwack-!
Thwack-!
Thwack-!
The ball moves so fast that even we who are passing are dizzy.
The important thing is that the passing range is narrow.
Without leaving a certain area, it circulates only within it as if a zone had been designated.
If we keep circulating the ball like this, two choices emerge.
One is to quickly switch to the opposite side and use the large space.
The other is to persistently dig deeper into this narrow space.
Of those, the easier method might be the first one.
But sometimes the second choice is also one worth using enough, and that is when...
Thwack-!
...it can be said to be a time like now.
When the defenders' feet momentarily slow down from repeatedly chasing the ball quickly in short bursts.
Tap-tat-!
Before I knew it, I was on the right side, and the ball was at my feet.
And the opposing fullback approaches me, but that approaching speed momentarily looks noticeably slower to my eyes.
So, as I've been doing, I feint sending a pass back, folding my right foot...
Tap-tap-tat-!
Using the outside of my foot, I push the ball forward and burst out.
I feel the opponent disappear from my sight at the sudden breakthrough.
The space on the right side of the box is clearly revealed before my eyes.
Right now... I guess this match is pretty fun.
I felt like I should drive the ball in more boldly toward the inside.