Episode 224: His Very Existence Is a Foul -2
Manchester City FC.
A team belonging to the English Premier League, based in Manchester, England.
Compared to other so-called prestigious clubs, their history may be short, but if you look only at recent records, no club is writing a more brilliant history than Manchester City.
Manchester City has won the league six times in the last ten years.
And not some backwater league either—they wrote that record in the Premier League, no less.
Six titles in ten years.
And narrowing the span to the last three seasons, they've even added the achievement of three consecutive titles.
On top of that, last season they lifted the Champions League trophy as well.
It means the club has firmly established itself not just as England's best, but as Europe's.
Now Man City isn't just a strong team—it's become the strongest team.
A strong team and the strongest team.
The meaning of these two could be said to be completely different.
For a strong team to win is a great feat, but for the strongest team to win becomes something natural.
A team for whom winning every week is only natural.
Not a team challenging for the title, but a team that must naturally win it.
A team judged a failure if it doesn't lift the trophy.
That is the fate the strongest team must bear.
And I've joined that team.
And now, we are about to take the first step of a season where we naturally must win.
"Last season must have been quite a satisfying year. I'm curious about your new goals after such a successful season. Is there any concern about your motivation dropping?"
The afternoon, one day before the season opener.
Questions from reporters fly toward the manager and me, sitting at the Pre-Match Press Conference—that is, the pre-match interview.
The manager answers with a shrug.
"We always hunger. For victory and trophies. Lifting as many trophies as possible is our goal every season. This season is no different. Just because we won last season doesn't justify not doing so this year. There is no satisfaction. What we want is many victories, and even more victories."
Was it a few days ago?
In the middle of training as usual, the manager had exploded, his rage seeming to reach the very tips of his hair.
Even I, watching from the side, couldn't breathe in the terrifying atmosphere, but what surprised me more was that it hadn't seemed like a situation worth getting that angry over.
Someone had simply made a back pass.
That was really all.
During training, someone played one back pass, and at that moment all training stopped, and that player had to face the exploding manager one-on-one.
The reason was that there had been a situation to play a forward pass, but he hadn't.
He lectured for nearly five minutes about why on earth he wasn't concentrating, saying that if he did that in a match, the team could concede a goal because of that one thing.
After that incident, as I was going to the locker room, someone said this to me:
"Our manager is a man obsessed with winning."
They said they'd never seen anyone as addicted to winning as him, and that I'd have to adapt to this atmosphere too.
So the manager's answer just now, saying he wants more victories even after winning like that, is clearly not a formal answer.
Those words are sincere.
...I swallow dryly for no reason.
"I'd like to ask Ri as well."
Amidst this, the reporters' gazes now pour down on me.
Feigning composure, I adjust the microphone angle and bring it to my mouth.
"Last season with Fiorentina ended without a trophy. Do you think this season can be a successful one?"
...Hm.
It's not what you say, but how you say it.
If you phrase it that way, it sounds like last season was a failure.
A sudden curiosity about how I would have answered in the past crosses my mind, before I answer calmly.
"If this season becomes successful, it's probably thanks to last season. Not being able to lift the trophy with my precious teammates was a regret I can't forget. I'll work hard to resolve that regret."
I just hope my former teammates don't resent me.
Why win right after moving teams when you could have done it earlier?
Of course that's a joke, and I know they're not the type to do that.
My seniors were the ones who told me to go do well and win, saying that would save Fiorentina's face.
For Fiorentina's sake too, I must do well.
"Then I'm curious if your goals have changed as well. This season, your personal goals, shall we say. Things like the league scoring title, or the assist title, for instance."
"Hm..."
Personal goals.
Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think anything has changed.
Whether it was the year before last, last year, or this year.
The goal is the same.
"Winning every match is my goal. I don't think about anything else."
It might be more accurate to say I don't have the luxury to think about other things, but it's better to make interviews sound as cool as possible, if you're going to do them anyway.
After answering, I hear laughter from the manager sitting beside me, but I can't tell what that laughter means.
"Pep, now we'll ask about the season opener. Burnley last season..."
Anyway, questions about tomorrow's match then pour down on the manager.
Talk about the squad, tactics, what scoreline he's targeting, and so on.
While I was spacing out for a moment as the various questions continued in succession.
My ears perk up at the sound of my name.
"I've heard that you actively recommended Ri's signing. Is that true?"
"Mm... I suppose every manager in the world begged their club. I was just one of them."
"Then congratulations. In the end, Man City succeeded in signing him by paying a transfer fee exceeding 150 million euros. That must be an enormous investment even from Man City's perspective. What level of performance are you expecting? Are you expecting him to rise to the same level as De Bruyne?"
...I steal a glance sideways.
But the manager only looks forward as he answers.
"The transfer fee is only a matter between clubs, not something a player or manager should worry about. Whether a player earns little or much, a manager must treat them the same. I have to help them realize their abilities to the fullest. If you're asking what I expect from Ri..."
The manager continues with a shrug.
"I suppose it'd be nice if he won the youngest-ever Ballon d'Or. Wouldn't next year be about right?"
...What d'Or?
So flustered, I look at the manager, but there isn't a hint of jest on his face.
...He certainly has a unique sense of humor.
"Then we'll ask Ri."
Before my confusion can even fade, a question flies at me.
"There must be pressure. You joined a team that completed the Treble, and with a huge transfer fee at that. Many are expecting a performance worthy of that. There must be a burden that you absolutely must do well. I'm curious about your mindset regarding this, how you're coping, things like that."
Mindset regarding pressure.
I nod briefly and organize my thoughts.
It's true that it's quite burdensome.
Being surrounded by two or three people is burdensome enough; it's like being surrounded by tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands—millions—of people feeling the pressure.
But thanks to that pressure, I was able to escape from being a loner.
And I walked here on my own two feet.
Looking at that, maybe I'm a pervert who enjoys it.
"Since it's a situation where I must do well, I only think about doing well. If it's a situation where I must do well, there's no way but to do well."
In the end, it's a matter of living up to expectations.
"To do that, I'm training with all my might and learning a lot from the manager, the coaches, and my teammates. I believe I can overcome it then."
Outwardly it looks like I'm answering the reporter who asked, but perhaps I'm actually speaking to myself.
If the problem is that I came to a team where winning is natural, with a transfer fee where doing well is expected.
Then I just have to win as if it's natural, and do well as if it's natural.
It's an easier problem than you'd think.
Of course, the real problem is that it's only easy in words.
...
August 11, 2023.
Somewhere in a small countryside city located northwest of Manchester... though it'd be rude to call it that.
We've come to Turf Moor stadium in a place called Burnley.
This is where our journey begins, but, hm.
Actually, it already began a while ago.
Swishhh-!
Dirt scatters in all directions with the sound of grass being torn.
Where the opponent's rough sliding tackle passed, marks remain like those on a racetrack, and those marks are everywhere.
"Hey-!"
Thwack-!
The pass comes to me.
After quickly looking around, I immediately play a return pass.
Because an opponent nearby is rushing at me as if to collide.
Thwack-!
But just because I passed the ball doesn't mean I can relax—I'm likely to get hurt badly.
Thud-!
Even though the ball is no longer with me, perhaps regretting having rushed all the way here, the opponent bumps my shoulder and returns to his position.
His strength is such that my shoulder aches from just a slight collision, but of course the referee doesn't pay even a gram of attention.
About 20 minutes since the opener began.
My first impression in this unfamiliar new city and new stadium was that things weren't easy.
We were dominating the match itself.
The ball was continuously with us, and the match was being played only in the opponent's half, to the point that one might think our team's goalkeeper Ederson could take a quick nap without issue.
But the problem was that the opponent was packed in their defensive area to an excessive degree.
Burnley were focusing only on defense to a bewildering degree.
And I wasn't wrong... two, four, six, eight, ten.
Even now, ten players surround the box area and glare at us.
Not ten including the goalkeeper, but ten excluding the goalkeeper.
Meaning all their players were defending.
Honestly, I was bewildered.
Because this... wasn't the football I knew.
Obviously, I'd never experienced such a situation at Fiorentina.
Because I'd never met a team that defended like this against us, a team that showed no attacking will whatsoever.
On the contrary, if we had done that, now that would be something.
Thanks to that, I still had no data on what to do in this situation.
For now, I had to somehow create space.
With all 11 players packed into an area not even half the size of the pitch, I felt helpless, wondering if creating space was even possible.
And if I tried to force my way through, the opponents were rough.
The shoulder clash I just suffered was nothing.
If I crossed the line even a little, two or three would rush at me like they were going to devour me, and breaking through that wasn't easy.
Thanks to that, even though only 20 minutes had passed, my uniform was soiled with dirt marks.
But the funny thing was that even my dirty uniform was like brand-new clothes compared to De Bruyne's.
Smack-!
De Bruyne, who had started in midfield alongside me, receives the ball and turns, dirt flying roughly in all directions.
Because the defense sticking to him was tenaciously dragging and hanging on him.
At that level it's strange that the whistle isn't blown, but the referee is in spectator mode.
He'd been like that since the start.
Whenever the ball went to De Bruyne, two or three would rush at him and make his life hell.
Pushing, pulling, knocking down.
I could feel the opponent's will to not let him have the ball, no matter what.
Actually, I understand.
Because De Bruyne is someone who can put the opponent in danger no matter where on the pitch he receives the ball.
I'd felt it when I met him last season, but the more I watched him during training together, the more De Bruyne was a player who drew admiration.
Well, you know how there are cheat codes in games—it's like that.
A feeling that his very existence is a foul.
He continuously does absurd things, so I couldn't help but feel that way.
A pass like that from here? He sees that angle from there? What's with the trajectory of that cross?
It was always like that.
He seemed to live in a different world than others, and he was an extraordinary player even among those amazing Man City players.
So, that's why I understand the opponents making his life hell, but...
Still, isn't it a bit too much?
His uniform is already in tatters.
It can't go on like this.
To disperse the concentrated checks on him, I have to move more actively.
Then De Bruyne can play comfortably too.
Thwack-!
The ball, having passed through several players' feet, comes to me again.
Thinking to drive in with the ball, I turn, when a piercing voice is heard from the side.
"Hey-!"
It's De Bruyne.
De Bruyne, who had slipped to the left side at some point, is demanding the pass.
For a moment, I'm torn.
If I pass it to him, those savage swarms will rush at him again.
I want to cover myself in honey to draw them to me instead, but he's demanding the ball too fiercely for that.
The moment I think it might be okay to give it to him, at the same time, I think, who am I to worry about him?
Thwack-!
I stab the pass to the left.
As if they'd been waiting, the opposing defense heads that way.
To help against the converging defense, I move that way as well.
But, at that very moment.
Something enormous launches from De Bruyne's left foot.
Whoooosh-!
...That's it.
A foul.
Swoooooosh-
That trajectory, that quality—a cross that was a foul in and of itself.
Thwack-!
Soon, Haaland's forehead bursts into flame as he leaps up inside the box.
And, to the extent that all my worries until just now felt futile.
Thwack-!
The net sways easily.
Waaaaaaah-!
With that, the stadium falls quiet, and thanks to that, the cheers of the few away fans are clearly audible.
"..."
Forgetting to run to my teammates, I stood briefly in place.
I said I'd learn a lot... but the pace is too fast.