It's been a while.
I can barely remember the last time I felt like this.
What I mean is, today of all days, I find myself not wanting to play.
When was the last time?
Was it when I was at Torino?
"...."
The locker room is buzzing with match preparations.
Everyone is busy getting ready, but I'm the only one lost in strange sentiments.
Just a short while ago, I couldn't have imagined I'd be here.
In the away team's locker room, of all places.
This is the Artemio Franchi.
It's a strange feeling, being in the away locker room instead of the home team's.
Of course, I had been adapting well.
To England, and to Manchester City, my new nest.
I had gotten used to it faster than I'd worried, and I was managing to keep up with the team and my teammates' level somehow.
There were times when I suddenly missed Florence, but I had never regretted leaving or wanted to go back.
But yesterday, when I got off the plane, I felt strange.
The air itself felt familiar, like something was gently poking at a memory.
You know how it is, right?
When you hear a song you used to listen to as a child, you feel like you've gone back to that time; when you eat food you used to eat often, you remember those days.
It was exactly that kind of feeling.
Familiar scenery, familiar weather, familiar people.
Florence, which I had returned to, hadn't changed at all.
That made me feel strange.
I think that's why I didn't want to play.
Florence is truly a good place to me, a place filled with only good memories.
Because I wasn't confident that I could concentrate on the match in this place that had been no different from my own home.
Could I really give it one hundred percent?
What if my resolve weakened?
I had told myself that I shouldn't, that giving my all was actually the greatest respect I could show my former team, and I had come with that resolve, but now that I'd arrived and felt like I'd come home, those thoughts were creeping up again.
And those thoughts are growing stronger now, as I sit here in the away team's locker room at the Artemio Franchi.
I even feel sad about why I have to be here.
Honestly, I'm also afraid.
Facing my seniors—that is, my former teammates—and the fans.
What if they pour boos down on me?
Of course, it's natural to boo the away team, and from the fans' perspective, it's what they should do.
My head can understand, but can my heart?
I think it would hurt quite a lot.
If I see the fans who loved me more than anyone getting angry because of me...
"Okay, everyone focus."
Just before my emotions sank even deeper.
At the sound of the manager's voice, I raise my lowered head.
Standing in front of the tactics board, the manager commands everyone's attention.
"Good. It's the Champions League. As we discussed......"
The manager continues his briefing.
As always, he explains what today's match means, what our goal is, and in what direction we'll lead the game.
And then follows a detailed explanation of the opponent's weaknesses and how we'll attack them.
Normally, that briefing alone would make me feel like we'd already won just by listening to it, filling me with confidence, but today, for some reason, it starts to hurt a little to hear it.
"Left back, Biraghi. He's slow. Target the space behind him whenever you get the chance. He's not a difficult opponent."
"Bonaventura. Play rough against him. He'll be huffing and puffing soon enough."
The flaws of the seniors who were once like the sky to me are being laid bare, and listening to it cannot help but be torturous.
And to make it worse, he's even telling me to relentlessly exploit those flaws.
"Milenkovic. He prefers to step out and intercept first. Jian."
"...Yes."
"You know him well. If he tries to step out and close you down, destroy him."
"...Understood."
To ask me to choke the life out of Fiorentina with my own bare hands.
Nothing could be more cruel.
But it has to be done.
I had hoped against hope, but my name is on the starting lineup today.
Today, I have to sink Fiorentina and make the Viola cry.
"Good. Let's go."
"Let's go, let's go!"
The briefing, which feels unusually short today, ends and everyone claps and rises from their seats.
I too pull my socks up to my knees and stand up.
And,
"Hoo!"
I let out a deep breath and steel my mind.
No more whining like a child.
From the moment I step out that door, I'll think of nothing but victory.
Our team wins.
There's nothing else.
And remember.
"Let's go, let's go!"
"Go! go! go! go!"
Our team is not Fiorentina, but Manchester City.
*
I walk down the corridor in the white kit.
This corridor from the locker room to the ground, which I've walked dozens of times, feels awkward today.
So this is what the path from the away locker room looks like. I had no idea.
I'd never walked it, and never thought the day would come when I'd find out.
The emotions are new.
Anyway, despite having steeled myself quite a bit.
As the opposing players start to come into view, my heart begins to pound.
How should I face them?
Should I greet them warmly?
But they're the enemy now.
Would they even accept a greeting from me?
My heart is conflicted.
But even in the midst of that, the corridor soon shows its end, and finally we reach the tunnel.
Perhaps because we arrived first, I still don't see any purple kits.
I stand in the tunnel and look toward its end.
If we walk out there, a wave of purple will greet us.
But that purple wave won't be on my side.
Even if I score, they won't cheer for me.
Of course, I probably won't be able to celebrate either.
I knew the professional world was cruel.
But facing it up close like this, it feels unimaginably cruel.
I take a deep breath and steel myself.
For a moment.
From the other end of the corridor, shouts of fighting spirit and the sound of studs clashing against the floor begin to be heard.
And soon, players in purple kits walk in beside us and begin to fill the tunnel.
"..."
Feeling somehow unable to turn my head, I just look forward.
My heart pounds as if the match had already begun.
What should I do?
Should I greet them first?
Or should I just naturally accept it if they greet me?
Would my teammates think badly of me right now?
All sorts of thoughts run through my mind.
But soon, all those worries become pointless.
Because not a single person greeted me.
"Andiamo, andiamo!"
"Facciamolo!"
They just shout encouragement among themselves and line up.
As if they can't see me, no one pays me any mind.
Strangely, I feel rather relieved by that.
Like I can focus only on the game, you could say.
A match is just a match.
There's nothing else to it.
"Let's go!"
The player entrance begins.
They start exiting the tunnel from the front, and I follow behind.
Soon the surrounding darkness disappears and the view opens up.
Exiting the tunnel and heading onto the pitch, cheers come from all directions.
I nod to myself and head to the opposite side from the Fiorentina players.
*
Beep—!
With the whistle, the match begins with the opponent's kickoff.
Starting the match opposite familiar faces feels strange, but telling myself to focus as much as possible, I begin scanning the entire pitch.
We've come out in a 4-1-4-1 formation, and I'm taking on the role of second-line attacking midfielder.
Meanwhile, the opponent seems to have prepared for the match in a 4-5-1 formation.
Only one striker moves near the halfway line, and the rest look like they've dropped back to defend.
If so, it's a structure I've grown used to by now.
Tap-tap-tap—!
From the start, our high press comes in strong.
Then the ball retreats at a frightening speed, and soon—
Thwack—!
The sound of the ball being booted long from deep in the opponent's territory rings out.
Thump—!
There are no opposing players in our half.
Thanks to that, the ball naturally becomes ours.
After just a few passes.
The high press succeeded immediately, but the opponent doesn't seem too attached and begins setting their defensive formation right away.
As if they knew this would happen anyway.
Both the opponent and us naturally transition between attack and defense.
Tap-tap—!
I slowly drop near the halfway line.
Thump—!
Then the ball comes to me.
I slowly turn around.
There's plenty of space.
I don't know how far they intend to drop back, but they seem willing to easily let me receive the ball near the halfway line.
Tap, tap.
Slowly dribbling forward, I look at the entire front.
I can see all eleven of them.
Tight and compact.
At a glance, it looks like a well-organized defensive formation.
In fact, the lines are well aligned.
But I already know.
Where and what the opponent's weakness is.
There's probably no one on our team who knows it better than me.
That's probably why the manager entrusted me with starting the attacks.
He gave me the role of dropping deep to receive the ball and feeding it forward.
Right now, I can see the path forward all too clearly.
I shouldn't let my resolve weaken, but I can see it so clearly that I can't ignore it.
Thump—!
First I send the ball to the left and head forward.
Moving up through the left half-space, I observe the opponent's defensive line movement.
The horizontal spacing between the defenders is quite narrow.
It seems they intend to concede the side spaces if they must, but never the central area.
But we've decided to attack the center.
The manager's calculation was that we could break through it anyway, and as he said many times, I'm the one who has to start that work.
Thump—!
When the opponent, who had been sitting deep, is now right in front of us.
The ball on the left heads back toward me.
Then, unlike before, nearby opposing players rush in quickly.
As if to say they won't let me receive the ball easily from here on.
But I don't intend to let them take it easily either.
Since they're rushing from the front, I touch it back first, stepping back to shield it.
Then I turn back around...
Wham—!
"...!"
Suddenly the turf rushes up to meet my face.
From the strong impact felt from behind, the world begins to tilt.
Soon my body is slammed into the ground.
Thud—!
It hurts.
Did I get pushed over?
The pain in my back doesn't feel like I was just lightly shoved and fell.
"..."
I plant my hand on the ground, flip my fallen body over and raise my head, and see a familiar face.
It's Bonaventura, my senior.
I stare blankly at his face.
But my senior isn't looking at me; he's looking to the side.
Beep—!
The referee was approaching, blowing his whistle, and Bonaventura protested as if wronged.
Soon he shakes his head and begins returning to his position.
There was no apology, no hand to help me up.
"..."
I dust off my knees and stand up.
It hurt for a moment, but the pain fades quickly, so it's nothing serious.
I'm so used to having suffered countless fouls like this that it doesn't faze me.
However, my heart feels strange because of the face I just saw.
As if telling me not to expect any past affection.
An attitude that he was now thoroughly an enemy, nothing more and nothing less.
If you asked if I was hurt by that attitude, well.
I think maybe I was, deep down.
But more than that, I feel grateful instead.
Strange.
I truly feel grateful first, and more intensely.
Honestly, until just now, no matter how much I steeled myself, I couldn't be certain.
Whether I could focus perfectly on this match, whether I could torment the opponent persistently.
But that one moment just now gave me certainty.
I have to torment the opponent, trample them, and break them with everything I've got.
That is the greatest respect I can show Fiorentina.
Beep—!
The whistle blows, and the match resumes with a short pass.
Thump—!
The ball returns to me immediately.
Receiving the ball, I stand still for a moment and look forward.
Tap-tap-tap—!
I burst forward as if launching, beginning to pick up speed.
I intended to slam this ball into Fiorentina's goal.