Pitter-patter.
The rain had become a downpour, showing no signs of letting up.
Splorch!
For a stadium in the league with the most money in Europe, the grass was incredibly crude, and puddles were on the verge of forming.
Beep—!
"Ptoo!"
Pushed over by an opponent's foul, I push my heavy body up and spit out the rainwater that had seeped into my mouth.
...Phew.
I look like a mess.
Just standing still was enough to soak my whole body; after rolling around on the grass a few times, I'd become a complete wreck.
Anyone who saw me would probably think I'd pissed myself, but it's dirt. Seriously.
Thud!
In any case, around the time the clock on the scoreboard was passing the 40th minute of the first half.
Unfortunately, the score was still stuck at 0-0.
Our tempo simply couldn't come alive.
Was it because the rain was beating down on our bodies like blows, weighing us down? Or because the pooled water was grabbing at our ankles?
It was the feeling of nothing going your way, of being damply weighed down.
Of course, we had held the initiative throughout the match.
The opponent merely crouched and held their ground, waiting only for a counter-attacking chance to appear, showing no will to overturn the tide.
Because of that, there was also a sense that things were flowing even more slowly.
That didn't mean we had let our guard down.
I'm saying we weren't passing time leisurely, thinking that a goal would go in eventually even if we took it slow.
I'd heard the story of Liverpool, who had visited this place before us.
The fact that they had drawn 0-0 here and returned with only one point.
If even that Liverpool couldn't secure a win, letting our guard down was out of the question.
Of course, I had pride that we were the stronger team, but I knew very well what kind of team Liverpool was, having faced them once.
A team of that caliber couldn't beat Luton Town, and thinking of an away match against that same Luton Town as easy was absurd.
Complacency was absolutely not the problem.
Then what was the problem?
I had to find the cause as soon as possible, but in truth, it wasn't that difficult.
It was raining too heavily.
If that were all, it would be one thing, but the problem was that water had pooled on the grass enough to affect play.
Running was hard, ground passes weren't easy, and especially, difficulty in dribbling was the biggest headache.
Of course, it was nothing more than an excuse.
Because it wasn't just us; it was the same for the opponent.
But if I were to make an excuse, we were a team that played far more passes than others.
Meaning, a style of playing out matches with short passes.
The opponent, on the other hand, was different.
They preferred long passes sent forward at once rather than short passes, playing a typical counter-attacking style of football.
Therefore, it was inevitable that we were more affected by the conditions of the ground.
Moreover, the difficulty in dribbling was quite fatal.
There was nothing as effective as a dribble breakthrough to pierce a defensive block created by eleven players packed together, but that wasn't easy.
Even a player with fundamentals as excellent as Phil Foden was making frequent mistakes, so that said it all.
And above all, if there was one big excuse, it was the difference in familiarity that couldn't be overlooked.
When I was in the Fiorentina U17 team, Coach Luca had once said something like that to us.
He said the biggest difference between pros and amateurs wasn't talent, but the ability to handle situations.
People can deal with familiar situations easily and quickly, but in unfamiliar situations, they get flustered and can't help but react slowly.
You train to make every situation a familiar one, and the difference in that amount of training is what creates the gap between pros and amateurs.
So if you think about it another way, in unfamiliar situations, even pros make mistakes and can show unprofessional sides.
No matter how much it rains in England, we don't often get the experience of playing a match in this much rain on a ruined pitch.
But the opponent likely had more experience than us.
Because this was their home, and they played here more than half the year.
Meaning, even this weather and pitch condition was a familiar situation for them.
Thanks to that, more mistakes were coming from our side.
Our team was full of perfectionists starting with the manager, so even though he always told us to reduce mistakes.
In the face of unexpected situations, they too were proving they were human, not machines.
"Ptoo."
Of course, as I said, it was all just excuses.
But I think excuses aren't bad as long as they don't end as mere excuses.
You just have to fix them.
Then they become not excuses, but causes.
Swoosh!
In the area just past the halfway line, a pass came toward me, spraying water in all directions.
Thud—
I trap it and turn toward the opponent's goal.
And I bring the ball up, dragging it along.
The first half was nearing 45 minutes.
Which meant it was time for us to adapt to this environment too.
Now there were no excuses left.
Thud—!
I lift the ball slightly and pass it to Foden, who was cutting inside from the right.
Splash-splash-splash—!
I burst into a run to the right, kicking up spray.
I figured the simpler, the better at times like this.
Thud—!
I drove fairly deep down the right side, and Rodri sent me the ball that Foden had laid back.
The opponent was so packed inside the box that even in a situation like this, there wasn't much pressure.
I moderately trapped the slowly rolling ball and quickly swung in a cross.
Wham—!
In truth, this was a pattern we had tried several times.
We weren't fools, after all.
We had switched to a strategy of quickly giving up on what wasn't working and simply targeting the goal.
Swoosh—
For this to work, Haaland had to finish it in the end.
Like us, Haaland wasn't familiar with this situation either.
He had failed to convert several chances earlier.
But by now he should be used to it too.
Part of why we kept sending in crosses was to create those situations for him, like training.
The powerfully struck cross pierced through the downpour toward the goalmouth.
Thud—!
But it wasn't Haaland who met the ball with his head.
Haaland couldn't jump, and instead, it was an opposing defender who dealt with the ball.
Thud—!
But that clearance wasn't perfect.
No, it was closer to a perfect mistake.
The ball, glancing off his head, dropped ambiguously and rolled in front of Haaland.
"——!"
"——!"
I heard voices shouting at Haaland with one heart and one mind.
Shoot.
Shoot!
"..."
But the vigorous sound that would ring out constantly at the training ground didn't echo.
In a situation where all he had to do was shoot... Haaland took a touch instead.
Probably because the angle was for a right-footed shot, he seemed to have cushioned it onto his favored left foot...
Thud—!
The timing was late.
In that time, defenders who had already rushed in to cover locked down the area around him like an iron fortress, and Haaland lost the ball without getting a shot off.
"..."
At that sight, I forgot for a moment that I had to get back on defense and stared at Haaland.
Why hadn't he shot and taken a touch instead?
No matter how much his left foot was his dominant foot, it wasn't like he couldn't use his right foot at all.
Did he want to create a more perfect situation?
But it was already a perfect situation.
I couldn't believe that Haaland in the box lacked the judgment for that.
"..."
It was a truly strange thing to say, but in the sight of him hanging his head and clutching his head, I saw myself.
It was absurd, but that's how my eyes saw it.
He looked afraid of something.
*
Drip, drop.
With every step the players took down the corridor after finishing the first half, water dripped from them.
They all looked wretched.
They looked like elephants that had played in muddy water, far worse than drenched rats.
They looked extremely uncomfortable because of it.
Among them, the one with the most uncomfortable expression was Manchester City's striker, Erling Haaland.
"..."
Normally, Haaland would have arrived at the locker room first with his characteristic long, brisk strides.
But today his gait looked unusually timid, and ill-fittingly, he was walking at the very back.
It was because the first half hadn't gone as he wished.
There had been many moments where he missed chances.
Even half-chances numbered two or three.
There had even been one chance he absolutely had to score.
Yet the score between both teams returning after the first half was 0-0.
He had missed all of those chances himself.
In fact, this situation had been continuing for several matches, not just today's first half.
Missing particularly easy chances.
At first he hadn't thought much of it, but as it kept happening, his head was growing more complicated.
This was the first time.
The experience of having more and more thoughts on the pitch, that is.
"Sit, and relax!"
The moment they entered the locker room, Manager Guardiola's sharp command rang out.
Haaland entered with his head down, quietly sat in his spot, rested his elbows on his knees, caught his breath, and fell into thought.
"——!"
The manager began to passionately say something about the first half situation, but nothing entered Haaland's ears.
In his head, only the situations he had missed in the first half replayed on repeat.
"..."
The more he replayed them, the more bewildered he became.
Why had he missed them?
He had never been like this since starting his playing career.
His physical condition was completely normal, so much so that there couldn't be a problem with it.
It was the first time he was experiencing this, so he didn't know what the problem was.
Thanks to that, his confusion and worries only deepened.
"Okay, relax!"
After the manager's fiery feedback ended.
The locker room fell into silence.
Then.
Haaland raised his head and looked around the locker room.
And he searched with his eyes for the smartest person among them.
He needed someone who could throw him a clue to the answer.
But De Bruyne wasn't here.
Haaland's eyes wandered as if having lost their way, then stopped at one spot.
"...!"
And their eyes met.
Haaland flinched.
For some reason, he saw eyes that looked like they knew the answer.
He got up from his seat, picked up a water bottle, and approached Haaland.
"Want a drink?"
"...Yeah. Thanks."
Haaland took the water bottle I Jian held out.
And took a cool gulp.
Since he was already soaking wet anyway, he didn't even care about the water running down around his mouth.
After quenching his thirst like that, I Jian spoke in a low voice.
"Uh, being scared doesn't really seem to suit you."
At those words, Haaland looked at I Jian.
I Jian continued.
"How about just taking a shot? Without overthinking it..."
I Jian trailed off like that and tried to return to his seat.
But Haaland called I Jian back.
And asked.
"You've never had this happen, right?"
"...This happen?"
"I'm talking about when you feel scared of something."
It should be an obvious thing.
At 18, a starter for a Treble-winning team.
His football life must have been a continuous streak of high-flying success.
There was no way he had anything to fear.
But I Jian's answer deviated from Haaland's expectations.
"Not at all... I'm always like that."
"...Always?"
"Yeah."
"How did you overcome it?"
At Haaland's question, I Jian shrugged his shoulders.
"I didn't overcome it... I just got used to it. Like I'm going along with a friend, you could say."
"..."
"I actually benefit from it. Having something scary helps you keep your wits about you."
Tap.
The words I Jian casually tossed out tapped Haaland on the head as they passed.
Haaland nodded, and I Jian returned to his seat.
Haaland fell into thought.
And until it was time to come out for the second half, Haaland remained silent, lost in thought.
"Let's go, let's go!"
Soon it was time, and the players, changed into new uniforms, left the locker room again.
They passed through the corridor and headed for the pitch.
Haaland too walked the corridor at the very back.
His head was still complicated, but every time he chewed over I Jian's words, something seemed to come out.
A feeling that his thoughts were slowly organizing themselves.
But it wasn't perfect, so as he walked the corridor extracting a bit more essence, he exited the tunnel and came out onto the ground.
"...!"
But on the ground that greeted him after exiting the tunnel.
Impossibly, the rain had stopped.