Rain had never fallen in the life of a man named Erling Haaland. It had been clear skies ever since he was born. A man who had attracted attention as a prodigy, grown into a genius, and become a complete monster—that was Haaland.
Just how young he was when he began living a protagonist’s life could be explained by the results of a track and field meet he entered at the age of five. A meet he entered at five, before even starting school—not six, not seven. The event was the long jump, and the five-year-old little Haaland leaped 1.63 meters, setting a world record for his age group. At the age of five, Haaland was a boy who had seized the title of world number one.
This extraordinariness of his led, roughly ten years later, to a professional debut at age sixteen. Debuting for Bryne FK, a team in the Norwegian second division, Haaland announced the birth of a monster across sixteen matches. Though it was the second division, the fact that a sixteen-year-old played sixteen professional matches was absurd.
Two years later, Haaland had grown into a player who scored double-digit goals in the league at age eighteen. Rather than growth, it was closer to a metamorphosis. Compared to the growth rate of ordinary humans, it was an abnormal speed.
Having gained wings as a freak of nature, Haaland now began to soar. At nineteen, he debuted in the UEFA Champions League as a member of FC Salzburg. His Champions League debut opponent was a Belgian league team called KRC Genk, and it is said that over fifty scouts were at the stadium that day. And before them, Haaland recorded a hat trick, etching his name into memory. It was the life of a comic book protagonist.
On the back of such performances, Haaland transferred to Dortmund in the Bundesliga. Now running for a prestigious big-league team, Haaland was still nineteen. Haaland played for Dortmund until he was twenty-two, recording eighty-six goals and twenty-three assists in eighty-nine matches. Now, there existed no one in the football world who did not know Haaland’s name.
As everyone knows, the following year he transferred to Manchester City. The prevailing opinion was that the best player had come to the best team. There was not even time for any doubts. He scored on his league debut and put the Premier League on edge. And he recorded his first hat trick in just four matches. Moreover, he reached double-digit goals in a mere six matches.
After the season ended, Haaland became a man who held yet another record. He had seized the top scorer title in his first season after transferring, but the record was not that.
The most goals in a single Premier League season. With thirty-six goals in the league alone, he broke the long-standing league record that had held for nearly twenty years.
Simultaneously, the team claimed the Treble. To say it was an achievement made simply by playing for a good team—this Treble was Manchester City’s first since the club’s founding. Moreover, three goals in four FA Cup matches, and twelve goals in eleven Champions League matches. Since this was Haaland’s record for the season, his weight in that Treble belonged to the very forefront.
A shining life. It was a protagonist’s life. If Napoleon’s dictionary had no word for impossible, Haaland’s dictionary had no words for stagnation or crisis. From birth, he had walked a solid, great road; he had always moved straight forward, never in reverse.
Perhaps that was why. As with all heroes’ lives. The slight, human side that had begun to show since the new season became fodder for criticism against Haaland.
At the point when the league had progressed to the fourteenth round, Haaland was still charging ahead as the league’s top scorer. But if there was one thing slightly different from last season, it was that the frequency of missing easy goal-scoring chances had increased.
It was something that could happen to any human, but because it was Haaland, criticism began. Even though the season was barely past the extreme early stages, the media wrote articles as if Haaland’s bubble had burst. They treated him with the strictness of an examination under a microscope.
They called him a monster, but Haaland was human. Of course. It was impossible for it not to weigh on him. Outwardly, and even inwardly, he said he didn’t care, but it was impossible not to care at all.
Everyone is like that. Before a first experience, they are bewildered and unable to find their bearings. Especially if it is a bad experience, even the most trivial matter makes them react as if the world were ending.
Haaland too was bewildered. It was the first time since birth. Easy chances began to feel burdensome. Not scoring despite it all was bewildering, and more bewildering was not knowing the cause or the solution. It was natural, since this was his first time. The advice given by the world’s best coaches was merely encouragement, nothing worth worrying over.
Haaland wanted to put an end to that bewilderment in today’s match, the match against Luton Town. The sensation of moving backward, which he was experiencing for the first time in his life, was so nauseating it churned his stomach, so he did not want to experience it any further.
But again, things did not go well. The rain had happened to pour down, making it impossible to play as he wished. Near the end of the first half, he missed another easy chance.
Of course it was an excuse. It had nothing to do with the rain. Even if the water had risen to his ankles, it was a chance he had to score. If he didn’t make excuses, he felt he would begin to doubt himself, so he had no choice but to blame even the weather.
But excuses never help much. He could not stop the doubt. The path to the locker room had never felt so heavy.
A fear crept in that he might fall into a slump. It felt more frightening because he had never experienced one. Because he had never fallen into one, he also didn’t know how to get out. No—perhaps he was already in one but didn’t even realize it. When that thought occurred to him, the approaching second half became terrifying.
But at that moment, a teammate younger than him spoke. They exchanged a few short sentences, and those few words were quite a shock to Haaland.
That teammate was one Haaland had thought to be of the same kind. He too was a player who had sprinted down the road of success from a young age. He seemed to know nothing of hardship, always appearing as an existence floating loftily a level above everyone else. A genius who made even the slight arrogance Haaland had unknowingly accumulated seem to flee.
Yet such a person casually confided that he had once fallen into a terrible quagmire. It was difficult to imagine. He was someone you would think had never experienced hardship since birth, but he said there had been difficult times for him too.
The strange thing was that it was more comforting than any encouragement. That even such a genius had that experience. It was interpreted to mean that a brief crisis was something anyone experienced if they were human. The things that had been weighing on his shoulders just moments ago suddenly began to feel like nothing.
Squelch, squelch—!
The pitch was still muddy. The drainage system seemed stuck in the 2000s; the rainwater still hadn’t drained. Every time he sprinted, water splashed up to his knees.
“Hoo, hoo!”
But the rain had stopped. The downpour that had grated on even his breathing had ceased, and the sky became clear as if telling a lie. Thanks to that, everything began to look vivid, as though a layer had been peeled away.
Tat-tat—!
Haaland ran, kicking up a spray of water. A movement penetrating the space behind the defense. Not running blindly, but making eye contact first, then running. Because he had faith that the kid would send a perfect pass right away, he could run without hesitation.
Fwooom—!
Sure enough. A perfect pass arrived with perfect timing along the perfect course. A pass that made him wonder for a moment if De Bruyne had returned.
Swoooosh—
The pass’s speed slightly decreased in the pooled rainwater, but even that seemed calculated. Seeing it stop right at Haaland’s feet, perfectly fitted.
Fwooom—!
He knocked the ball forward and ran. In great strides, before even three steps, the distance from the defenders widened and the distance to the goal narrowed. Soon, the angle for a left-footed shot opened wide.
A chance where not scoring would be strange. An odd hesitation suddenly crept in. A worry about whether to take one more touch to completely trap the ball before striking.
But that worry vanished quickly before his next step. Because he suddenly remembered who had sent this pass.
He had said not to worry and not to be afraid. Come to think of it, Haaland had been thinking too much since some point. Originally, inside the box, you had to leave it to instinct.
Tap—
Baaaaang—!
Like a rock thrown into a lake, a spray of water burst. And Haaland’s powerful left-footed shot flew toward the corner of the goal.
Shooooom—
That shot was the shot everyone had originally known from Haaland.
Sploosh—!
52nd minute, goal by Erling Haaland. Assist by Ijian.
The mischievous sun began to shine down brightly.
*
I’m not one to be outdone when it comes to worries, but our manager is probably a notch above me. Well, naturally. I’m just one player, but the manager leads a team of dozens, so it’s only natural, isn’t it?
But this time, I think the manager went a bit overboard. Asking me to give advice because he was worried about a player like that. Isn’t that the most useless worry in the world?
Waaaaah—!
Perhaps because it’s a small, compact stadium, the cheers of the few away fans sound enormous. The ball rolls about inside the opponent’s goal, and today’s third scorer runs toward the fans.
He was the third scorer, yet also the first, and the sole scorer. Past the 35th minute of the second half. Haaland had recorded a hat trick.
“HEY-!!”
What incredible lungs. His voice carries from far away, piercing through the fans’ cheers. Pointing his finger at me and shouting… no matter how I look at it, it’s a bit scary.
But the strange thing is, that scary face looks quite cute when he smiles broadly.
“YEAH-!”
Already squeezed among teammates who have their arms over each other’s shoulders. Since passing 180 centimeters, my desire to grow taller had disappeared, but I’m feeling it again these days. Because when hugged by Haaland, I feel like a little kid.
Smooch—!
…See. If I were similar in height to him, this wouldn’t happen. After the celebration ends and everyone waits to head back, I quietly wipe my cheek with my sleeve. I like Haaland as a player, but only as a teammate. I don’t like this sort of thing. Of course, I don’t have the courage to say it to his face, so I just quietly wipe it off.
“…Phew.”
Anyway, returning to our half with a deep sigh. Then I look up at the sky.
The sky that had cleared since the second half began is showing off its blueness. Looking at the blazing sun, I belatedly realize it was a daytime match.
I always feel this, but clear skies after rain feel clearer than when it’s simply clear. More refreshing, more bright.
Well, it’s not some strange thing; it’s only natural. It’s the same as delicious food tasting better after eating something bad, or something light feeling lighter after lifting something heavy.
It’s that obvious, but that’s why I think I like the weather best when the rain stops and the sky clears. Because that moment’s clearness holds a freshness that can’t be felt at any other moment.
Even though the second half was nearing its end, both body and mind were lighter than usual.
…
90:00 (Match End) Luton Town 0 : 3 Manchester City
-52’ Haaland (Assist- Ijian)
-61’ Haaland (Assist- Ijian)
-81’ Haaland (Assist- Ijian)