275_It's Jian's -4
“Hey, Jiu.”
“Hoo… hoo… yeah?”
“Want to look in a mirror? Your face is a mess.”
“Huh…? Ah.”
The stands, the first half having ended.
Yet the atmosphere still hadn’t cooled; it was as heated as if the match were still going on. At the words of I Jian’s father, I Wonhun, Gim Jiu fumbled to pull out her phone.
And when she roughly checked her reflection, it was a mess.
“What the heck. It’s a mess, but cute.”
“You’re supposed to let other people say things like that.”
“Since no one says it for me, I have to say it myself. Say it for me.”
“You are cute even when you’re a mess, but you should fix your hair.”
Gim Jiu grinned and swept her hair back.
She had jumped up and down so much that her hair was a wreck, and since she had been screaming her head off, her throat was sore too.
“Phew.”
Anyway, she thought she was going crazy.
It was when Jian had scored just before the first half ended.
She had nearly lost her mind.
Every cell in her body had felt like it was boiling over, and when she came to her senses, I Wonhun was holding her by the scruff of her neck.
Afraid she would tumble forward.
Oh my.
Ever since she had seriously started watching this thing called football because of Jian, it was killing her.
One live match and her voice went hoarse and she was completely drained, but it was such a dopamine party that on days without matches, she was left feeling bored.
It was all because of Jian.
“But really, isn’t it amazing?”
“What is?”
“The better he plays in important matches. I mean, he never really has a bad day. He always delivers when everyone is expecting it.”
I Wonhun snickered at Gim Jiu’s words as she shook her head in wonder.
He plays better when everyone expects it.
I Wonhun knew what drove that.
It must be fear.
He must have prepared so hard, gnawing at his own flesh, because of that fear.
Perhaps because he knew that, there was a hint of bitterness mixed into I Wonhun’s faint smile.
Of course, aside from that slight bitterness, the rest was all pride.
“That’s why people can’t help but love him. Look at them. They’ve been going crazy since earlier.”
Gim Jiu glanced toward the front rows of the stands, regardless.
She could see a few female spectators who looked to be in their twenties, all wearing Jian’s kit.
They had been making those shrill dolphin noises whenever Jian touched the ball.
They were probably watching the videos they had taken earlier and squealing again over what was so good.
“It’s nice that they like him.”
“Well, yeah, but what do they know about football? They just like him for his face.”
“Isn’t that the same for you?”
“What are you talking about? I even got today’s starting lineup exactly right. Today’s match is incredibly important. It’s a six-pointer, I tell you. A six-pointer. Wait, what does that even mean? You can only get a maximum of 3 points per match, so how is it 6 points? Now, allow me to explain.”
An impromptu football lecture from Gim Jiu began.
I Wonhun definitely knew far more than her in every regard.
But since Gim Jiu was so excitedly spouting things she knew, he just chuckled and listened.
“That’s why it’s called a six-pointer. The 3 points you get from winning, and the 3 points you prevent the opponent from getting. So if we win today, it’s practically the championship, which is why everyone’s so crazy.”
I Wonhun nodded along and threw in exclamations here and there, and Gim Jiu nodded in satisfaction after finishing her excited lecture.
Then she looked around and soon let out a sigh.
“I think these people are a bit greedy. They’ve won the championship so many times already. Seeing them get this greedy again.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“I wonder if winning is worth staking your life on, but then again, when I look at Jian, I totally get why everyone wants him to win.”
Gim Jiu shook her head.
“…You remember last year, right? How depressed Jian was that he couldn’t win the title. He’d really worked hard and wanted it so badly, but couldn’t.”
I Wonhun nodded with a bitter smile.
Last season at Fiorentina.
Jian had wanted to win the title together with the older brothers who had taught him what it meant to be a man, but when he couldn’t, he had been so disappointed that he cried in secret.
He had tried to act nonchalant, but they all knew.
“I really hope he does it this time. The players who have been here must have won it plenty of times, but it’s Jian’s first time.”
“He does have one championship cup.”
“That was a cup competition, not the league. Want me to explain the difference? Now, there are generally three major competitions…”
“…Oh, the kids are coming out. Is it already that time?”
“Huh? You’re right. *Hiss,* please let us win… *huff!*”
Thanks to the players emerging at just the right time, I Wonhun let out a sigh of relief.
It seemed the first-half members were coming out unchanged, and Gim Jiu clasped her hands together and muttered toward the Arsenal players.
“I’m sorry… I’m really sorry… but I can’t help it… This time it’s Jian’s… Jian is mine…”
At that muttering, more earnest than anyone’s, I Wonhun also clasped his hands and prayed.
Then, he thought to himself.
‘She’s mine…’
Well, ownership belongs to the buyer, not the manufacturer.
It couldn’t be helped.
*
What had lingered in my mind throughout halftime was the memory of last year.
At Fiorentina, my final—no, my second season.
We hadn’t lifted a single trophy.
Everyone had united as one, had wanted it with one heart, yet.
There were things in this world that couldn’t be achieved through desire alone.
I had felt self-reproach, and I had felt frustration.
The biggest feeling was regret.
I was sorry to my teammates, the manager, the coaches, and the fans.
The more everyone said it was okay, the sorrier I felt.
I didn’t want to feel that emotion a second time.
That was the only thought cycling through my head throughout halftime.
Pha-aang-!
Pha-aang-!
The pace of the match quickened even further.
The time one could hold the ball grew shorter, and the speed of passes exchanged between players was hard to follow with the eye.
Puh-eok-!
Beeeep-!
The grass was torn up here and there, the play growing rougher.
The referee began blowing his whistle more frequently, and around the 10-minute mark of the second half, the first yellow card was given to the opposition.
“WHY-! WHY-!”
Less than a minute later, De Bruyne received a warning in return.
It looked like retaliation for the foul on Silva.
For De Bruyne, who had a laid-back and calm personality, to commit such a foul meant it could only be explained as revenge.
The match gradually devolved into a battle of desperation.
Until about the 15th minute of the second half, it had felt like fighting in a ring, but after that, it felt like a street brawl.
Distance control, steps, weaving, dribbling—none of that mattered.
A brawl where if you grabbed sand, you threw it; if you grabbed hair, you pulled it.
It was childish, and therefore desperate.
It felt like what mattered most was who wanted to win more.
Both we and the opposition were exhausted anyway.
Playing matches twice a week was absurd, but so had our opponents.
It was a fight with no room for excuses, so we had to use everything we could.
There were opportunities and many crises.
I struck a ball flowing out of the box with determination, only for it to sail over the crossbar; the opponent’s header hit the goalpost and bounced away.
As time passed, I couldn’t help but respect the opposition.
This was our home.
When the late first-half goal went in, the atmosphere here had been so heated that keeping one’s composure would have been impossible.
Yet the opposition came back out after halftime having regrouped, starting anew from scratch, and tormented us.
That was probably why everyone wanted to win even more.
If a competitor this respectable was our rival, then defeating that rival would make us an even greater champion.
The more valuable the trophy became, the more I wanted to get my hands on it.
I didn’t want to be a shining supporting actor again.
Well, unlike me, my current teammates were all main characters, of course.
Anyway, I couldn’t let go of my tenacity until the end.
A 1-0 scoreline was the most nerve-wracking thing in the world.
Besides, with opponents like them, scoring two goals at any moment wouldn’t be strange, so I couldn’t help but throw my body into every play.
Of course, the same was likely true for them.
Both sides were desperate, but if you had to pick, the more desperate side was the opposition.
They slid across the grass with their shorts more often, and received more warnings from the referee.
Whenever my teammates had their ankles clipped, took knees to the thighs, or rolled on the grass with their uniforms stretched out, I felt envious.
Because I was certain the manager was watching them with pride.
I felt like I had to tear at least one pair of stockings to be at ease, but strangely, the chance didn’t come.
Then.
The chance came when there were less than five minutes of regular time left.
Beeeeep-!
Attempting to dribble past, I got caught by the opponent’s foot and fell, and the whistle blew.
At the same time, an enormous roar erupted because where I had fallen was inside the box.
The opposition protested so fiercely they nearly pushed the referee, but the referee only held out a yellow card with a resolute face.
Regardless, I was satisfied, running my hand over the stockings torn by the cleats.
Then, Haaland came over to me spinning the ball on his finger and asked.
“Want to take it?”
I shook my head.
Haaland had suggested that since I earned the penalty, I should take it, but that was absurd.
Because Haaland was our team’s first-choice penalty kicker.
Well, even if Haaland hadn’t been there, I probably wouldn’t have said I’d take it anyway.
There was Foden, De Bruyne, Rodri—there were so many people to take it.
Penalty kicks, which required the courage to be hated, were something I had no connection with.
Thwack-!
Anyway, Haaland scored.
With that goal, he further solidified his position as the league’s top scorer, and took responsibility for completing our two-goal lead.
The sight of his back as he boldly converted the penalty and roared toward the stands couldn’t have looked cooler.
Beep, beep, beeeep-!
The three whistle blasts that soon rang out were salvation.
Every player on the pitch collapsed right where they stood.
The only difference being, the opposition fell forward, while we fell backward onto our backs.
“Haa, haa…”
For a while, we just stared at the sky and breathed.
I was proud that I had been on this pitch until the moment the final whistle blew.
.
.
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90:00 (Full-time)
Manchester City 2 : 0 Arsenal
-42’ I Jian
-88’ Haaland
Player Of The Match
: No. 7 I Jian
- 90 minutes played
- 1 goal
- Accurate passes (61/68)
- Long pass success rate 100% (3/3)
- Dribble success rate 100% (5/5)
- Big chances created: 2
- Final third passes: 7
- Fouls drawn: 5
- Dispossessions: 0
- Successful tackles: 3
- Recoveries: 4
- Overall rating: 9.4
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.
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23/24 Season Premier League Table
1. Manchester City / 36 matches, 30 wins, 4 draws, 2 losses, 94 points
2. Arsenal FC / 36 matches, 29 wins, 2 draws, 5 losses, 89 points
.
.
.
…
May 7, 2024, early afternoon, Camp des Loges (Paris Saint-Germain training ground).
Four days before the first leg of the Champions League semifinals.
“Rapide!”
“Courir!”
On the training ground, the players were sweating bullets.
PSG, who had already secured the Ligue 1 title, had been pouring all their energy into preparing for the semifinals since a few days ago, and the players’ faces already showed that the preparation seemed complete.
Amidst this, on one side of the training ground, a man could be seen looking at a tablet with a serious face.
PSG’s manager, Enrique.
“….”
Seeing what he was reading, it was a column-style article.
The name of the site where the column was published was Kicker.
It was the most renowned and authoritative football magazine in Germany.
With the semifinal against Manchester City approaching, one might ask why he was suddenly reading a German magazine.
It was because nowhere else had dissected Bayern Munich’s problems—defeated by Man City in the quarterfinals—in such minute detail.
Why Munich had lost, why they couldn’t overcome Man City to reach the semifinals.
There would be no information more necessary than this for facing Man City.
The column was divided into several chapters.
It seemed the problems weren’t just one or two.
Tactics, individual form, momentary decisions, factors off the pitch—there was nothing missing.
Manager Enrique scrolled through the screen to the chapter that piqued his interest the most.
7. Raumdeuter
Raumdeuter.
Translated literally, “space interpreter.”
As far as he knew, it was a nickname born for Bayern’s genius, Thomas Müller.
To pay tribute to his extraordinary play of finding and utilizing space like magic.
However, the Raumdeuter referred to in this column was not Thomas Müller.