276_Dojo Breaking -1
7. Raumdeuter
······It was a word that existed for Thomas Müller, but not on this day. The aging Müller lagged a beat behind in the performance, unable to keep up with the rhythm.
On the other hand, the opponent played at a rapid tempo. All eleven members of Manchester City were excellent performers. Their puzzle-like movements that created space looked like a single living, breathing organism. Bayern Munich, trapped within it, produced nothing but dissonance.
The instrument that anchors the center of the orchestra is the viola. In this match, the one who played the viola was number 7, Lee. The conducting was shared in turns, but he was always the center. Teammates entered the spaces Lee created, and Lee filled the spaces those teammates created. Because of this, Bayern could not control the space between defense and midfield, nor the half-spaces, making the match difficult for them to unravel. Below, if you look at figure (8)······
“···.”
Reading down through the column, Coach Enrique pouts his lips.
What is this, it seems closer to praise than an analysis article.
To the point where one might have the illusion that Lee was German.
Anyway, he continues reading down the column.
Below that, a more tactical and detailed analysis is printed along with diagrams.
Rather than feeling like he was learning from it, he read it like checking an answer key—whether his thoughts and analysis matched, or if there were different parts.
He had already rewatched the match between Man City and Bayern several times and organized his thoughts.
Shortly after finishing the column, he shrugs and nods.
It was a good column.
There was a gain in obtaining a few details he had missed while watching the match footage.
Overall, it aligned with his opinion.
What the problem was, and what they should have done to win, was written exactly as he thought.
“Hoo.”
Perhaps he had concentrated too hard; Coach Enrique presses his temples and loosens his shoulders.
And after easing his concentration, he lightly swipes down the tablet screen.
At the end of the column, player ratings and one-line evaluations for the first and second legs of the quarter-final are written.
Among them, there is a player who has stars drawn on the rating sheets for both legs.
It is Lee, who received a rating of 1,0 (the highest rating by Kicker) and MOM in both matches.
First Leg
zehner: Jian Lee
-Note 1,0. Exerted influence throughout the first half, from midfield to the tip of the attack. Scored in the 3rd, 60th, and 88th minutes, recording a hat-trick. Put Dier in distress and dominated the match.
Second Leg
zehner: Jian Lee
-Note 1,0. Showed a good performance following the first leg. Just as the first leg where he recorded 3 goals, he recorded 3 assists as if drawing a symmetry. A week was insufficient time for Bayern Munich to solve the problem called Lee.
Goodness gracious.
I get it, so tone down the praise a bit.
It feels a bit over-the-top just because they beat Bayern.
Coach Enrique shakes his head and soon places the tablet beside him, gets up from his seat, and looks out at the training ground.
“···”
Anyway.
Whether it was the content he organized while preparing for the semifinal against Manchester City, or the content analyzed in the column.
The direction aligns.
The direction of how to topple the giant that is Manchester City, who are running at the peak of their powers.
What must be watched out for the most is, as expected, the opponent's number 7, who was nothing but praise in every analysis.
A player with tremendous talent.
Standing out among the lineup of players running for a team like Manchester City is no easy feat, yet he does it.
He said he was eighteen, was he?
To already be a starter for a big club at that age, he is certainly a player whose future one or five years from now is even more anticipated.
Therefore, he is the one who must be watched out for and stopped the most.
He would prepare countermeasures as thoroughly as possible, but well.
It was the common opinion that becoming too obsessed with him alone wouldn't be a good method.
After all, he can't be stopped perfectly.
Was it because Bayern or Atlético had poor defenses that they couldn't stop him?
If you think about it, they are superior defensively.
Therefore, rather than thinking of winning by stopping him, they must think of winning by breaking through.
Kicker magazine also pointed out that the responsibility for the defeat lay in Harry Kane's silence.
As a Ballon d'Or competitor, he failed to show a competitor-like performance.
If so, what is Paris's answer to the opponent's number 7?
As expected, on this side too, it is number 7.
“···.”
Coach Enrique gazes at one player on the training ground.
If there is a player who became a starter for a big club at eighteen, here there is a player who became a World Cup winner at nineteen.
Simple logic.
If Mbappé scores just one more goal than the opponent, they win.
The matchup is favorable too.
By Manchester City's nature of playing with space left in behind, they are inevitably vulnerable to counterattacks, and the Great Thief who raids that space better than anyone in the world is Mbappé.
Moreover, Mbappé's motivation was at its peak.
Though he had achieved everything at a young age and risen to the highest echelons, there were exactly two things he hadn't done.
Winning the Champions League and receiving the Ballon d'Or.
They are honors befitting a player of Mbappé's caliber.
The timing was more opportune than ever.
One more step and it is the final.
If they win, the Ballon d'Or is as good as his.
There is no better opportunity than this.
He knows it himself, and because he isn't hiding his immense desire.
He believes he will teach him a lesson.
That an age of eighteen is too young to even be hovering near the Ballon d'Or.
· · ·
May 11, 2024.
PSG home stadium, Parc des Princes.
“It’s the final.”
Having finished getting ready to go out in the match uniform, I stand in a circle and focus on the coach’s mouth.
“Winning today doesn’t mean the final. Today is the final. If you don’t have that mindset, you can’t win and go back.”
Everyone nods.
I always feel it, but especially when hearing the last words at an away match, I feel like I’ve become a soldier heading to war.
“Is there anyone who doesn’t want to win? If so, look me in the eye.”
Everyone lowers their eyes.
As if offering some temptation, the coach urges us to look him in the eye,
but the more he does, the more everyone hangs their heads and stares at their feet.
“Then show me. When you return to the locker room, if there’s no pain, you didn’t play a match. Come back in tatters.”
“COME ON!”
“LET’S GO!”
I head toward the pitch alongside their resounding shouts.
When walking squeezed between men overflowing with testosterone like this, one feels like nothing in the world is scary.
However, even that feeling
cannot wash away the fear embedded like a nail somewhere deep in the heart.
I like this feeling.
The feeling of taking a half-body bath in an outdoor bath while snow falls, of covering oneself with a blanket with the air conditioner on.
“···”
“···”
The corridors on both sides meet at one point, and the branching paths soon connect into one passage leading to the pitch.
There, we and the opponent encounter each other, and a strange battle of wills and tension fills the corridor.
I stick right behind the towering Haaland and go over the things I have to do today.
*
Today is the third time meeting a team called Paris Saint-Germain.
It is the second time playing in this stadium.
Because we were in the same group in the group stage last season.
Therefore, the atmosphere or grass isn’t unfamiliar, but then and now,
I can feel that something is different.
Bang—!
The match began with the opponent’s kickoff.
But before long, the ball came to us, and we familiarly passed it around, warming up our senses.
Bang—!
From the start, the opponent fell back.
A different sight from Arsenal not long ago.
On one hand, I feel a familiar sensation at the opponent’s posture typical of a weak team.
At the same time, a sense of incongruity makes the back of my head tingle.
As expected, it’s because of the thief hungrily eyeing our backs.
Bang—!
If there are things to always be careful of and check in life, it’s the gas stove, the front door lock, and the opponent’s counterattack.
Every day, checking once every five minutes wouldn’t be too much.
Because nothing causes as much self-loathing and resentment as losing something big by missing a trivial detail.
If the front collapses, it collapses; there is nothing as unpleasant as giving up the back.
Bang—!
Slowly, I make big lateral passes to draw out the opponent’s reaction.
Meanwhile, everyone
busily nods their heads to continuously check where the opponent’s number 7 is right now.
It is a scene that suddenly reminds me of when we played Tottenham.
There is an opponent who gets on your nerves even when he does nothing.
His presence is overwhelming, but there is nothing to be done.
Because we know that though he is walking now, once he starts running, he is faster than anyone.
That is why him walking is even scarier.
Bang—!
But anyway.
We can’t lose our essence because of the opponent.
No matter who we meet, we just walk our path.
Because the football we play is the best in the world.
Tap—!
Slowly circulating the ball, after reading the space, I move up one line.
At the point where I have the opponent’s attackers in front, I come into a position where the attackers are behind and I face the midfielders.
Bang—!
And the moment I receive the ball, I turn forward—
Bang—!
Push the ball up to Foden on the right and run forward again.
Intent on raising the tempo.
There seemed no need to leisurely unfold things just because the opponent waits.
The opponent will spend far longer defending than us.
So slowing the match tempo is a loss for us, who have more attacking time.
Tap—!
Foden tucks inside with the ball.
Accordingly, I naturally drop to the right diagonal, and Walker comes into the position I vacated.
No one gestures, signals, or even calls, yet everything happens naturally.
Because it is a pattern repeated countless times in training.
Bang—!
Therefore, the moment Foden gives the ball to Walker.
Without hesitation, I start running in a wide arc behind the opponent’s fullback from the sideline.
Bang—!
Soon Walker’s pass stabs into the half-space between the opponent’s center-back and fullback.
Tap-tap—!
I fight a running battle with the opponent’s fullback to claim it.
But even at a glance, I am two steps faster.
That this is possible even though I ran the outside route is because the opponent reacted after seeing, while I ran in anticipation.
Tap—!
Perhaps the opponent felt it too; as if giving up on the direct contest, he changes course inside.
As if intending to block after I catch the ball.
Thanks to that, I leisurely collect the ball and turn toward the goal.
And slowly dribble in with light touches, raising my head.
I survey beyond the back of the opponent in front of me.
At this, perhaps I looked quite arrogant to the opponent.
He stops falling back and springs out instantly.
A tackle as if asking where I’m looking with him right in front of my nose.
Bang—!
But I don’t let him touch the ball.
Humans have something called peripheral vision.
And if you focus a little, you can concentrate more on that peripheral vision.
Which means you can pretend to let your gaze wander in front of the opponent.
Tap-tap—!
Cutting to the right to evade the opponent’s tackle, this time I really survey the box.
And just before the ball goes over the goal line.
Bang—!
I sharply pull it back and deliver a cutback to the far side of the box.
As two defenders were stuck to Haaland rushing toward the goal, a gap appeared for Foden, who had dropped a step back.
Even if it missed Foden, Rodri was waiting if it flowed back.
Swish—
Defenders collapse in front of Foden, who took a nonstop shooting motion.
A belated desperate struggle to block the shot.
But even I can see Foden is sly.
He doesn’t shoot, doesn’t even touch the ball.
I saw it because my angle was open.
How did Foden know Rodri was behind him and let it through?
But ironically.
That brilliant play becomes poison.
There was a quick-witted player on the opposing team too.
Bang—!
The opponent defender, bursting out like lightning, snatches the ball that flowed behind Foden like a bird of prey.
On one hand, I think that veterans are called veterans for a reason, having heard he is the veteran defender Marquinhos.
I sharply realize this is no leisurely situation to be sending admiration to the opponent.
Bwooooong—!
Marquinhos strikes the ball long without even looking ahead.
I instinctively watch the ball soaring away, then soon gather my wits and look at where the ball is due to drop.
A black panther is sprinting across the field.
The thought that blood would be spilled came unbidden.