A lie is like a cup of water that has been spilled.
It cannot be gathered back up, nor can it be undone.
Once uttered, there are only two ways to avoid being caught in that lie.
One is to keep lying until death, covering lies with ever bigger lies.
Or, to simply make that lie into the truth.
Of course, neither may be a good method.
Even if one is never caught, or even if it becomes true later.
The fact that a lie was told does not simply disappear.
But clearly, if asked to choose the worse of the two, it would undoubtedly be the first.
Covering a lie with a lie.
This is more painful for the liar than the deceived.
One must live a lifetime of anxiety and feel the pangs of conscience.
One must live carrying the regret of *I shouldn't have lied*.
Moreover, covering a lie requires an even bigger lie, so the problem only grows and never shrinks.
So, rather.
The second method might be the more right one.
Making the lie into truth so that it ultimately ceases to be a lie.
Of course, this too cannot erase the fact that a lie was told.
But if it is in a somewhat positive direction.
If it wasn't a lie that harmed someone, but a white lie, wouldn't it be somewhat okay?
I don't know.
Either way, it's just self-justification.
A lie is a bad thing.
Something one must live with for a lifetime of guilt.
I know best how anxious and restless that is.
That is why I want to be a little free.
I feel a shameless desire to become someone upright, even if only a little.
If we win the Champions League and lift the Big Ears, we will be recognized as the best team in Europe.
We will remain in history as a team that dominated and commanded a season.
We become the strongest.
And if one is a member of that team.
If I contributed even a little to lifting the Big Ears, wouldn't it be okay to say so?
That I'm something of a soccer genius.
That everyone acknowledges it.
Three years ago, it was a lie.
It was merely a lie told to avoid momentary embarrassment, to escape a situation.
Thanks to that, I scrambled desperately up a cliff to avoid being caught.
I climbed viciously, looking only ahead, with the thought that falling meant death.
And so I came here.
"···"
This large rectangular stage upon which I now stand is not a place just anyone can enter.
Only twenty-two.
A place only those called geniuses among geniuses among geniuses can enter.
No matter where I turn my head, there are only geniuses.
No, in my eyes, they look like gods.
They don't feel like the same species of human.
Especially the opponents beyond the boundary line, wearing white uniforms—they look like angels of heaven.
Standing stiffly among them, I somehow feel like I'm the only shabby one.
I feel like a petty human mistakenly invited to the gods' playground.
I feel like I can sense puzzlement in the spectators' gazes for no reason.
But I'm not afraid.
Because there are people who will believe in me until the end, no matter what happens to me.
I will live up to that faith.
I want to be a man who stands tall before Jiu.
That was all it was from the beginning, and that is all it is now.
Beeeeep—!
My body reacted to the whistle first; thought came after.
*
A hazy fog lifts little by little, a feeling that my vision, which couldn't see an inch ahead, is slowly aligning.
That was how I felt for the first ten minutes after the first half began.
Thwack—!
Each time the ball touched my feet, it felt like waking up bit by bit from a dream.
Like pinching your cheek to check whether it's a dream or reality.
Each time the sensation of the ball meeting my foot felt heavy, I realized this was reality.
Thwack—!
We came out in a 4-1-4-1 formation, and the opponents in a 4-2-3-1.
Both us and them, best elevens.
Not a special move to catch the opponent off guard, but the best hand each could play.
It was a declaration of head-on battle.
The confidence of *I will win no matter who comes*.
While such confidence could be felt from the formations themselves, we were the ones who seized the initiative first.
Thwack—!
Slowly circulating the ball.
Stones, a center back, comes up like a midfielder and pairs with Rodri to add numbers to the center of the pitch, while the real midfielders also rotate like a waterwheel, finding the spaces in between to penetrate.
Thwack—!
The opponents, for now, are pulled back.
Leaving only one attacker near the halfway line to aim for a counterattack, the rest are all in defensive posture.
Thanks to that, even though we're moving busily, no comfortable space is visible.
It's all narrow and looks difficult to break through easily.
But it is our job to stretch and tear that open.
And the beginning of large spaces starts from small spaces.
Tap-tap-tap—!
Moving in sync with the circulating flow, when the timing came for me to drop down and receive the ball.
Thwack—!
Receiving the ball from Rodri and turning to face forward.
As I dropped, my teammates all pushed up, and as a result, the already narrow spaces became even narrower.
But it's still not enough.
I need to narrow that down even more.
Tap-tap-tap—!
Controlling the ball, I move up along the left half-space.
At this, both ally and enemy move in the same direction indiscriminately.
The center of gravity on the pitch begins to tilt to the left.
Thwack—!
From there, I deliberately send another pass to the left.
Handing the ball to Gvardiol, who has pushed up like a wingback, and immediately approaching.
The opponents respond by sticking to us man-to-man.
Thwack—!
Thwack—!
Under the opponent's pressure, Gvardiol passes back to me, and I hook it diagonally to Bernardo Silva.
And without rest, I approach Silva again.
Tap-tap-tap—!
Silva is pressured by two with the touchline behind him.
De Bruyne is moving to create an angle beside him, but he too has a defender stuck to him.
It's the same for everyone.
Silva is looking for a hole to escape, but nearby there are only people with defenders attached.
Of course, the same goes for me.
And there is no one here who doesn't understand what that means.
Thwack—!
Silva plays a pass through the defenders.
The ball rolls in front of me as I was approaching Silva, and I draw my left foot back wide.
Whoooosh—!
I switch the ball to the right in one breath.
There was no need to even look at what was happening on the right.
Because I could tell just by the number of players crowded nearby.
While everyone was tilted to one side, there would be a large space on the opposite side, and there would definitely be someone waiting for the ball there.
Thwack—!
Phil Foden shows off a touch like a magnet and catches the ball.
And without hesitation, he knocks it past and drives in, attempting a 1v1 with the opponent's defender.
Tap, tap—
Whoooosh—!
Near the corner of the box, Foden's left-footed shot, cutting inside toward the center, flies toward the goal.
But it's slightly high.
Swoosh—
The shot sails right over the goalpost.
Perhaps he put a bit too much power into it; Foden brushes his head down roughly in regret.
But his teammates send applause and encouragement, while the opponents begin heated discussions with each other.
"Nice!"
I too clap and return to our half.
And I fall into a strange feeling.
What should I call it.
A feeling like an illusion is being peeled away, perhaps.
The goal didn't go in, but the process was good.
The flow was created as we thought, and the opponents moved as we thought.
The space we tried to create with our method was created as intended.
My thoughts work on the opponents too.
Which means, the Real Madrid players are people just like me.
"Whew!"
Returning to our half and looking at the opponents' half again, it is as if the bean pods that covered my eyes have peeled away.
The opponents who looked like warriors of the gods now look like people.
Would it be arrogant if I thought, *We can take them*?
But it was the truth.
*
I had to acknowledge what was certain.
That today's match had many aspects favorable to us.
The biggest would be that this place is Wembley.
First, Wembley is a stadium in London.
It's an away trip abroad for the opponents, but not for us.
Moreover, a week ago we had already played a match here.
It was the same final.
We even carried the experience of having won on our backs.
Perhaps because of that, or for another reason.
Even until the 20th minute of the first half, the initiative was with us, and the opponents seemed devoted to defense, trying to acquaint their bodies with the stadium atmosphere.
Of course, that didn't mean the opponents started to look easy.
Even though we continuously had the attacking momentum, something.
It was because I didn't feel that their goal would open easily.
What was a bit strange was that it wasn't necessarily because the opponent's defense was perfect.
Of course, the opponents' response was quick and meticulous.
They weren't so sloppy as to fall for the same pattern twice. They weren't defending passively either; each time we advanced, we felt pressure.
However, we were succeeding in finishing with shots.
Whether it was a mid-range shot going wide of the goal, or an in-box shot meeting the keeper's save.
Even if they weren't goals, the shot count was steadily accumulating.
But because of that, a strange energy was felt.
It looks like it should open, but strangely it doesn't.
At least one should have gone in by now; why not yet?
The more shots that should have gone in kept bouncing out, the stranger it smelled.
And as that smell grew stronger, the strangeness began to turn into impatience.
When you play matches, there is something you feel.
Soccer is like surfing.
I think they're similar in that both have something called flow.
Just as when a wave comes, you can't stand up if you don't ride it.
In soccer too, if you can't finish when the flow comes, that flow will definitely pass to the opponent.
Clearly, our flow was continuing.
But we were failing to finish by a hair's breadth.
What power was holding that goal mouth shut and standing firm?
While searching for the reason, by chance in my turning gaze.
It was when the trophy standing outside the touchline and the emblem emblazoned on the opponents' chests overlapped in my sight.
*The Champions League and Real Madrid.*
Whoooosh—!
De Bruyne's mid-range shot is blocked by the opponents throwing themselves in the way.
My gaze catches where that ball flows, and in that instant, a chilly sensation runs down my spine.
Tap-tap-tap—!
Instinctively, I turn my body and run.
But already, a player running like lightning toward our goal is visible in the distance.
Whoooosh—!
A signal flare explodes behind my back, and no matter how fast I run, I can't catch up to the ball passing over my head.
Even in that chaos, the pass is damn accurate.
Thwack—!
The pass sticks to the opponent's feet.
Number 7, Vinícius Júnior.
The vanguard of the counterattack, the one said to be the most dangerous target, finally seizes his chance.
Tap-tap-tap—!
Fast.
He knocks it into space and runs; with just that, Stones is stripped like a scarecrow.
In an instant, a crisis unfolds.
Tap, tap—
Dias blocks the front.
But the opponent has already committed his body to the rhythm.
Moreover, he's gotten into the box.
As could be seen from Dias with his hands behind his back, it was a challenge fought with both arms sealed.
Tap, tap—
The opponent cuts direction like lightning.
Dias's reaction is a step late.
If beaten, the shooting angle opens right up.
The goal is wide open, so much that Ederson, guarding it, looks small.
And Dias was desperate.
Crash—!
Dias and the opponent get tangled together and fall.
Immediately, shouts erupt from all directions, and all eyes converge on the referee.
The referee runs toward the box.
Whistle in his mouth, he points to the center of the box with his hand.
Beeeeep—!
The frequency I didn't want to hear echoes through the stadium, and the opponents cheer.
Half the stands cheer with thrown fists, and half fall silent with hands clasped over their heads.
"No! No!"
Fierce protests continue.
Everyone swarms the referee, waving their fingers left and right.
But the referee maintains a resolute expression, pushes the players away, and merely brings one hand to his ear.
It seems some kind of communication is taking place.
I pin a sliver of hope on that.
But the communication doesn't last long.
There was no reversal.