[This is a very important turning point in today's match. The 24th minute of the first half. Real Madrid have won a penalty, and Jude Bellingham steps up to take it.]
[Bellingham vs Ederson.]
[Here he goes, Bellingham!]
[It's in! The opening goal for Real Madrid! Bellingham cleanly converts the penalty won by Vinicius, sending them ahead 1-0!]
[Real Madrid are roaring in celebration! The atmosphere at Wembley is shifting rapidly!]
[Jude Bellingham! He scores in the final! At this rate—though it's still too early to tell—it almost feels like we can see the Ballon d'Or rankings changing in real time!]
[1-0! Real Madrid takes the lead!]
*
The moment the net rippled, saying this was unfair would obviously have drawn a storm of criticism.
A foul that shouldn't have been committed, followed by a fair decision, and then conceding a goal.
There was nothing about it that could be called unfair.
In fact, I didn't even feel unfair about that.
But.
The reason I found myself looking up at the sky when the net rippled was probably because we had been pushing our opponents the entire time.
Things had been going well.
We had been playing the match without mistakes, just as we had trained, and our attacking patterns had been working continuously.
We had created several chances and had been steadily accumulating shots.
We had been dominant.
And yet, a single mistake ended up ruining the entire picture.
How should I put it?
Like carefully drawing the under sketch from the bottom, only to ruin everything with one wrongly drawn line.
Yes.
It was indeed a mistake, but it felt like all the work before it had vanished because of a single mistake.
The score on the scoreboard felt cruel.
But what felt even crueler was that feeling unfair about this was a more foolish thought than being dissatisfied with the referee's decision.
Football is a game that speaks with the score.
It is not a game where victory is decided by who completed more passes, who held the ball longer, or who played more sophisticated football.
Purely, it is a game where victory is decided by who put the ball into the opponent's goal more.
Therefore, if the score on the scoreboard right now is 0-1, there is no additional explanation that can be attached other than that the opponent is doing better.
That might be why it feels even more futile.
Because I felt pathetic about myself for having feelings of unfairness.
Beeeep—!
The whistle blows.
One opponent is down, and the referee quickly runs over and cautions De Bruyne.
Honestly, De Bruyne had pushed hard enough from behind that it was fortunate he didn't get a card.
"Fu······"
De Bruyne shakes his head with a face full of discontent and turns away.
He's a player who usually doesn't show excessive emotion, but now he visibly looks annoyed.
Actually, everyone was like that.
Slightly—no, very annoyed.
They seemed to be trying their best not to show it, but you could tell just by watching their play.
Their play was getting rougher bit by bit, and unnecessary fouls were coming out.
It had changed noticeably from before and after conceding.
"..."
Honestly, it might have been better if we had conceded while being pushed back.
If that had been the case, we would have been busy only fixing our mistakes.
But getting hit like this while doing well felt like it was cracking our mentality even more.
The opponent didn't even feel that perfect, and they had only one chance, yet they scored.
We had been dominating the match and had many chances, yet strangely couldn't score.
Emotion was rising over reason.
"Huu—"
I exhale a heated breath.
The inside of my chest kept heating up, so I felt I needed to regulate my temperature.
I let out the unnecessary emotions that had been rising up unconsciously with a long sigh.
It was true that such a thought fleetingly crossed my mind.
The thought: is the heaven helping the opponent?
Because it felt like luck was on their side.
But it's a filthy thought.
That's why I kept exhaling it, trying to erase it from my mind.
There is nothing as ugly and cowardly as dismissing the opponent's skill as luck.
Moreover, it's a dangerous thought for us as well.
If we dismiss this as luck, we won't be able to find the answer.
Because there is nothing we can do about luck being on the opponent's side.
We have to think of it as skill.
Only then can we fix things and find the answer.
That is a healthy thought for us too.
Pa-aang—!
The opponent restarts the match with a short pass from the free kick.
And they circulate the ball from the back, but soon under our intense pressure, the ball is quickly launched far away.
Pa-aang—!
The ball falls to our feet.
Even that feels futile right now.
The very fact that the ball comes to us so quickly if we press hard.
I keep thinking, if you look at it this way, it's no big deal.
But, no.
I shouldn't think that way.
I have to think that they aren't unable to, but that they aren't doing it.
The opponent is trying to draw us in.
Because only then can they exploit the space behind.
So they clearly aren't wasting strength on unnecessary areas, discarding what needs to be discarded, and trying to focus only on where they need to focus.
I mustn't fall for shallow tricks.
Right now, the score 0-1 on the scoreboard is absolutely not because luck is following the opponent.
Pa-aang—!
But, I don't know.
What my teammates are thinking.
The rate of forward passes is increasing, and passes are being given before teammates have fully taken their positions.
Seeing such scenes increase, everyone seems a bit rushed.
"..."
Don't they usually call this being stifled?
Strangely, something.
I felt like I had fallen into a swamp called Real Madrid.
*
"shit!"
"This isn't it. This isn't it."
On the way back to the locker room after the first half.
Grumbling can be heard here and there.
As if dissatisfied with the first half, someone punches the locker room wall, and someone else throws their uniform aside.
It's only natural.
Because the half ended without overturning the 0-1 lead.
They couldn't help but express their displeasure each in their own way.
However, soon.
At the coach's appearance in the locker room, all noise is muted.
"NOBODY TALK!"
At the words telling everyone to shut their mouths, dozens of mouths clamp shut at once.
...He seems very angry.
The coach, who took off and threw his top as soon as he entered, roughly pulls the magnetic tactic board to the center of the locker room.
"..."
"..."
Everyone gauges the coach's mood, and the coach silently gazes at the tactic board with the players' names and formation written on it.
Then he soon takes his eyes off the board and looks around at us.
"What is the problem?"
No one answers.
They merely lower their heads.
"I'm asking what the problem is?"
Somehow it feels like when a teacher is looking for someone to answer, and everyone is just looking at each other.
Everyone avoids eye contact.
As if displeased that no answer came out, the coach eventually starts pointing at people one by one.
"What was the problem?"
"...Conceding the counterattack was the problem. We should have stopped it quickly."
The first answer.
It doesn't seem to be the answer he wants.
The coach shakes his head and asks the next person.
"What was the problem?"
"...Not being able to finish decisively when we had chances."
But this time too, the coach shakes his head.
Neither answer seems wrong.
Is this a question where I have to figure out the questioner's intention, or something like that?
My heart slowly starts to constrict.
Because the person two seats over is me.
Even right before my turn.
The question changes.
"Didn't luck not follow us? Don't you think that's the problem?"
"...I do think there's something like that too."
I hope it's the right answer, but it isn't.
The coach's gaze, shaking his head, now reaches me.
"Was luck the problem?"
I won't get beaten with a ruler for getting it wrong, but.
Somehow I swallow once, and answer while shaking my head.
"No."
...Then the coach looks at me silently.
If it's wrong, he'd move on; if it's right, he'd at least say so.
The coach, who had been looking at me without any reaction, throws another question.
"Then what was the problem?"
Honestly, I had an answer in mind from the beginning.
I just worried whether it was the answer the coach wanted.
But I also thought that maybe that wasn't important right now.
In times like this, I have to say what I think.
We're in a position where we have to turn the game around in the remaining 45 minutes.
"...I don't think there was one."
"There wasn't one? Why?"
"Because... we did as prepared. The opponent just did a bit better; I don't think there was a problem with us."
...It isn't easy.
Speaking my opinion to someone like the coach.
Especially in a situation like this.
That must be why, when the coach started nodding.
I unconsciously let out a long sigh.
"Yes. There was no problem. There was no problem!"
The coach returns to the center of the locker room and speaks to everyone.
"No problem! But why did you act like there was a problem? There was no problem at all! You just had to keep doing what you were doing!"
The coach puts away the tactic board.
"If there was a problem, it was attitude. The attitude of accepting it as if there was a problem. Why, did it feel like the heavens were on their side? Did you feel broken? What were you dissatisfied about?"
The coach shakes his head violently.
"No. There was no problem. Not in anything. So just do it. Just do as you did, as you've always done!"
Everyone nods.
However, with an expression doubting whether they fully understood, the coach suddenly points at me and says.
"Accept it like Jian. Look only at what's in front of you. Don't doubt. There's nothing else. Understood?"
Everyone nods their heads vigorously.
This time, perhaps satisfied, the coach takes a few deep breaths to clear his lungs and fires everyone up with a clap.
"Alright, let's go."
"Let's go!"
"Come on!"
Yes.
There is no problem.
We just have to do as we were doing.
There is nothing else.
However, the feeling of leaving the locker room is a bit strange.
They are teammates who have always seemed perfect, so how should I put it.
I don't really know.
But I felt that I needed to be a bit more proactive.
*
Since I honestly spoke my thoughts in front of the coach.
Shall I be a bit more honest?
Honestly, I couldn't really understand.
Looking at my teammates playing emotionally after conceding.
It's not that I don't understand the act itself.
It's not that I don't understand their feelings; I just couldn't understand why they couldn't suppress that emotion.
They are players like the heavens to me, both in the past and now.
They are players who surely couldn't be unable to think what I'm thinking.
But I couldn't understand why they were doing that.
Then for just the remaining 45 minutes, just as I acknowledged that Real Madrid players are people like me.
Wouldn't it be good to acknowledge that my teammates are also just people like me?
I approached the second half with that thought.
"Again!"
I decided to forcibly exclude the thought of 'how dare I' that kept arising.
Acting like I know better and taking charge is what I hate the most.
But I thought that when I have to step up, I must, and so I raised my voice.
"Left!"
Even when De Bruyne had the ball, I pointed out the pass direction with my hand.
It's something unimaginable.
Who am I to tell him what to do?
But I believed now was the time to do so, and I did.
Because after the 20th minute of the first half, they weren't the teammates I knew.
Pa-aang—!
Pa-aang—!
Yes.
We just have to do as we were doing.
Feeling unfair, or things strangely not working out, are nothing but illusions we created.
There is no reason to be swayed by them.
Pa-aang—!
A pass circulating in midfield smoothly stirs through the space between opponents.
I see empty space on the right.
I stab it without hesitation.
Pa-aang—!
It connects accurately to Foden.
Tatatat—!
While Foden controls the ball, I run toward the box.
And after assessing the opponent defenders' situation, I approach Foden and shout.
"Here!"
Right now, it seemed I was the one filled with the most confidence.