Paaaang-!
In front of the box.
Foden passes the ball, and the moment it touches my foot.
Suddenly, I wonder if perhaps all of this is actually a dream.
Because if it weren’t,
there is no way I would feel this confident.
It is the Champions League final, and the opponents are Real Madrid players.
Such incredible beings that simply standing on the same pitch feels unbelievable are blocking my path.
But strangely.
That wall doesn’t look so high.
It looks manageable, as if I could leap over it if I ran with all my might.
Why?
I don’t know.
Honestly, there is no way to make sense of this except that it is all a dream.
In a dream, once you realize it is a dream, don’t you suddenly gain the confidence that you can do anything?
That is how it is now.
That is right.
This is a dream.
It is a dream, and it was also a dream.
So let’s try doing whatever I want.
Tat-tat-!
I charge toward the layered, overlapping defense with the ball on my right foot.
The defenders, crouched low, emit a menacing aura as if to say I absolutely cannot get through.
But I am not particularly scared.
Tat-!
I leave the flow to instinct.
I do not want to wring my brain dry trying to think.
I have decided to simply entrust my body to Him.
To Him who comes occasionally and takes my body away.
There was a time when I resented Him.
Why does He steal my body and do things with it that even I cannot do?
Because of that, there were more than one or two times I suffered from strange misunderstandings.
There were times I resented Him for entering my body and doing things beyond my ability.
But not now.
I have decided to accept it.
That it is not just the usual me who is me, but He who comes sometimes is also another me.
This is me, and that is also me.
Since both are me anyway, it is better to leave it to Him, who is much better than me right now.
Tat-tat-!
Pretending to take a blatant shot, I draw my right foot back wide, and the defender twists his upper body, hands behind his back.
Paaaang-!
Taking that opening, I cut to the right.
The opponent, fooled by the shooting motion and momentarily off-balance, tries to turn and chase, but I feel certain I can get past him easily enough.
I push right through.
Tat-tat-tat-!
I get past the defender and enter the box.
But that is not the end.
There is another defender coming in to cover.
A defender who had been blocking the path, seemingly conscious of Haaland to my left, rushes forward to block me.
To exploit that opponent’s movement, I cut to the left.
Paaaang-!
I wrap my right foot around the ball, controlling it so that it rolls behind my left foot.
At the same time, as I turn and open my body to the left, the rushing defender cannot overcome his own momentum and overshoots me.
The shooting angle opens up.
It is the most perfect position and timing to strike with my left foot toward the far post.
Quickly adjusting my steps, I look toward the left side of the goal and dash toward the ball.
Bbaaaaang-!
And I strike it to the right.
The keeper dives, timing his fall to the left, but the shot goes the opposite way.
…Good grief.
No wonder misunderstandings kept piling up all this time.
I was clearly trying to hit it to the left, but He struck it to the right.
It doesn’t feel like something I did.
Swoooosh-
Thwack-!
Still, it is fine.
People will think this was me anyway.
And now, it can no longer even be called a misunderstanding.
Because I think so too.
Waaaaaaaah─!
Starting from behind the goal, the fans occupying half the stands jump up and down, cheering.
Arms spread wide, I run along the goal line, meeting that roar.
I respond to the cheers proudly.
Because the long misunderstanding has been resolved, there was nothing to be ashamed of, no reason to feel uncomfortable.
I fully enjoyed the cheers of tens of thousands as myself.
*
Anything can happen on the pitch.
A player no one paid attention to might stand out the most, and a player everyone watched might fail to do anything at all.
And sometimes, a player who seemed stronger than anyone might collapse helplessly.
“How is it, the pain?”
“…”
“Does it hurt?”
“…”
The 17th minute of the second half.
While the game is briefly stopped, everyone is gathered together with serious expressions.
The equalizer had gone in just five minutes ago.
It is a time when we should be riding momentum, but we are not.
All the heat has drained away, leaving only coldness.
“No, don’t move. Stay still.”
“….”
It was because Haaland had collapsed, clutching his ankle.
He had seemed to collide while contesting the ball with an opponent, but contrary to expectations that he would get up soon, Haaland could not.
Thanks to that, the team doctor who had rushed over is examining his ankle.
Looking at the grave atmosphere, I keep getting ominous premonitions.
And that ominous premonition soon becomes reality.
“…”
The doctor examining Haaland’s ankle crosses both arms toward the bench.
An X sign meaning it does not look good.
The moment they confirm that sign, everyone wipes their faces, and I see the manager on the bench doing the same.
“FUCK!”
Of course, the most devastated is Haaland himself.
Perhaps unable to accept the reality that he cannot play on, he pounds the ground with his fist, venting his frustration.
I do not dare offer him any words of comfort in the face of that.
I do not think any comfort would be comforting right now.
“…”
“…”
It seems not just me but everyone is the same, only turning their heads away in silence.
A stretcher is entering from outside the pitch, but I do not have the courage to watch Haaland being carried away on it.
With no other choice, I turn my head away too.
A cruel silence passes.
I want to look away, but looking away does not make it as if it never happened.
Because this is reality, not a fairy tale.
Matters are handled coldly.
Haaland is carried out on the stretcher, and we scatter to our positions without even time to despair.
And the referee restarts the match.
Thus, we are forced to focus on playing the ball again.
Paaaang-!
Paaaang-!
Though nothing will serve as comfort.
If there is a best comfort to be had, it would be winning this match.
I cannot even dare imagine how disappointed he would be if the team lost while he was out.
To ensure that does not happen, I have no choice but to pour all my focus into what is before me now.
It is cruel, but the world is cruel by nature.
Paaaang-!
But it is not as easy as it sounds.
Silva’s pass is intercepted by the opponent.
Due to a rare mistake from Silva, who hardly ever gives the ball away, possession changes, and we helplessly fall back to take up defensive positions.
Because the accident happened so unexpectedly, it will take quite some time for the substitute to come on.
Until then, we have no choice but to fight with ten men.
It is frustrating and regrettable that the momentum we had been building has slipped away, but this is no time to whine about such things.
Paaaang-!
Paaaang-!
Without pressure, the opponent comfortably passes the ball around and begins creeping forward.
Watching them, I feel as if I am seeing a person who was just laughing heartily suddenly turn dead serious.
The pressure is considerable, just as it is scarier when someone who does not usually do so turns serious.
If there is any fortune, it is that the opponent does not seem able to break through easily either.
Rather than boldly attacking by targeting our ten-man state, they approach carefully.
Although we are ten, everyone has dropped into the defensive area, so it will not be easy for them to find large gaps.
However, on one hand, that also feels like composure.
As if we will not suffer much even if time passes like this.
Having conceded the initiative, we focus on defense with the mindset of isolated soldiers simply waiting for reinforcements.
Beep-!
A few minutes later.
While the ball briefly goes out of play, reinforcements arrive.
Julian Alvarez, who will fill Haaland’s void, quickly runs on, and we are eleven again.
Feeling how solid the strength of one man is, just as the void of one man was enormous, we restart the match.
But reclaiming the momentum that had once retreated was not easy.
As if the opponent had not been unable to do it, but had simply chosen not to.
They spent time leisurely passing the ball, having taken the initiative.
We also needed time to adapt to the sudden substitution, so it was fortunate, but what was unwelcome was that we were all feeling awkward that the ball was with the opponent, not us.
Since we were merely chasing the opponent, a flow where the tempo felt off continued.
It was a situation and a time where both sides had no choice but to be cautious.
The very last moments where everything could be decided by a single goal.
One might step forward to become a hero only to become a traitor.
And summoning the courage to endure that is naturally not easy.
To win big, one must bet big.
It is not something just anyone can do.
The 30th minute.
The 35th minute.
The 40th minute.
Time flows by quickly.
Coming to my senses, there are only five minutes left until the end of regular time.
Of course, there will actually be more than that remaining.
Because the time the game was stopped due to Haaland’s injury was at least five minutes.
Now, everything will truly be decided by a one-goal battle.
The more so, the more cautious everyone becomes.
Neither side can easily break through, nor can they easily be broken.
The opponent must be just as scared as we are.
“Six minutes!”
“Six minutes!”
Players who saw the fourth official’s board tell each other the added time.
Six minutes of added time are given.
If nothing happens during those six minutes, we will be given another thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes total, fifteen each for extra time.
Paaaang-!
Paaaang-!
As if some silent agreement had been reached, the added time flows.
Whether us or the opponent, even when we get the ball, rather than attacking boldly, we prioritize keeping possession and glance at the scoreboard.
A silent agreement that it would be better to take another thirty minutes to decide the match than to rashly bet an entire season on six minutes.
The stakes are too high to gamble.
One more coin was needed.
It was when the added time had nearly run out with that feeling in the air.
It was the opponent who first broke the silent agreement and struck treacherously.
Paaaaang-!
While slowly passing the ball in midfield, at a time when most players had their feet on the ground.
A sudden pass stabs into our half.
Swoooosh-
A pass that finds a gap, as if it had been hidden for this very moment, heads near the box.
And at the end of that pass is Vinicius, who has already hurt us once.
Tat-tat-!
Vinicius begins using his speed.
At this, the defensive line wavers, and cracks soon form.
Cold sweat runs down at the gaps visible everywhere, enough to send chills down my spine.
One wrong step and everything collapses.
But the scarier it is, the tighter I keep my head.
We are walking a tightrope, but so is the opponent.
Running toward the defensive area, I turn my head to check the situation behind me while dropping back.
If we stop them, we too will get one chance.
The opponent, having bet everything on this last attack, is pushing everyone into the attacking area.
One of us will be left empty-handed.
And the one who got greedier was the opponent.
Paaaang-!
Vinicius, attempting a dribble breakthrough, falls.
But it is not a foul.
Walker, having subdued Vinicius with a legitimate tackle, drags the ball and quickly breaks out.
Tat-tat-tat-!
I was already running toward the opponent’s half one step ahead.
And to me, Walker sends his trust.
Paaaaang-!
Walker’s pass heads toward the wide-open space ahead, and I run toward that pass with all my might.
With a defender running right beside me, I clench my teeth so hard they feel like they will crack.
Chasing it with every ounce of strength, thinking that ball is the trophy itself.
Paaaang-!
Thanks to that, I catch up to the ball.
However, having used all my strength, I judge that it is too much to resolve alone.
Fortunately, I do not have to do it all alone.
Paaaang-!
I send a pass to Alvarez on the left.
And again, I infiltrate toward the box.
While the defense chases only the ball without being set, I find space and enter.
Alvarez spots me like that.
Paaaang-!
The final pass flows in, and I receive it on the left side inside the box with one defender at my back.
And as if I will turn to the right,
Tat-tat-!
I turn to the left, opening up a right-footed shooting angle.
This, if I just hit it.
Without even needing to kick it that hard, if I just hit it accurately, it is over.
It is the moment I can end everything with my foot.
Ignoring my heart that feels like it will burst, just as I am gathering all my body’s strength and focus into my right foot.
“Ugh!”
…My body falls backward.
I see the sky due to some unknown force, and soon feel an impact on my back.
I just had to strike it.
I could not strike it.
At the moment when I wonder if there is anyone in the world more frustrated than me.
Bbeeeeeeeep-!
I see the referee running while blowing a long whistle.
Reaching into the pocket on his chest.
The referee showed a red card to the opponent who pulled me down, and at the same time declared a penalty kick.