I Want to Become an Adult -2
“Yaaaaawn…”
I get off the bus with a yawn so massive it feels like my jaw might dislocate.
Ugh. I’m sleepy.
Nnngh.
I stretch my arms out wide, trying to shake off the drowsiness, but it doesn’t fade easily.
Why am I so sleepy?
I usually don’t sleep on the bus, but today I nodded off the whole way here.
Looks like it’s because I didn’t sleep well last night.
“Thank you.”
After bowing to the staff member taking out our luggage, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head to our accommodation.
Following a trip of just over three hours, we arrived at our away destination: Rome.
“Tired?”
“Ah, I’m fine.”
“Let’s go in and get some good rest.”
“Yes.”
According to the seniors, among domestic away fixtures, the trip to Rome is considered one of the toughest.
For one, AS Roma is a pretty good team. There’s also the fact that they don’t match up well with us, which makes for a difficult game every time.
But if there’s one more reason, it’s that Rome is the farthest away destination we travel to by bus.
Honestly, if you look at a map, Florence and Rome aren’t all that far apart.
Compared to places like Crotone down at the southern tip, or Cagliari on Sardinia, an island far removed from the mainland, Rome is practically next door.
But interestingly, they say the Rome trip takes longer than the Cagliari trip. In terms of travel time only, that is.
That’s because the Rome trip is by bus, while the Cagliari trip is by plane.
In other words, ironically, the reason Rome is the most exhausting away destination is that it’s not far enough to fly to.
—We were promised they’d arrange flights to Rome too if we at least made the Conference League. Sorry us useless seniors couldn’t come through.
I don’t know the exact details, but I know our team doesn’t have that much money.
At least compared to teams like Juventus, the two Milan clubs, and Napoli.
Those teams are incredibly popular, have sponsors pouring in, play well and enter lots of competitions, so they have money. But we don’t.
If we qualified for the UEFA Europa Conference League, one of the European competitions, the club promised to increase flight support, but…
Last season we finished 13th and couldn’t earn the ticket, so this year too, we ended up taking the bus more than planes.
…Given our circumstances, is it really okay for me to be receiving such a high weekly wage?
There are so many reasons I have to play soccer well, in so many ways.
“Here. You know how to use a key card, right?”
“…I do.”
“Go up first and get some rest.”
“Yes, thank you.”
After receiving the card with my room number on it from the lobby, I take the elevator and head to my room.
The other seniors didn’t seem tired, already deep in conversation in the lobby, so I was alone.
Today I get a room to myself too. Because I’m in the starting lineup tomorrow. Single rooms are apparently a privilege reserved only for expected starters.
I wonder if it’s okay for the youngest player to enjoy such luxury. Regardless, my determination to do well tomorrow grows even stronger because of it.
“Room 812… Room 812…”
Why is this hotel layout so complicated? I had to wander the hallway for quite a while to find my room.
I have no idea why room 821 is right next to 807.
“…There it is.”
I finally spot room 812 at the end of the hallway and try to open the door, but now the door is the problem.
Why did they give me a card instead of a key?
I don’t see anywhere to insert it, or anywhere to swipe it…
*Beep.*
…Ah.
So I just had to hold it against the reader.
Scratching my head, I stepped inside.
· · ·
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.”
“How’s your condition? Nothing bothering you?”
While I’m getting ready for the match in the locker room, the coach comes over and asks me.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
When I answer that I’m fine, the coach nods and begins explaining my role for today.
It’s all content I already went over in training, and he’s just confirming it, but I listen attentively anyway.
“You understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good. I’m counting on you. Let’s go with confidence.”
Even after the coach leaves, I keep murmuring to myself, recalling the tactics.
What kind of football Roma plays, who I need to watch out for, how we need to attack them, and so on.
I know it all by heart now, so reviewing it seems unnecessary, but I needed something to focus on right now.
To be honest, my condition isn’t that great.
Compared to last week or the week before, my body feels heavy. It feels like I’ve already been running for about twenty minutes.
I told the coach I slept well, but the truth is I couldn’t sleep properly last night. I suspect that’s why my body feels heavy.
Maybe it’s because I dozed off the entire bus ride. Even though it was past my usual bedtime, I couldn’t fall asleep easily.
Of course, the bigger reason was the nerves and worry about today’s match.
Random thoughts kept filling my head, making it a mess.
So I ended up exercising in my room to work up a sweat before going to bed.
“Alright, let’s go. Let’s go!”
“Let’s go!”
Anyway, that’s not what I should be worrying about now.
The match is about to start.
The seniors clapped and shouted encouragement as they filed out of the locker room, and I followed behind them.
After waiting briefly in the tunnel, we walked out onto the pitch led by the captain at the front.
Waaaaaah-!
As soon as we exited the tunnel, a massive roar washed over us. Glancing around, I saw nothing but a sea of burgundy. In places, red flares were releasing acrid smoke.
Our purple was visible in only one corner of the stands, a tiny handful at best.
This place, Stadio Olimpico, Rome’s home ground, accommodates over seventy thousand spectators, or so I’ve heard.
The chants of tens of thousands of home fans felt like they were crushing us.
The atmosphere definitely looked intimidating.
In many ways, today felt like a day when I’d need to keep my wits about me more than ever.
“Good game.”
“Good game.”
Soon, I passed by the opposing players, exchanging handshakes.
I avoided making eye contact with them, simply looking down at our hands as I shook them, but with one player, I did look him in the eye.
Number 7, Lorenzo Pellegrini.
I’d heard his name so much during training that I wanted to see his face at least once.
Up close, he looked about ten centimeters taller than me, and quite robust.
The reason this player concerned me so much was that he plays the same position as me.
The middle of the ‘3’ in a 4-2-3-1 formation.
An attacking midfielder, or a false nine.
Thanks to that, today I was in a position where I would inevitably be compared to him throughout the match.
Because the flow of the game would change depending on who contributed more to the attack.
Of course, it wouldn’t be easy.
I’d heard that Pellegrini is an incredibly good player.
They said he’s currently Roma’s ace, a player who accounts for the bulk of their strength.
For me to even be compared to a great player like that, I had no choice but to play at two hundred percent.
I decided to pour that extra one hundred percent into defense.
The manager hadn’t given me a separate defensive role in the last match or the one before, but today was different.
He said I should be the first to stop Pellegrini when he drops back to get involved in the buildup.
So today was a day I had to run harder than ever.
After finishing the handshakes with the opponents, I gathered with my teammates, shouted in encouragement, took a deep breath, and waited for the match to begin.
*Ppeeeeeeep-!*
And the match began with the opponent’s kickoff.
*Thud-*
*Thud-!*
The opponent started the match by slowly circulating the ball from the back.
Be that as it may, I moved with my eyes fixed solely on their number 7.
If he pushed up deep into our half, then he was no longer my responsibility, but if he dropped back, I became the primary marker.
Since we had decided not to press high and to wait and defend for the first half, I stayed near Pellegrini, ready to react to his movements at any moment.
Of course, he didn’t seem particularly mindful of me, but regardless.
It was while I was waging that battle of wits on my own.
*Tat-tat-tat-!*
“…!”
Pellegrini, who had shown no significant movement, finally made his move.
I immediately followed him.
Seeing him move toward the halfway line, he seemed to be thinking of dropping back to help with the first-phase buildup.
Since I often make those kinds of plays myself, I know when it’s most difficult for the opponent.
So conversely, I just had to do the same to him.
*Wham-!*
I saw the opposing center-back immediately play the ball to Pellegrini.
The moment I saw that, I checked my surroundings and stuck tight to Pellegrini’s back.
The primary goal was, as expected, to prevent him from immediately turning after receiving the ball.
The best way to do that was to stick close before the ball even reached him, getting on his nerves.
The point was to make him psychologically uncomfortable.
Because that makes it harder for him to attempt something challenging.
*Thud-!*
I stuck right behind him, subtly pushing his back with my hand to make a nuisance of myself.
To be honest, I pushed quite hard, but he didn’t budge an inch with his back turned.
He reached back with his own arm to block me, and because of that, I actually felt like I was the one being pushed away.
*Wham-!*
Still, perhaps my defense created some mental resistance, because Pellegrini, having received the ball with his back to me, sent it back with a back pass.
I had succeeded in preventing him from turning immediately.
Seeing such a great player make the safe choice against my mere defense gave me a brief moment of satisfaction.
*Tat-tat-tat-!*
But there was no time to savor it.
Because Pellegrini, after playing the back pass, was on the move again.
This time he moved to the left.
I followed right behind him, taking up my position.
And then another pass was played toward him.
This time too, as the ball rolled toward him, I tried to stick to his back…
“…Kuk.”
Unlike before, this time he pushed his back against my chest first.
Because I was pushed back in that moment, he received the ball and quickly turned.
Damn. If I’d eaten one more meal yesterday, could I have held my ground without being pushed back?
Regardless, I maintained about two steps of distance and lowered my stance.
I may have allowed him to turn, but if I didn’t allow a forward pass, it would still be fine.
“…”
I could see Pellegrini glancing around, looking for an open man.
But he wouldn’t find one.
I had already checked the positions of our teammates and their players, and I was standing in the only passing lane available.
At this rate, his only choice would be another back pass…
*Tat-tat-tat-!*
No.
Pellegrini started dribbling the ball straight at me.
Was he thinking of breaking through simply, without overcomplicating it?
I lowered my stance even further and fixed my eyes on his legs.
I’d heard that his dribbling wasn’t at an amazingly elite level.
So I could stop it.
Sure enough.
He glanced behind me and knocked the ball to my right, running after it.
There had been no notable feint, so reacting wasn’t difficult.
I quickly turned my body to the right, getting into the path of the ball first.
Even if the ball had already passed, I just had to stop the man…
“…Kugh!”
…the moment I thought that, my balance crumbled and my upper body pitched forward.
I barely kept from falling by putting my hands down, but I was already completely beaten.
I lifted my head belatedly, and the number 7 on his back came into view. He had already gotten past me, dribbling the ball forward.
To think I allowed a breakthrough against such a simple, crude dribble, all because I lacked the strength.
“Che cazzo…”
Choked up by that fact, a curse slipped out before I knew it.
*
I couldn’t stop Pellegrini easily, but regardless, our defense was quite solid.
There were the occasional direct shots from Pellegrini or attempts by their striker, Tammy Abraham, but we didn’t easily allow a goal.
But that was only a stroke of good fortune.
I had no choice but to keep playing in a foul mood.
Even after the first time I allowed Pellegrini to break through, I let similar scenes happen several more times.
I was pushed aside in aerial duels or second-ball battles and conceded possession, and there were times when I predicted his breakthrough direction but my outstretched leg was too short to reach the ball.
Even in the rare attacking situations we had, it was the same.
Whenever I got the ball, Pellegrini disrupted me in the exact same way I had been doing to him.
He withstood or broke through my defense with his body, but I couldn’t do the same.
So I had no choice but to think harder and run an extra step or two.
Even when I barely managed to get past him a few times and succeeded in playing a forward pass, it never led to a threatening scene.
As that kept happening, I felt my strength drain away, thinking that in the end I was just wasting my stamina.
Honestly, it was frustrating.
If I’d been beaten without knowing, I could have reflected on it, but getting beaten despite knowing was more infuriating.
It really was an irritating first half in every way.
*Beep, beeep-!*
Anyway, the first half ended 0-0.
In terms of results, it had been a reasonably successful first half for the team.
But I came off the field still fuming.
If we’d met about two years later, no, even just one year later, I wouldn’t have been pushed around like this.
If I’d met him when I was an adult, I feel like I would have won.
It’s really frustrating. If we’re talking purely about skill…
“…”
Murmuring like that to myself, I was suddenly surprised at my own thoughts.
I had definitely just thought:
If we’re talking purely about soccer skill, I think I’m better, and that’s why it’s frustrating.
“…Ha.”
I exhaled roughly and headed toward the locker room.
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