The match was over, but the spectators didn’t seem to have any intention of going home. As we circled the stadium to greet them, not a single gap could be seen. Only the away section stood empty; the home fans remained in their seats, sending applause our way.
Thanks to that, our greetings lasted for a long time, and I nearly ended up singing in front of the crowd. The seniors had pushed me forward, telling me to try singing the supporters’ song.
But fortunately, no such disaster occurred. That was because the coach pulled me away at just the right time. It was for an interview.
Honestly, I’m not sure if this is any better. Standing alone in front of a crowd singing or standing before pitch-black cameras are pretty much the same thing.
When will I ever get used to so many cameras? I gulp.
“Just do it like you did before the match.” “···”
Standing and waiting in front of advertising boards plastered with ads, the reporter who had been preparing for the interview smirks and speaks. Is he talking about the interview from two days ago?
These people don’t carry cameras and microphones around for nothing. Amplifying someone’s words and broadcasting them far and wide is their job.
That’s why they love things hot.
“Uno, due, tre!”
At the staff member’s signal, the red lights on the cameras begin to come on. Matching the timing, I swallow once and grip the microphone.
“Yes! We are live at the Serie A Round 25 match between Fiorentina and Atalanta. Let’s have an interview with today’s protagonist of the match. Hello!”
I nod at the greeting.
“4-1, today you perfectly dominated Atalanta. Ri, you were at the center of it all. It was an incredible performance. So your absence last week certainly wasn’t due to an injury?” “Yes. It wasn’t.”
As I’ve said many times—I decided not to add that. Because it’s a good day.
“If I may make a bold remark, it was the best performance. Let me tell you today’s stats. Ri, pass success rate of 87.4 percent. Eight successful dribbles. One goal and two assists. Total rating of 9.7. Hmm, where did the remaining 0.3 points go? I suppose the machine failed to catch the romance score.”
The reporter bursts out laughing, then continues.
“Let’s start with the goal. Do you remember what the situation was like?”
At the reporter’s question, I recall that moment for a moment. Then, slight goosebumps rise. I shrug my shoulders and answer.
“It was exactly as we trained. When I received the ball in the center, both sides had promised to push deep forward. So I sent the pass, and it was the same afterward.” “Hmm, I see.”
In my heart, I wanted to exclaim, “The field was laid out clearly before me! It felt like I had become a god!” But I answered calmly.
Then the reporter looks at me with visible disappointment, but I have no intention of giving them what they want. Sorry, but I’m not in that sensitive state I was in back then.
“Actually, what was more surprising today were the assist scenes, right? It was almost like watching Spanish midfielders. I felt like my eyes were opened. You dominated the second half with sharp passes; do you personally prefer playing in a deeper position?”
To the follow-up question, I likewise take plenty of time before falling into thought. It seems like a plain question at first glance, but these people are never the type to ask plain questions.
Having been caught in their sly schemes and spouting unintended nonsense more than once or twice, I answered after thinking twice.
“Today, my teammates’ play was excellent. Everyone wanted to win, and we had the ability to do so. I don’t care about position. If it can help the team, I can play anywhere.”
···How’s that? After finishing my answer, I glance at the reporter, feeling rather pleased with myself. I had imagined him clicking his tongue in disappointment at the bland answer··· but for some reason, he just smiles broadly.
“‘Can play anywhere.’ What tremendous confidence. I love it.”
···Why did he skip the part before that, “If it can help the team”? It’s a completely different meaning.
“Now, let’s talk about the next match. You’ll be facing Juventus. In the first half of the season, you won against them, but this time the situation is a bit different. Because Vlahović, who helped forge that victory together with you, is now on their side.”
Ugh. I’m starting to get touchy again. I maintain my composure as best as I can and listen to the reporter’s question until the end.
“A word about your resolve for the next match, please. Or you could say something to your former teammate Vlahović.”
Hmm. He could’ve just asked about my resolve; tacking that on at the end essentially means he’s asking me to say something to Vlahović.
These sly people. If I say one word, they’ll fan the flames with it again. Such tiresome people.
“···”
I lower the mic in my hand for a moment to carefully consider my answer and look around.
Whether it was consideration for me during the interview, the cheering that had been ringing loud enough to make my ears numb has now quieted down. But the fans remain in their seats, looking at me.
Suddenly, the thought I had before the match comes to mind once more.
I am a flower.
Because I’m young and play in a position that scores goals, I easily draw attention.
A flower is the fruit of everyone’s labor.
So if I don’t stand out brilliantly, those who worked silently for that result will be upset.
The fans watching me will feel that way. They’ll want our team’s flower to be the most beautiful and splendid; they won’t want to see it look shabby compared to other flowers.
“I···”
I slowly open my mouth. My head was a bit of a mess from making all sorts of far-fetched metaphors, but I organized my thoughts as calmly as possible.
So, in the end. As long as I’m wearing a Fiorentina uniform, my conclusion was that I cannot afford to be humble in this answer.
“I liked Vlahović. Every match where I synced up with him is a good memory. He always looked out for me well, and I learned a lot from him. The reason I, who came up to the first team knowing nothing, could play in matches was because he was up front.”
Organize, organize. After sorting out the words that keep getting jumbled, I continue my answer.
“So even now, I don’t hate him. I’m just disappointed. Because I wanted to play together longer. But I was dumped. So··· sorry, but I hope he regrets it when the next match is over.”
Pouring out words as they come to me, I run out of breath. I catch my breath and add:
“For leaving this beautiful place.”
This was a question concerning the pride of Florence and Fiorentina, and I was wearing a Fiorentina uniform. So there was no way someone like me could act humble.
*
“······You’re ugly.”
While soaking my feet in ice water, my true feelings slip out without realizing. Left foot, right foot, sorry. But you guys really are ugly.
Right? My toes are a bit crooked, calluses are plastered all over, and today there’s even a bruise under my toenail, so you’re really, really ugly, hey.
But what can I do? You were born as my feet.
“···Sorry.”
So I’m sorry. You probably weren’t born this ugly at first. If you had met a good owner, your toes wouldn’t be crooked, and you’d boast smoothness without a single callus.
You suffered because you met a bad owner.
Still··· let’s suffer just a bit more from now on. Thanks to you, I can walk around with my head held high, and the fans like me too. Thank you.
So, I’ll torment you just a bit more. Bear with me. I’m even doing an ice pack for you, which I wouldn’t do for my face, because I feel sorry. Let’s hang in there just a bit more. Okay?
“Dinner’s ready!” “······Yeah, okay.”
At Jiu’s voice calling from the living room, I stop my little performance and stand up. I dump the ice water from the basin, dry my feet, and as I come out of the bathroom, a delicious smell hits me.
Evenings with Jiu are always something to look forward to and enjoyable.
···Because I’m curious what the menu is today.
“Curry?” “Yeah! Smells good, right?” “Does curry count as Western food?” “Dunno. This is just Kim Jiu-style.”
I chuckle and sit down. What would a culinary major’s curry taste like? At first glance, it looks perfect. No carrots in sight, potatoes and meat piled high.
“Actually, curry is no big deal. Just slap in loads of meat! It can’t not be delicious.”
At Jiu’s words, I without thinking glance at Dad sitting next to me. When our eyes meet, Dad clears his throat.
The curry Dad made for me long ago··· I still can’t forget that taste.
In many ways, it’s a real blessing that Jiu came here.
“How is it? Delicious, right?” “······Yeah.”
The moment I take a bite, Jiu asks with wide eyes; when I nod, she lets out a sigh of relief. Then she giggles and starts scooping rice into her mouth too.
Come to think of it, it’s a strange thing. No one asked her, yet she comes over and cooks such delicious food for free (though of course I pay for the ingredients). I should always be thanking her, yet Jiu is the one who feels grateful at just one word saying it’s delicious.
I once talked to her about this before. I asked if it wasn’t hard coming over to cook like this, and Jiu said this:
She said she’s most proud when someone enjoys the food she made. She said seeing someone else eat something delicious and be happy is happier than eating something delicious herself.
It might sound funny to say this, but hearing that, I thought I was similar. Because I’m happier seeing the people around me happy than being happy alone.
“You looked like you were in good condition today?”
Jiu asks while devouring the meat curry. I shrug.
“Not particularly good.” “Huh? Really? I thought you looked good. You played so well.” “I should’ve scored one more goal.” “Scoring one is enough. You had two assists too.”
At Jiu’s words that one goal and two assists is good, I firmly shake my head.
“It’s me. I should’ve scored more.” “Geez··· I just lost my appetite.”
Though she pretends to put down her spoon, Jiu giggles.
Hmm. I thought today I’d feel less guilty. Seems I’m still lacking. It stings a bit. I need to work harder.
“Then score two in the next match. No, three.” “Yeah.” “You promised? Promise?” “···I need to eat more.”
“Rice? Ooh, must be really delicious? Hand me your bowl. I’ll serve you.”
Whew. Successfully changed the subject. Promises aren’t something to make lightly.
“Here!” “Thanks.”
The curry in the bowl, almost the same amount as the first serving, is a bit burdensome, but for muscle recovery and growth, I wordlessly pick up the spoon again.
“Ah, but since you mentioned a promise, it suddenly reminded me. Sir, my cousin got engaged last year, and she’s getting married next year.”
“Really? How old is your cousin?”
“Uh··· she’s nine years older than me, so she’s twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five? That’s pretty early?”
The flow of the dinner table is always like this. Jiu holds the directional keys, and she always turns them impromptu. The topic suddenly shifts from my match to her cousin’s marriage. There’s no build-up.
“But you know what’s funny?” “What?”
“In our family, that’s not very fast. My other sisters got married even earlier. The earliest was my mom.” “How old was your mother?” “Twenty-two. Totally crazy, right?” “Wow, that’s crazy.”
Dad does a good job of assisting from the side, so even when Jiu turns directions wildly, it doesn’t show too much. Dad is definitely more skilled at conversation than me. I guess married men are different, after all.
······Past tense, though.
“But why did they all do it so early? Is there a particular reason?”
“Hmm, not really. It’s just that since everyone does it early, it naturally turns out that way? And my sister who’s getting married this time, her dream since she was little was to get married early.”
“Her dream was to get married early? Why?”
At Dad’s repeated question, Jiu tilts her head once, then smiles bashfully and says:
“That sister likes cooking at home and stuff. She said her dream is to wait for her husband at home, and when he comes, make him something delicious. So she wanted to get married quickly.”
“Really? That’s fun. Haha.”
Warm and cheerful. I quietly listen to the two of them laughing and chatting about what’s so funny, then suddenly I can’t help but tilt my head.
······Huh?