Smack-!
The moment I trap the ball with the instep, I turn toward the front.
Tap, tap-!
I check the movement ahead and dribble forward.
To the left, I see Saponara making a wide run to the side; to the right, Romero dropping deep before penetrating the center.
The opposing defense responds by slowly retreating and holding their positions.
Their numbers are overwhelming.
Everyone except one attacker is positioned in the defensive zone, so a passing lane worth piercing is hard to find.
However, despite having so many defenders, none of them rush at me while I have the ball.
Just two or three midfielders maintain a certain distance from me and guard the passing lanes.
From their movement, I can see their thinking: they've drawn a certain line, allowing me to approach up to that line while defending the zone beyond it.
I suppose they've judged that I don't have the kicking power to shoot from long distance.
Tap, tap-!
To check how far that line drawn by Empoli extends, I continue dribbling forward slowly.
But the defense still doesn't break from their positions; they just hold their ground.
At this point, it starts to feel like provocation—an invitation to try breaking through alone or shoot if I can.
Responding to such an opponent's intention isn't a good choice, but in this situation, I have no choice but to draw my right foot back widely.
To pull out defenders with heavy hips, I have to show them that I can shoot.
Tap-tap-
When I gently knock the ball long and take large strides, only then do the defenders step forward.
Regardless, I place the ball on my right instep.
Thwaaaaack-!
Swoooooosh-
The shot flies through the gap in the defense.
However, it doesn't head into the goal.
Smaaack-!!
It was an on-target shot, but it deflects off the diving goalkeeper's hand after he threw himself at it.
I had succeeded in shooting through the defenders, but the opposing goalkeeper wasn't a fool and had guarded that gap well.
I raise my hand to apologize to my teammates.
"Nice shooting, nice shooting!"
"Good! Today is the youngest's shooting training day! Shoot all you want!"
Even after the failed shot, the seniors clap and send me encouragement.
Fueled by that encouragement, thinking that I have to take the next corner kick more sharply, I head toward the corner flag.
"Good! Let's go!"
"Ri! Show us one!"
Standing at the corner flag, I hear the fans' voices right behind me.
Focusing more because of those voices, I keep my eyes on the area in front of the goal.
Then, raising my hand, I send the sign for the promise we had arranged during training, and take the corner kick.
Thwaaaaack-!
Low and fast, as if it would be sucked into the goal with just the slightest touch.
Swoooosh-
Our team's center-back duo charges in from behind and leaps toward that corner kick.
However, that attempt also goes over the goal post.
"It hit me and went out! I'm telling you it hit me and went out!"
Senior Milenkovic protests after heading the ball, but even from far away, I can see it hit his head and went out.
Thanks to that, his protest is cleanly ignored, and we return to our own half.
I too quickly run toward my position.
My mind is already impatient, and the opponent committing everything to defense makes me even more impatient.
*
Thwaaaaack-!
From somewhat far away.
I send a free kick earned from the right side of the opponent's half long into the box.
Swoooooosh-
The ball drops into the middle of the swarming players.
In that chaotic situation where I wouldn't dare stand, the ball bounces around like a pinball before finally crossing the goal line.
Another corner kick.
The scoreboard clock has only just passed 20 minutes, but this is already the sixth corner kick.
"Huu-"
I exhale and run to the corner flag.
It's not something I'd say in front of the seniors who have to wrestle with the defenders in the box, but taking all the free kicks and corner kicks isn't exactly an easy task either.
Especially in a match like today.
"I think it's about time we put one in!"
"Just shoot it directly! Their heads are completely off today!"
As I shake out my legs preparing for the corner kick, I hear the spectators' voices.
Perhaps because I've come to the corner flag so many times in a short period, even the fans who cheered fiercely at first are now starting to sound a bit frustrated.
I need to put one in quickly.
Only then can the flow of this game and the fans' frustration be relieved.
Since I'm the one most frustrated by this situation, I focus even more on this corner kick.
"..."
Just as I'm about to take a run-up for the corner kick, I pause and stop my feet.
Unknowingly, I had been putting strength into it.
Tensing up thinking you have to kick hard doesn't produce a good kick. To kick hard, you actually have to kick lightly, focusing on impact.
But just now, I had felt strength entering my leg, so I had to stop momentarily.
"Huu-"
I catch my breath again, shake out my leg, and prepare to kick once more.
And then... lightly-
Thwaaaaack-!
The corner kick strikes the bottom of the ball and heads toward the front of the goal, and as I watch its trajectory, I can be certain.
I see Milenkovic charging in and leaping from behind, and I see the exact point where his head and the ball's trajectory meet.
Swoooooosh-
Sure enough.
Baaaang-!
Thwack-!!
Finally, Empoli's net ripples.
Waaaaaaah-!!
At the same time, the stands erupt as well, and I too clench my fist slightly and let out a sigh.
There's still a long way to go... but for now, I've got one.
*
I had thought that once we scored one goal, the flow of the match would change completely.
No matter how much Empoli had come out with an all-out defensive tactic, I didn't think they could maintain that attitude while trailing by a goal.
However, until the first half ended, Empoli did not change their defensive shape, and only occasionally threatened with counterattacks, frustrating us.
"Good work, good work!"
Returning to the locker room amid encouragement from the seniors who had been on the bench, I drop my heavy body into my seat with a thud.
My legs were heavy.
There were several reasons.
Today, the amount of time I had the ball was unusually long, and there were many situations where I had to take kicks.
Moreover, perhaps because I had invested a lot in the pre-match warm-up, it felt like I had run 70 minutes rather than the first-half 45.
Since my condition looked tired even to others, the trainer quickly sat in front of me and started massaging my legs.
"How is it? Are you okay? Your condition?"
"As if he'd be okay."
The coach asks about my condition first as well, but the trainer answers somewhat irritably.
At this, the coach asks me with a troubled expression.
"How is it? Do you think it'll be hard to run more?"
There is clearly full consideration in that voice, but to me... it sounds a bit cruel.
Well.
It's true that it's harder than usual, but if you ask whether I can't run anymore, that's not the case.
More than anything, I don't want to be subbed off at this point.
I may have secured one assist, but the match isn't over yet, and it's far from enough to make up for my poor performances in previous matches.
If I rest here, my body might be comfortable, but my mind would surely be uneasy.
I feel like I need to score at least one goal to be at ease, but my spiteful legs feel as heavy as lead.
In this situation, the coach's question handing me the decision strangely feels hateful, contrary to his intention.
"I'll try running more, and if it seems impossible, I'll raise my hand."
"Alright. I'll put you on standby for substitution from now on, so raise your hand anytime."
"Yes."
This was the only compromise I could find amid various desires.
For the next 10 minutes or so... focus as much as possible and score one goal in that short time before resting.
It's regrettable, but for now, that seems like the best option.
"I think it would be right to rest now."
The trainer says worriedly while busily massaging my leg, but I force a smile to express my silent intention.
I was afraid of seeing the fans who had come to the stadium expecting to see me play, returning disappointed.
*
They say 1-0 is the most dangerous score in soccer.
0-0 hasn't tilted either way, so there's nothing to be uneasy about, and 2-0 has a two-goal cushion, so it's less uneasy.
1-0 is a score where despite leading, just one goal immediately makes it a draw, and when it becomes a draw, the side that gains momentum is the one that equalized.
So in many ways, a 1-0 lead has too many uneasy aspects to even be called a lead.
Therefore, after the second half began, we didn't slow down our offensive push as we had in the first half...
and especially I moved with my nerves on edge to find the opponent's gaps even more.
Now even my legs were pushing at my back, saying there wasn't much time left.
Smack-!
Smack-!
To shake the static defense, we exchange horizontal passes and gauge their reaction.
The opponents are truly relentless.
I even start to feel sorry about Vlahovic's transfer.
If there were a player who could fight it out in the center like that, it might be different, but it's not easy now.
Tap, tap-
Eventually, I approach slowly with the ball.
Since I had checked the accessible zones and off-limits zones during the first half, I can enter without difficulty up to that line.
But the problem is beyond that; I had tried threatening with several mid-range shots, but the opponent didn't budge.
They probably judged that giving up shots is preferable to being pulled out, with a lower probability of conceding.
How nice it would be to bury one right in against such an opponent.
Feeling frustrated in many ways, I roll the ball long.
Tap-tap-
And taking long strides, I draw my right foot back widely.
Thwaaaaack-!
But that shot isn't even allowed to enter the box.
As if the ball isn't scary, a defender throws his body head-first at it, and the shot deflects off him.
But my gut tells me in a flash of dread that the deflection angle is very bad.
The ball rebounds as far as the power of the shot and rolls under an opponent's feet, and he checks his field of vision as if to immediately stab it forward.
At that moment, I run without hesitation.
Tat-tat-!
Since my shot created this opportunity for the opponent, it's a situation I have to take responsibility for.
So I clench my teeth and run, but my calf screams.
My face scrunches up automatically at that scream, but unfortunately, I can't stop running.
Tat-tat-!
While the opponent with the ball waits for the forward movement and gauges the timing, I reach behind him and stretch my leg with all my might to touch the ball.
Then another defender converges, and a scuffle ensues before the ball hits a foot and bounces out across the touchline.
In that moment when the match stops briefly...
I collapse in place.
I didn't want to sit down, but my calf forced me to sit.
*
"Slowly, slowly."
Supported, I walk out toward the nearest touchline.
It's very hard to accept, but the moment I sat down, the medical team that rushed over informed me that running more is impossible, and I'm leaving the field.
"Ha, this is something!"
The trainer is very angry, and all the seniors come over and say worried things, but...
truly absurdly, even in that situation, I worry about the reaction of the fans watching me.
More than my throbbing calf.
"..."
Thanks to that, with every step I take, the stands get closer, and my head hangs even lower.
If I raise my head, I feel like I'll see the fans' faces looking at me full of disappointment.
The stadium had been silent, not even a breath to be heard; they were clearly all disappointed.
But... with heavy steps, I finally arrive at the touchline.
And the moment I sit briefly to begin emergency treatment.
Voices different from what I expected start reaching me, even though I hadn't been directing my gaze toward the stands.
Not sharp voices... but warm ones.
"Don't get hurt! If you get hurt, our hearts get hurt too!"
"As long as it's not serious, it's okay!"
"We're sorry! We're sorry...!"
"Honestly, this damn team, how dare they make that young one shoulder everything."
"You've done enough, so please don't overdo it and rest! We're saying we just want to see you running around healthy!"
It was truly amazing.
Truly amazingly, those fans' voices pierced into my ears as if speaking right into them.
And those words stabbed deep into my heart.
"..."
That's why I had to clench my teeth.
Grinding my molars so hard my jaw hurt, I had to hold back something trying to burst out.
Holding it in like that, I finish treatment, stand up, and walk.
I could have ridden a stretcher, but I could walk well enough, and I wanted to show them me walking.
"You're the best!"
"Don't overdo it! Please!"
"It's okay if the team loses, but it's not okay if you get hurt!"
Since the side I exited happened to be opposite our bench, I had to circle half the pitch, and I couldn't walk fast, so I had to walk slowly.
Thanks to that, the fans' voices kept stabbing at my chest.
So I had to clench my teeth even more.
The fans weren't disappointed by this sight; they were cheering.
From those voices, I... felt something.
I suddenly remembered how I had been unable to understand Ji-u when she got angry saying it was her true face.
Why try to show only a perfect image when it's okay to be as you are—I couldn't understand Ji-u's heart.
But thinking about it, wasn't I the same?
I had been making the fans feel that way too.
"Let's go in right away."
I slowly walk and arrive at the bench, but I can't sit on the bench and have to leave the pitch.
They said I need to get examined first.
"...Teacher."
"Hm?"
Only when I enter the tunnel, finally blocked from the spectators' sight, do I apologize to the trainer supporting me.
"I'm sorr..."
But I can't finish the words.
Because what I had clenched my teeth to hold back bursts out.
"It's okay. I should have spoken up more firmly."
I bury my face in the trainer's chest and cry like a child.