Seoul Maldini and Incheon Zanetti

After the tournament ended and I got home, I searched for articles about myself.

A high school competition alone rarely made the news, but plenty of reporters had shown up for the final, so I figured—maybe.

As expected, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nothing in the major outlets…

I scrolled down and found a single piece tucked away at the bottom.

The headline read First Championship Since Founding: Baekhwa High School Football, and the article covered the whole road that had brought us to the final stage. A group photo of us hoisting the trophy and cheering was plastered right in the middle.

The part I liked best was the bit about me.

Even before the regression I had made the news a few times… but seeing an article about myself now, years younger than back then, felt good.

I wanted to check the reactions, but the portal had disabled comments years ago to stop netizen flame wars.

So I headed to a major community site instead.

It was a place I had visited until I was sick of it before the regression, so logging in felt second nature. I started reading the handful of posts that were up.

…Enough of that.

People taking an interest in me was a good thing either way. It meant my market value was climbing.

Something more important was waiting, though.

Today was the day the first-round document results for Project X—the show I had decided to appear on—were supposed to drop.

Obviously I'll pass…

I was confident. I had submitted the application during the quarterfinal prep period, before I had really started putting up big numbers… but that didn't mean they would ignore it.

I stuffed a water bottle, a change of clothes, and a towel into my bag and left the house. Until the acceptance text came, I planned to train at the neighborhood futsal court.

The day before Project X announced its successful applicants was the same day the national high school football tournament had drawn its curtain.

"Seong Ian? He's that good at football?"

"I'm telling you~ A friend of mine said he scored three and assisted three in the final. Absolute monster, right?"

"Well… there are a few posts floating around the football communities. Looks like he really is that good."

"Four matches, thirteen goals, four assists. What's this kid's position again?"

"From what I can see… left winger and attacking midfielder. In the second half of the final they even played him as a second striker."

"So a versatile second-line player who can also lead the line? We've been short in the second line anyway…"

The production staff of Project X gathered in the meeting room were discussing one particular player: Seong Ian, the standout of the tournament just finished.

"I watched the match footage—he's good at everything. Passing, shooting, dribbling, individual skill, the whole package."

"At this level he's on par with Yamamoto Shinji over in Japan… no, better."

Project X had barely made a ripple in Korea. The number of applicants was smaller than in Japan, where the co-produced program was already generating buzz.

The player the staffer had mentioned—Yamamoto Shinji—was currently rated the single best prospect in Japan. When word came that he would take part, the Korean staff had been thrown into a quiet panic.

Because the variety show would air simultaneously in both countries, the screen time was split fifty-fifty. If the Korean squad looked pathetic next to the Japanese one, viewers would simply skip the Korean edits and watch only the Japanese side.

That cannot happen.

So the Korean staff were doing two things at once: accepting the strongest applicants they could find, and cold-calling high-school players who hadn't even applied but were performing well, asking them to come on board.

They had already filled every Best XI slot but one, plus the reserves. Putting Seong Ian into that last spot would complete the starting eleven.

"We put Seong Ian in the remaining seat. Any objections?"

"There is… one problem."

"What is it?"

Jeong Sehyeon, the highest-ranking Korean staffer, asked.

"This kid… Korean father, Spanish mother. Nationality issues, right?"

"True… but that's his choice to make. Whatever nationality he picks is none of our business. This isn't a national-team A-match."

Jeong Sehyeon was right. Which country a player ultimately represented was up to the player. And right now Seong Ian still held both citizenships; he hadn't renounced either.

"Let's just send the acceptance text."

I stepped into the futsal court, glanced around, and spotted two men.

One wore an old AC Milan kit; the other wore an old Inter Milan kit.

…Maldini and Zanetti, huh.

Maldini was the legendary defender of Italy and AC Milan, routinely named among the greatest centre-backs of all time. Zanetti was no less: Argentina and Inter Milan's eternal number four, a right-back for the ages.

The two of them looked like they were going one-on-one.

"Hey! That was out!"

"What are you talking about, idiot~ No it wasn't!"

"What do you mean no? It went out!"

They kept bickering while I warmed up; by the time I actually stepped onto the pitch their argument seemed to be winding down.

"You there, kid! Come over here."

"Yes?"

I walked over.

"Was this out or not?"

"It wasn't out, I keep telling you…!"

"Shut it. Was it out?"

"Yes… that one's out."

I looked at the ball sitting beyond the line.

"No. I stopped it right before it went out, okay?"

"Mmm~ ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Nope~"

The man in the Zanetti kit needled the one in the Maldini kit, then picked up the ball.

"Want to join us, kid? One-on-two sounds more fun than one-on-one."

"Huh? Is that okay?"

"Of course. Oh, and don't mind this guy. He's got nothing better to do anyway."

"Ha… that's because you never got married. When I go home my wife is… ugh…"

The Maldini-kit man shook his head in despair.

"So who attacks—"

"What? Obviously you, kid."

The Zanetti-kit man answered as if the question itself were ridiculous.

"Can't you tell from the names on the shirts? …Though I guess kids these days wouldn't know. Maldini is—"

"Ah. I know the players. Paolo Maldini, Javier Zanetti."

"Oh… then I am Seoul Maldini."

"Pfft! So that makes me Incheon Zanetti?"

"If you say so. Not my problem."

I gave an awkward smile and set the ball down.

"How should we do this? Having something on the line would be better, right?"

"Drinks sound good? If you win, we each buy you one. If we win, you buy one for each of us."

"Sounds good."

I nodded, and the two middle-aged men smiled as they moved in front of the goal.

"You get five chances. Target is the goal behind us. Put the ball in three times and you win. Got it?"

"Yes!"

"Ready… go!"

The moment the word left his mouth, Seoul Maldini charged. I gave the ball a light push and slipped cleanly past his tackle.

Tok.

Then I drove it long and closed on the goal. Incheon Zanetti had stayed planted until I beat him; only then did he start chasing.

The age gap made it easy to finish. I struck with my right foot—

Clang!

The ball slammed into the post, ricocheted out, and one of the men claimed it.

"One miss."

"Haha…"

I wasn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slow. If anything I was fast. I was the quickest player on my own team, and my times wouldn't look bad even against professionals. Yet these two middle-aged guys were still tracking me pretty well.

Tok.

A soft touch lofted the ball cleanly over Zanetti's head. Maldini stepped across to cover; I beat him the same way and was about to shoot into the empty net when—

Not quite enough.

I lifted the ball again—not as high as before, maybe half that height—

Bang!

—and met it with a perfect volley that rippled the empty net. I grinned at the two men who were now gasping for air.

"Kid! How are you this good? We used to have a bit of a reputation ourselves…"

Seoul Maldini handed me a cold sports drink he had pulled from the vending machine.

"Haha… thanks. For playing with me."

"Don't mention it. I learned a lot myself."

So this level still works against adults.

Of course they were ordinary people, not pros. And this body of mine still wasn't fully matured. Beating them anyway… I decided to take it as a positive sign.

"Right—I never caught your name. What is it?"

"Ah… Seong Ian."

"Is that so? I'll remember it… When you become a famous player, you'll give me an autograph, yeah?"

"Of course."

After the two men headed home I trained alone for about two hours. When I finally checked my phone, a single text was waiting.