Atlético Madrid Match (2)
Thud—!
The ball traced a beautiful arc as it sailed into the box. It met the head of Kang Seungwook, who had leapt high into the air, but his header flew straight at the goalkeeper.
Atlético Madrid’s keeper, Sergio López, collected it casually and launched a long throw out to the midfielders already surging forward on the counter.
The Atlético midfielder who received it scanned the pitch ahead. Korea’s center-backs, who had pushed up for the aerial duel, were still scrambling back on roughly the same line as him. Only a single Atlético player remained advanced in the Korean half.
"Gomez!"
He bellowed the name and stabbed a weighted pass forward. The ball curled perfectly into the path of Atlético’s striker, Mateo Gomez, already bursting through on the run.
Thud—!
Gomez stretched out a long leg, cushioned the ball cleanly, and exploded into full stride, carving into the box in a heartbeat. The two full-backs still left in Korea’s defensive line—Baek Namgi and Seo Jinyoung—collapsed inward, trying to barge him off the ball with their bodies.
"Ugh…"
"Why… won’t he budge…!"
Gomez absorbed their challenges and drove all the way to the keeper. As the goalkeeper narrowed the angle and the two defenders squeezed in from either side, Mateo Gomez’s lips curled into a smirk. He flicked the ball backward with the heel of his right foot.
"Behind!"
Tap—.
What looked like a loose ball was scooped up by Atlético’s right winger. Korea’s goalkeeper, Han Seungwoo, never saw him. Mateo Gomez and the two defenders had completely screened his vision; he had no idea who had the ball, which meant he had no idea where the shot would come from.
In that split second of panic—
Thud—!
The ball appeared from the right edge of Han Seungwoo’s blind spot and bulged the net.
The first half ended with Atlético Madrid leading by a single goal.
"That kid is the one I mentioned earlier—Santiago. He links up beautifully with the striker Mateo, and he’s got a sharp shot and real pace."
"I can see that…"
Fernando Torres murmured as he watched the Atlético players who had just finished the perfect goal. Even a man once called the best striker in the world had to tip his hat to that finish. Mateo Gomez’s vision on the pass, especially, was outstanding. To keep scanning for teammates while flying forward on the counter—that was no ordinary awareness.
Santiago’s finish hadn’t been bad either. Just the right amount of power.
But Torres’s eyes weren’t only on them.
The player he was really watching was Seong Ian.
The more I watch him, the more he looks like Hazard…
Torres had joined Chelsea in 2011. The following season he met a certain player—Eden Hazard, the super crack, the greatest dribbler in the world. Watching Seong Ian’s game brought that memory flooding back. The dazzling dribbling, the flashy skill moves, the razor-sharp shooting. Ian’s style was almost a carbon copy of Hazard’s.
Of course he still fell a little short of peak Chelsea Hazard, but that was only a matter of age and experience. Time would close the gap.
After a brief half-time rest, the second half began.
In the life before the regression, Mateo Gomez had been an Atlético Madrid one-club man and the captain of a Spanish armada that was slowly sinking. His signature blond hair and handsome face inevitably recalled Fernando Torres, and so he inherited the nickname El Niño after Raúl and Torres.
Spain’s invincible armada had swept Euro 2008, the 2010 World Cup, and Euro 2012 in succession—then began its long decline. The reason was simple: they never filled the holes left by the retiring legends.
The midfield trio once called the greatest in the world—Barcelona and Spain’s holy trinity of Iniesta, Xavi, and Busquets—had been pure cheat codes. Add the legendary Real Madrid goalkeeper Casillas between the posts and Barcelona’s eternal captain Carles Puyol, and the squad had been stacked with stars.
But the generational handover failed. Spain crashed out of the group stage at the 2014 Brazil World Cup and lost on penalties to hosts Russia in the round of sixteen at the 2018 Russia World Cup. The slide continued until, out of nowhere, they rose again at the 2038 Argentina World Cup—thanks to a crop of barely adult boys.
Mateo Gomez had been one of them, the team’s main spearhead who carried Spain all the way to the semi-finals.
Yeah… future world-class talent really does show from the bud.
A striker’s job is to score. You need that hunger for goals—but too much of it becomes poison. You also need the selflessness to slip the ball to a teammate in a better position. Mateo Gomez struck that balance perfectly. At a glance he looked like nothing more than a playful kid, yet he had tormented our defense the entire half and walked away with an assist.
Our side, having conceded first, looked bleak. And why wouldn’t it? Atlético Madrid were a defensive fortress. As attackers, Kang Seungwook, Jeong Woojun, and I knew it better than anyone. There was no gap to squeeze through between their lines, and the ball barely reached our front three.
…Still, there’s always a way.
I hadn’t spent my previous life watching teams score once and park the bus only once or twice.
I changed my boots and stepped back onto the pitch.
Peeep—!
The second half kicked off with us. Target man Kang Seungwook laid it back to attacking midfielder Kang Minseong, and I immediately sprinted forward. Just like the first half, Atlético’s midfielders pushed high to press. The early intensity rattled some of our players—but Minseong and I had already talked it through at half-time.
"Hey!"
I raised my hand and shouted. Kang Minseong found me and somehow forced a lobbed pass through. It was a touch short, but still catchable. I took a long first touch and simply charged toward their half like a madman.
Atlético’s full-back stepped up to meet me. The instant before he could engage—
Tap—.
I chopped it with a Ronaldo chop and changed direction. Suddenly the path into the center opened wide. Kang Seungwook recognized the pattern we had drilled endlessly in training and executed his role perfectly.
Thud—!
He set a basketball-style screen on the Atlético center-back who had come out to stop me. The remaining center-back arrived a half-step late. I sold him a dummy, then struck with my right foot toward the near post.
Thud—!
The ball flew true into the open space—only for the diving Atlético keeper to tip it. But it stayed in play.
"Second ball!"
Kang Seungwook yelled the moment he saw it drop back into the box. I lunged. My outstretched left foot was blocked by an Atlético center-back’s right boot—yet that contact proved fatal for them.
Shhhk—.
The ball glanced off the keeper’s legs and rolled in.
"Nice!!"
I calmed the teammates charging at me in celebration and searched for my grandfather. He wasn’t far—standing near the left corner of Atlético’s goal. He was beaming, and a cameraman was filming every second of it.
The sight warmed me, but my eyes locked first on what he was wearing.
He actually came in that again today…
Grandfather was in a Real Madrid jersey. Cristiano Ronaldo’s number, no less.
I decided to give him a small gift.
I sprinted toward him and the camera, then leapt high. In mid-air I clasped my hands, spun half a turn, and the moment my feet hit the ground I flung both arms wide.
"Siuuuuuu!!"
Cristiano Ronaldo’s signature celebration—the one Korean fans called the “How” celebration.
We were the away side, and I was grateful we wore all white. The only regret was that my number was 10 instead of 7.
"Puhaha! Did you see that, you bastards! Puta madre!! That’s my grandson!"
I threw my arms around my grandfather, who was laughing so hard his face had gone bright red. He had shouted loud enough to be heard from the far side of the pitch; every Atlético official’s eyes swung our way. The Real Madrid jersey had almost certainly been a request from the broadcast staff.
After the brief hug I jogged back across the halfway line.
"It actually went in…"
"That second ball was pure luck, though."
Teammates crowded around, sharing the joy of the equalizer for a moment.
"By the way, why the Ronaldo celebration of all things? You’ve got plenty of others."
"Grandfather’s a Real fan…"
"Filial piety’s great and all, but… I think you just poked the bear over there."
Baek Namgi pointed. Atlético’s players were glaring daggers—straight at me.
So what?
What exactly were they going to do about it?
I ignored them and got ready to play again.