Soccer Emperor: Pelé, No, Messi
Over the past two days, Hodrigu had been wrestling with some serious inner turmoil.
This feeling of having to learn everything from scratch... it's like being a baby again.
A baby? Macho of machos Hodrigu, a baby? At thirty years old, what kind of ridiculous nonsense was this?
But if this body is who I am now, then yeah, I'm basically a kid.
Hmm.
Come to think of it, it didn't clash with his macho image at all.
This was absolutely not self-rationalization. Sixteen was a baby.
With his profound internal dilemma resolved, nothing could faze him anymore.
Unfamiliar culture, unfamiliar race, unfamiliar language, unfamiliar lifestyle? Child's play. Hodrigu was a master of adaptation, a man who'd left his homeland Brazil in his late teens and roamed the world.
Portugal, Italy, Spain, England.
Out of thirteen years as a pro, he'd spent eleven abroad, so blending into new environments should have been a breeze... or so it used to be.
You... you're way too different...
No matter how much overseas experience he had, it was all within the same Christian cultural sphere. East Asia's Confucian world felt more alien than anywhere he'd ever been.
But even that was manageable.
"What? 2027?"
2027.
The last year in Hodrigu's memory was 1992.
No wonder everything felt so advanced—it was thirty-five years in the future.
But even that was okay.
Fumbling awkwardly with the smartphone, old memories surfaced naturally, making it familiar, and the same went for everything else.
The real hurdle, though,
"Son, what's up today? No computer?"
was his parents.
Even pro adapter Hodrigu struggled with this one.
He'd never had any!
Hodrigu was an orphan from birth.
Compared to that, picking up a language he'd never studied or feeling oddly close to an Asian face he'd never seen were nothing.
"Son? You feeling sick?"
Hodrigu paused for a moment.
Slum-raised or not, he knew manners. Respect your elders. And these were parents. Somehow, that made them feel warmly familiar.
"I'll handle it, don't worry about me."
Not bad, right?
Natural-born asshole Hodrigu was pleased with his effortless response.
"Okay. Mom trusts you, son."
Ugh. Why did "Mom trusts you" hit like a truck...?
Clutching his chest and staggering back to his room, Hodrigu suddenly worried about the future.
Two days had already slipped by.
The hope of waking up back home was dashed, and worse, he was getting used to this life.
If he had to live like this, what should he do?
Soccer?
Eh. When was the last time soccer made his heart race?
He'd won the Ballon d'Or five times, becoming the all-time record holder, and capped his career with a three-peat that proved he had no equals. After that, soccer just... didn't excite him anymore.
The moment a slum orphan from Brazil became the Soccer Emperor, ironically, the thing that had been his entire world lost all value.
So what now?
What could a guy who'd only ever played soccer do?
Pondering, Hodrigu realized something.
Ah. This body's different.
This kid's a genius at studying?
Top of the whole school.
To Hodrigu, who'd never had a proper education growing up in the Harlem slums, studying was like alien tech. In that sense, it beat soccer, where his passion had cooled.
Alright, decision made. I'll give studying a shot. Aim for college.
...That resolve lasted less than a day.
It wasn't that he hated studying.
Morning.
Hodrigu bellowed "Ow! Why'd you hit me?!" at his mom slapping his back to wake him, proving his asshole credentials for the first time, then headed to school—his very first time going.
(For the record, the original owner yelled at Mom every morning too, so she didn't bat an eye. Same fiery filial impudence meant they shared the body seamlessly.)
Asians really are diligent.
Hodrigu was hit with culture shock seeing the kids gathered at school.
How could they be so well-behaved? No booze, smokes, fights, drugs?
For a second, he thought this environment might let him actually try studying.
Thwack!
Someone smacked the back of his head, and Hodrigu finally grinned.
Here it comes.
A fight.
No rational thoughts about "just kids roughhousing."
Whether street brawl or match, lose momentum and you're done. Hodrigu sprang up, throwing a punch first.
The slum-honed cotton-candy jab staggered the other boy.
"You little nerd, you hit me?"
Luckily, Hodrigu took the next hit.
From a local bully who picked fights everywhere.
He got up after that? Skinny twig looked weak, but tough monkey, huh?
Breathing casual racism, Hodrigu belatedly realized: he was a skinny monkey too.
A real punch would've spun the jaw, but this scrawny body lacked power. No matter—same build, Hodrigu wouldn't lose.
"You're done."
Weaving the wild haymaker, he counterpunched.
This one landed clean on the jaw; the guy crumpled. Hodrigu didn't stop. Stomp 'em proper if you stomp.
"You little sh—"
"Block your face if you don't wanna die."
Soccer kick to the gut of the downed foe.
"Guh! Ch-cheap..."
"Shut your trap."
Thud! Thud!
Battle-hardened Hodrigu stayed cool, methodically checking vitals and alternating kicks to face and belly.
"Kyaaah!!"
* * *
Hodrigu sauntered to the sports field.
Apparently, fighting meant duck-walking after school.
Kids fight sometimes—what's with the fuss?
Actually, the school had gone easy.
Veteran Hodrigu hadn't caused serious injury, but he'd wrecked the kid bad enough to look like ground meat—plus merciless stomps on the fallen.
If not for this body being top student, it'd be a violence committee case. But top rank had perks.
Teachers jumped in: "How bad must he have bullied for such a good kid to snap like that?" Shielding him automatically.
That was Korean logic, though. Hodrigu couldn't grasp punishing school fights at all.
Just kids scrapping.
Not like he crippled anyone.
And what grated more:
"Gotta go to club activities. Hurry up and finish."
was his assigned supervisor, this girl.
Student council president, was it?
Thick sweater and oversized glasses hid it, but not from his eyes.
Fix herself up, she'd be pretty decent.
Still, just a kid.
Tall, sure, but sixteen. Add that baby-faced Asian look, and to Hodrigu, she was a cute little girl.
Give her five years... no, ten accounting for the youthful Asian vibe, and she'd be a knockout.
"Quit staring."
"...Huh?"
"Won't pierce it no matter how hard you look. Stop ogling my chest."
Sharp eyes flashed behind the huge lenses.
What a prickly one.
Hodrigu tsked. Damn, they looked plenty big—why bundle up like that? Legs out bare, though.
"Hurry up. I really don't have time."
"I'll finish quick. Wanna grab dinner?"
"What?"
"Wait for me. Be right back."
Yu Seo-rin gaped at the winking Hodrigu.
"You actually insane?"
Cocky Hodrigu stepped up... and a minute later realized.
Oh shit. Too hard.
Me, Soccer Emperor Hodrigu, collapsing after one minute of duck-walking?
...Gotta fake it halfway...
"What? Said dinner after, but already tapped? Hmph... All talk. Oh well, can't help if you're weak."
If not for the smug girl's voice from the bleachers, legs crossed.
Hodrigu gritted his teeth. Not about dinner with her. Man's pride on the line.
"Nngh..."
"Huh? Tired? Giving up?"
Arms crossed, giving some nice volume...
"Whoa~ Better stamina than I thought. Respect."
Duck-walk done, Hodrigu collapsed on the field.
His vision swam—a rare feeling. Not even World Cup or Champions League finals had drained him like this.
"Huff, huff... Tougher than soccer."
"Surprising. You play soccer too? Thought you were all study."
"Gotta be good at soccer."
Ex-Soccer Emperor's confidence drew a snort from Yu Seo-rin.
"Morning soccer ace or something?"
"What!? Soccer Emperor Hodrigu is right—"
Ah, not anymore.
"Soccer Emperor's Pelé."
"Who? Pelé? Who's that?"
Thirty years later, and someone dares question Soccer Emperor?
"It's Hodrigu, obviously."
"Pfft! So soccer was a lie too?"
"What? You calling me a—"
As Hodrigu yelled from the ground, turning his head, small shoes approached: step, step.
"Liar, huh..."
Reflexive gaze up: pale ankle, slim but toned calf. White thigh... and pants?
Why pants under the skirt...?
"Disappointed it's bike shorts? Pervert."
"Pervert?! You calling me a pervert?"
"Peeking up skirts. Pervert confirmed."
"B-but you have pants on! That doesn't count!"
"You're kinda cute?"
"...What?"
Cute? Me?
Squatting, Yu Seo-rin peered down at the baffled wide-eyed Hodrigu, smirking like a cat.
"Lying about liking soccer. Kinda clumsy, though. Ace at books, but can't even memorize Soccer Emperor right. It's Messi... nah, Pelé at least."
"Wait, hold up. Who? Pelé? Messi? Who the hell?"
"You really know zilch about soccer? Messi's common knowledge."
Tilting her head, Yu Seo-rin pulled out her smartphone, typed something, and shoved the screen at him.
"Messi. No idea?"
"Who's this shrimp?"
"Shrimp? He's the GOAT. Greatest of All Time, best soccer player ever. Uh... Ballon d'Or? You know that. Won it eight times."
"Eight?"
Wait.
Did this Messi break my record? That's why they call him soccer god?
Flames ignited in Hodrigu's chest.
"Gotta... play soccer."