The Wall at the Skill Test
“What number do you want on your jersey?”
The question came from a middle-aged club official with a prominent belly that strained against his shirt.
Yohan, who had just been handed a training kit and a pair of boots and was about to change, answered without hesitation.
“Number ten.”
“Unfortunately, ten already has an owner.”
Number ten—the classic badge of an ace—was coveted at every club. For a late arrival like Yohan, claiming it without someone yielding was all but impossible.
“I figured as much. What about nineteen?”
“Taken.”
“Twenty-eight?”
“Taken.”
“…Thirty-seven?”
“That’s taken too. Forty-six is free, though. Want that one?”
Yohan had been asking for numbers that could add up to ten. He shook his head. Thirty-seven was as far as he was willing to go. Anything higher than that, his pride would not allow. It would feel like being pushed to the back of the line.
“No.”
“All right. The remaining numbers are on this sheet. Take a look.”
“Okay.”
Yohan’s eyes moved slowly down the list the official handed him, then stopped. The higher numbers had plenty of blanks, and among them, thirty-nine struck him with unexpected force.
“Thirty-nine… I’d like this one.”
“Thirty-nine?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a bit far back? There are still three numbers left in the tens, and plenty in the twenties.”
He was right—aside from the most popular digits, a few of the lower numbers were still free. But Yohan had a reason for choosing thirty-nine. He remembered the plaque fixed to the wall by the entrance of the convent.
Trigoria Convent. The house where he lived. It had been completed on the ninth of March.
The urge to take that number settled firmly in him.
“I want thirty-nine.”
“You won’t regret it?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll put you down for it.”
“Thank you. Where do I go from here?”
“The locker room is right next door. Sit wherever you like, change into the kit, lace up your boots, and head outside. A coach will be waiting for you.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
“Sure thing.”
The locker room was completely empty. Once the youth-league season started, it would be packed. Yohan resolved to train hard until then. Looking at Roma’s training kit filled him with a swell of emotion as he changed into it.
Outside the entrance to the training ground, he met the coach who had been waiting for him.
“So you’re Yohan. Salvatore told me about you.”
“Hello. I’m Yohan Lee.”
“Mauro Conti. I handle physical conditioning and technical coaching. The other coaches aren’t around right now, so I’ll be running your test myself.”
“I look forward to working with you.”
“Likewise. I…”
Mauro’s voice trailed off. The moment they started walking out onto the pitch together, the boy’s body was trembling.
The kid was wound far too tight. From a distance he had looked calm enough, striding over at a quick clip—but the second the word “test” entered the picture, the shaking had started. The tension on his face looked as if he were about to play a Champions League final.
Hmm…
First day at a club—of course he would be nervous. Still, compared with other kids his age, this was excessive. Mauro felt a flicker of concern. A timid heart was a serious liability in football. Not only in football—in any sport. Players who shrank under pressure lacked the clutch ability to settle the big moments.
Even so, Mauro decided not to jump to conclusions. To ease the boy’s nerves, he tossed out a topic.
“You like Roma players, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What about players who aren’t at Roma?”
“Um… no.”
“Anyone abroad?”
“Abroad… uhhh… Rosický?”
“Rosický? Lukáš Rosický—the one who played for Dortmund and Arsenal?”
“Yes.”
The unexpected name made the coach nod slowly. Hadn’t Salvatore said this kid’s idol was Lorenzo Lucca? That would suggest a taste for flashy, attacking football—and Rosický’s game was a long way from that.
Rosický was known for outstanding football intelligence and, despite his frame, for tough, selfless play. As an attacking midfielder he could spray passes beautifully, of course—his one-touch distribution was excellent, even if it didn’t quite reach Lucca’s level. But what truly set him apart was something else. He was the kind of player who ran himself into the ground for his teammates and lifted the whole side’s performance. The nickname “Mozart of the pitch” hadn’t come from nowhere. The glass-body injury record was the one real flaw.
“What made you like Rosický?”
“One of my school friends is a Milan fan, so he showed me an old match. It was a Champions League game between Milan and Dortmund, and I thought he was incredible. Ah—this is a secret. If the other kids find out he’s a Milan fan, they’ll give him a hard time.”
The guileless confession made the coach laugh out loud. He nodded.
“All right. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“And I can keep my mouth shut…! Just now it slipped out—”
“I never thought otherwise. Still—one match and you fell for Rosický? What did you like about him?”
“The way he read the game. That was amazing.”
“So he played the way you’d always imagined the ideal game should look?”
“What does ‘ideal’ mean?”
“Something close to perfect, in your own mind.”
“Oh. Then yes. But I like Lorenzo Lucca a lot more.”
“Anyone who lives in Rome can’t help loving Lorenzo.”
“Sebastiano Ricci too. I just like Roma players the most.”
“Hahaha! Good. That makes me happy.”
If the boy already thought Rosický’s style was ideal, that was a promising sign. The talk about players seemed to have loosened the tension just enough. Satisfied, Mauro started stretching with Yohan.
“Okay. Catch your breath for a minute.”
“Yes…!”
After the test and a round of static stretching, Yohan took the water Mauro handed him, held it in his mouth, and let it trickle down in tiny swallows. Then he listened to Mauro’s assessment—and felt a jolt of shock.
“Your stamina is good, but your ball work is lacking across the board. It shows most when you strike the ball. The distance between the ball and your plant foot is off every time, and the impact itself isn’t clean—from passes to shots. That’s why your ball keeps veering so far off line.”
Honestly, from Yohan’s own eyes, he hadn’t thought any of his strikes during the test had gone wildly wrong. The coach clearly saw it differently.
“You’re fine on short balls, but the long ones are a problem. For a while you’ll need pure fundamentals work. That means unlearning the habits already baked into your body.”
“I understand…”
“I’m not scolding you, so don’t hang your head. It might feel harsh, but I’m saying this because I believe you can fix the bad habits.”
“I didn’t think it was harsh.”
“Good. Any pain anywhere?”
“No.”
“Any muscle tightness? Even a little discomfort—you have to tell me.”
“Um… I’m fine.”
“All right. For now we’ll focus the training on ball control.”
“Yes…!”
Yohan found himself wondering whether his ability was simply mediocre. Only a few days earlier, confidence had been blooming in him; now the coach’s critique made every shortcoming feel bone-deep. But he did not give in to despair. Realizing that the road to becoming a footballer demanded far more effort than he had imagined only stoked his competitive fire.
“Ten more minutes of rest, then we start again. I’ll walk you through the touch technique in detail. If you don’t understand something, ask—don’t try to cram everything into your head at once. One thing at a time. Step by step.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The excitement of joining the club, the sting of discovering how far short his skill still fell—once training resumed, all of it fell away. Yohan took in every word Mauro said and set his feet, one careful step after another, toward a dream that still lay far ahead. He finished his first day of training.
He had been here less than half a day, and already the place felt strangely like home. Not as comfortable as the convent, of course—but he would grow used to it with time.
With that hopeful thought, Yohan finished his shower and came out to find Sister Caterina waiting.
“You weren’t bored, were you?”
“Not at all. I got to talk with the other parents and some of the club staff, so it was actually fun. I even watched you train from a distance.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“You looked so focused I figured you wouldn’t notice. Oh—and while you were in the shower, the coach came by. He said overdoing personal training on your own can do more harm than good. When we get home, don’t even think about kicking a ball. Rest. Understood?”
She had read him perfectly. Yohan answered with a guilty little flinch.
“Okay.”
“Good boy.”
“But Sister—you said you talked with other parents, and I didn’t see any kids my age. Are they training separately?”
“Yes. A few arrived while you were working, and they went with other coaches.”
“Are they my teammates?”
“Two of them will be your teammates. There were also some boys two years younger.”
“I see…”
Yohan guessed he was being trained alone because his level was still too low to keep up with the group. Right there, he set his first goal: join the others in regular sessions as soon as possible. He would work himself to the bone for it.
“And starting with the next session, a club bus will come to the convent to pick you up.”
“Oh—then you can stay at the convent? I felt bad thinking I was wasting your time.”
“Wasting? Why would I ever mind watching the football my Yohan loves? I picked up this month’s training schedule too. We’ll look at it with the sisters when we get back.”
“Yes, Sister.”
Chatting easily, like a mother and son who got along well, the two of them headed for the club car waiting outside.
From inside the building, Coach Mauro watched their retreating figures, rubbing the sparse stubble on his chin.
As far as learning attitude goes, the kid’s excellent.
You could tell with children after only a little coaching. Whether a boy was bored by the work or locked in—it showed in the face, in every movement. Yohan had approached the session with real diligence, and he had even enjoyed it. Proof that the right mindset was already in place. A good sign.
His individual skill, though, still fell short of a passing grade.
But Salvatore had told him that Yohan’s true worth only came out in actual matches. That was when everything the man had noticed would show itself. Salvatore—and the other coaches who had been at the camp—had praised the boy until their mouths went dry. After that kind of buildup, curiosity was boiling over. They had gone on about how words alone couldn’t capture how valuable the kid was. Mauro would have to see it for himself soon enough.