Hale End (2)
"He really is on another level."
A cut above the rest. That was the only thought that came to mind as I watched Saka carve up the U-16 players, racking up three goals in the process.
His ability to effortlessly bypass two or three defenders, his respectable pace, his rock-solid center of gravity, and his clinical finishing instinct—it was all there.
In my memory, Saka's greatest strengths weren't flashy dribbling or finishing, but rather his football IQ, efficient dribbling, and chance creation. He wasn't exactly a pure "game-changer" who could break a game open on individual brilliance alone. He was more of a well-rounded, jack-of-all-trades winger.
But that was in the adult leagues. Against U-16s, Saka was nothing short of a disaster for the opposition.
'Well, I suppose that's why he's already played for the senior team at his age. Even if it was just a single match.'
Arsenal currently had three or four players occupying the wing-forward positions. The undisputed starters were twenty-three-year-old Ljungberg and twenty-four-year-old Walcott. Backing them up were twenty-one-year-old Van Persie and nineteen-year-old Wilshere.
Well, Wilshere played more in the center, but these were all names I had heard plenty of times back in my day. In particular, the fact that Van Persie—the "little boy" who was practically treated as a legend when I was active—couldn't even break into Arsenal's starting lineup showed just how stacked their attack was.
For a seventeen-year-old Saka to pierce through that depth chart and get even one appearance spoke volumes about his talent. No further explanation was needed.
And if I were to play for Arsenal, he would likely be the one competing with me for a call-up.
Naturally, the prospect of competing with Saka—a highly touted talent destined to be rated as a top-tier Premier League winger—didn't make me nervous in the slightest. Back during my Sporting days, I was already evaluated as having surpassed someone of Saka's caliber.
You think not? If that weren't the case, Saka would have been the one moving to Barcelona at age twenty, not me.
'Put me in already.'
This mini-game session consisted of five eight-minute halves. Since sixteen minutes had already passed, I shot a pointed look at the coach.
"Ahem, cough."
"Charlie! Faster!"
"Ahem! Cough!"
"Daniel! Don't just stick your foot out!"
Seriously, this blatant hazing. If they were going to ignore me, I had no choice but to stage a demonstration of force.
I picked up a stray football and walked toward the opposite side, away from where the coach was looking. By the way, the opposite side was where the U-18 players were gathered. They watched me walk over with puzzled expressions.
But these guys were just small fry whose names I couldn't even remember. There was no need to care about their stares, so I immediately began my demonstration.
*Thwack!*
At first, just five or six meters high.
*Tap.*
But I cushioned it with a velvet touch—a soft, pillow-like trap that none of these small fry could ever hope to replicate.
*Thwack!*
Higher than the first. Felt like about ten meters?
*Tap.*
Once again, the ball glued itself perfectly to the top of my foot.
I kept kicking it higher and higher. Eventually, it reached nearly twenty meters, brushing against the ceiling of the indoor training center. And naturally, the descending ball still stuck to my foot like magnet to steel.
"Whoa..."
"What the...?"
"Who is that guy...?"
The U-18 players stared in awe at my display. Instead of watching the mini-game, which had devolved into a one-sided slaughter, they were now completely focused on the show I was putting on. The U-16 coach was no exception.
To be fair, it was nothing more than a flashy, useless trick. In a real match, you rarely have to trap a ball falling from such a height, and trapping under pressure is a completely different beast compared to doing it completely uncontested.
However, the kicking power to send the ball twenty meters straight up without any run-up, the precision to launch it right to the ceiling, and the trapping ability to deaden it from that height... it was more than enough to showcase my fundamental mastery.
If today's training session hadn't been focused on endurance, I wouldn't have had to resort to such antics. Unfortunately, this mini-game was the first time I'd touched a ball today, so I had to show off my skills somehow.
Besides, since I had already put on the best performance during the endurance drills, I had now demonstrated both my physical fitness and my technical foundation. Unless the coach was a blatant racist, this show of force made it impossible for him to ignore me.
"Luka!"
The dumbfounded coach called out to me.
"Did you call?"
"Can you play in the next round?"
"Of course."
Fortunately, he didn't seem to be a racist, judging by how quickly he reacted.
If this had been a tactical training match instead of a mini-game, there might have been a tiny chance of me struggling. But this was a small-sided game meant to test individual ability. The pitch was a bit small, but that wasn't going to be an issue.
*Peep!* The whistle blew, and the players were given a three-minute break.
"Daniel, I keep telling you! Don't stick your foot out first when defending. If you just block the lane, they have to come to you anyway. That forces them to pass backward, which gives the defensive line time to reorganize!"
While the coach was busy giving feedback to Daniel (I didn't know his last name), the defender who had been struggling, I approached Patino to give him some feedback of my own.
"Hey."
"Y-yes?"
"Just feed the ball to me."
"What do you mean...?"
"Don't you understand English? Pass me the ball."
Patino was about the only player in the U-16s who stood out. True to his role as the team's focal point—the kind of guy who would confidently strike up a conversation with an outsider—Patino was playing on a completely different level from his peers, from his press resistance to his passing.
Even so, the reason the U-16 team was getting thrashed 3-0 was simply because there was no one capable of receiving his passes.
"But we have our practiced passing routes..."
"Just pass it to me. None of these other bastards can trap it properly anyway."
"O-okay..."
Good. That secured my supply of the ball.
I lightly rotated my ankles to warm up. Before long, it was time for the next round to start. Unfortunately, Saka had been subbed out to rest.
My position was the spearhead at the very front. I had told them I could play as a wing-forward, so it was a bit of a shame. My most confident position, just like in my prime, was on the wing.
However, since I had played as a central striker to survive after my injury, it wasn't a particularly burdensome role. Besides, it wasn't like I'd feel pressured at the youth level anyway.
*Peep!* The whistle blew, and the game began.
I had trained alone with the ball, but this was my first time playing in a team setting. Honestly, I was curious too. Just how much had my physical condition recovered?
I took my position against the opponent's defensive line, guarded by two center-backs: Adams and McGinnis. Naturally, these were names I didn't recognize.
Adams was around 184 to 186 centimeters, just slightly taller than me, while McGinnis was already a towering center-back standing at 196 centimeters. Both already boasted adult-like physiques.
However, from watching the previous rounds, I noticed that McGinnis was slow, and while Adams had decent pace and height, his positioning was highly suspect.
A classic pairing would feature a physical center-back alongside an intelligent one who organizes the line. But since this was still the youth level, both had glaring flaws.
Normally, Adams should have been the one organizing, but a guy who couldn't even hold his own position was hardly going to coordinate his partner's.
'Then it's simple.'
On the counter, I would exploit the slow McGinnis. In possession, I would target Adams, who was closer to my height.
I wondered if I was overthinking things by devising a strategy against youth players, but this match was my showcase to make the coaches desperate to sign me. I had to play like a professional from the very first whistle.
"Here!"
Fortunately, even though they were just U-16s, our team didn't concede on the opponent's first attack. The moment we won the ball back, I signaled for a pass.
But the intercepted ball went to Patino in the center. True to Arsenal's youth philosophy, he seemed determined to build up with short passes.
While showing off my individual skill was important, demonstrating my tactical understanding was equally crucial. I naturally dropped deep to offer a passing option.
But Patino chose to keep circulating the ball.
'Sigh.'
Perhaps because this was an era where Messi and the "three idiots" were still alive and kicking in their prime, the buildup reeked heavily of tiki-taka, making me sigh in spite of myself.
Tiki-taka. It sounded nice. But aside from peak Barcelona, almost no team had ever truly succeeded with it.
The only reason Barcelona's tiki-taka was so devastating was because they had once-in-a-generation pass masters like Xavi, Iniesta, and Busquets all on one team, combined with Messi, who would effortlessly score the moment they slipped him the ball after circulating it.
'But if all those players exist here too, why has Real Madrid won the Champions League for the last three years? Was the manga author too lazy to flesh out that part of the setting?'
They probably fleshed out the players since they'd meet in the World Cup, but left other details vague. Well, it wasn't like I could know. If I'd known I'd end up here, I would have tracked down the author and asked him myself.
'Oh, right.'
If this were the professional level, the passing tempo would have been lightning-fast, fitting for Arsenal's signature style. But at the U-16 level, where they were hyper-focused on just making accurate passes, it was slow enough to make me yawn. I had drifted off into my thoughts without realizing it.
But this was a match. If I kept this up, the game would end without me even touching the ball. I dropped deep.
"Hey!"
"Huh?!"
Patino, the hub of the possession, flinched in surprise as I suddenly appeared beside him. That split second of distraction allowed the opposition to press him hard, leaving me as his only viable passing lane.
Of course, with Adams shadowing me from behind, it wasn't a completely clean pass, but I was the only one shielding the ball with my body. Patino's pass zipped toward my feet.
The most important thing here was impact. First impressions last forever. If the U-16 coach was going to recommend my signing to the higher-ups, I needed to make a massive statement.
I flicked the ball up with the tip of my boot. The target was over the defender's head.
*Tap.*
Even in my prime, I had preferred efficient, simple skill moves over flashy tricks, but against greenhorns like these...!
The moment the ball rose, I spun my body, using the centrifugal force to slip right out of Adams's grip as he tried to tug at my jersey.
The ball was now floating right between me and McGinnis, who was rushing out to meet me. Technically, McGinnis was closer to it, but it didn't matter.
Luka's body—my body—boasted an absurd level of speed that could put most track athletes to shame.
"No way!"
"Yes way!"
McGinnis lunged with his foot as I reached the ball first. But the ball was already under my control.
...And in my prime, I had never once allowed an opponent to tackle me when the ball was glued to my feet. There was a reason Barcelona had triggered a 200-billion-won buyout clause to sign me!
"Gasp!"
Even at full sprint, I executed a seamless step-over. McGinnis, whose footwork was as slow as his height was tall, desperately tried to snatch the ball. But the moment his center of gravity shifted to the right, I cut sharply to the left. He let out a pathetic cry and collapsed to the turf.
I could have driven the ball further to create an easier one-on-one with the keeper, but this was my showcase. In a 7-on-7 mini-game played on a seventy-meter pitch, the distance to the goal was only about twenty meters. And twenty meters was nothing!
*Boom!*
The thunderous crack of the shot, a sound I had heard countless times during my solitary training, echoed across the pitch. This shot was the aspect I had worked on most diligently while training alone.
Luka's shooting power—something even my prime self hadn't possessed, let alone a kid who wasn't even in high school yet—had been difficult to adapt to. But who was I? The genuine talent that Barcelona had coveted.
The goalkeeper didn't even have time to react. By the time he turned his head, the ball, which had been spinning violently in the back of the net, finally dropped to the ground.
"Whoa!"
"What was that?!"
"Ta-Tachibana!"
That last voice definitely belonged to the U-16 coach. A smirk threatened to break across my face, but I slowly jogged toward the goal, scooped up the ball, and held up two fingers.
"Two more to go!"
Even in a mini-game, showing off my competitive drive was essential. Glancing at the coach, his expression was so utterly smitten it was almost disgusting.