Hale End (5)
Prrrrt! The opening whistle blew—a sound that never failed to get my blood pumping. The only disappointing part was that this was a closed-door friendly with absolutely no spectators.
Wait, why is there seriously nobody here? Gillard definitely said Wenger was coming...
No matter how much I scanned the stands or the benches, Arsène Wenger was nowhere to be seen. My eyes met Gillard, who was lingering near the bench, but he just looked back at me with a clueless, innocent grin.
Well, it's not like a first-team manager has nothing better to do. Having spent two years in the Premier League myself, I had played plenty of reserve matches to regain match fitness after my frequent injuries.
A first-team manager showing up to a friendly like this was highly unusual anyway. It was annoying that Gillard had lied to me, but it didn't change anything. I was a football player, and this was a pitch.
Besides, this was the first proper eleven-on-eleven match of my new life. Even if there wasn't a single soul in the crowd, there was no need to let that ruin such a monumental occasion.
Now, let's see what they've got. How would they compare to the Premier League defenders I remembered?
Taking advantage of our build-up phase, I positioned myself in front of Sead Kolašinac, drifting around to gauge his movements. He was built solid, standing in the low 1.8-meter range, similar to me.
Judging by his name, he seemed to be of Eastern European descent, and he certainly possessed that robust, sturdy Eastern European physicality. Moreover, unlike most players with that kind of build, he didn't look sluggish as he shadowed me.
"Stop buzzing around, you little gnat," he muttered. Seeing him spit trash talk even in a friendly against his own club's youth players, his personality seemed right on par with the Premier League average.
Well, I'll find out more once we clash. I feigned a run to receive the ball, and he immediately tight-marked me from behind. The pressure of his body against mine felt just as solid as he looked; he was definitely the type of defender who relied heavily on his physical dominance.
He had enough agility to keep up with me, decent pace, and a rock-solid frame. If he actually knew how to defend properly on top of having those physical traits, I would have remembered his name. But a player from a Premier League giant, and I couldn't even recall who he was?
Then there's nothing more to see. Having roughly gauged his level, I raised my hand, signaling for a pass. However, Charlie Patino, who was on the ball, hesitated and opted to switch play to the opposite side where there was less pressure. Seeing me tightly marked by a first-team player, he had chosen the safe option over a risky gamble.
If we'd had just one more month to build chemistry, or if my marker hadn't been a first-team player, he would have slipped the ball to me. It seemed our mutual trust wasn't quite strong enough yet for him to rely on me blindly. I stopped jostling with Kolašinac and repositioned myself.
Even so, their opponents were several years older. Patino and Harry Clarke, the best passing duo in the U-18 team, struggled to find an opening, and the ball showed no signs of moving forward.
"By the way, how'd you end up playing with the reserves?" Since the ball wasn't coming my way, I decided to indulge in a little hobby to pass the time.
"Watch your mouth, kid. You're barely out of diapers," he snapped. I knew English had polite registers too, of course.
"I just got here from Japan. My English isn't very good," I replied. But hey, I was a foreigner.
"What? Japan? Ah, now that I look at you, you do look kind of Asian. Are you mixed?"
"Yeah. More importantly, are you going to answer my question?"
"Injury, obviously. My hamstring flared up a bit."
"Right or left?"
"Left."
"Seems like you're mostly recovered, though?"
"Yeah, so you should feel honored. It's not every day a Premier League player like me gives a lesson to a bunch of greenhorns."
Fortunately, he was talkative enough to keep my little hobby going. Since it was a friendly against the youth academy, the atmosphere was somewhat relaxed. Plus, five minutes had passed without the ball coming anywhere near me, so my focus was starting to drift.
Chatting with him like this brought back old memories. Memories of when I lost my prized speed and dribbling ability, forcing me to transition into a central striker.
As a striker, you're constantly on the move, but you always have a defender breathing down your neck, so conversations like this were actually quite common. I remembered exchanging friendly insults when the match got intense, and having casual chats when the pace slowed down.
Engaging in these meaningless chats was a great way to dull the opponent's focus. Back when my speed had deserted me, it was the only way I could carve out a sliver of space to exploit behind the defensive line. Just like right now.
Unable to progress the ball, our lines had dropped deep, while the opponents had pushed their defensive line almost up to the halfway line. That left a massive expanse of open space right behind Kolašinac. Clarke was on the ball.
"So, who's the toughest player you've ever gone up against?" I asked, throwing out a question while simultaneously signaling Clarke with my hand. It was one of the few patterns we had worked on during our three days of training together.
And from what I remembered, Clarke, having converted from a midfielder, possessed quite a decent passing range for a Championship-level fullback.
"In the Premier League, or..." The moment Kolašinac opened his mouth, I burst forward, charging into the vast space that had opened up in front of me. At that exact instant, the thud of a long ball echoed across the pitch.
"You little bastard!" But Kolašinac, showing his Premier League pedigree, reacted almost instantly and gave chase. The gap I had created was minuscule.
But at the highest level, even a tiny crack was fatal—enough for even my past self, whose pace had been completely ruined by injuries, to create separation from a defender.
Of course, maintaining that gap required a special secret ingredient! I was about to use my arm to hold him off as he caught up, but I quickly realized there was no need.
"Stop right there!" His voice was already fading into the distance. I even had enough leeway to look around.
Holy shit, I'm fast! It was my own body, but even I was overwhelmed by the sheer, terrifying sensation of speed as I sprinted!
Maybe I didn't even need to distract him. Well, better safe than sorry for the first attack.
The lofted ball was heading toward the edge of the penalty box. But Kolašinac wasn't my only opponent; I couldn't afford to let my guard down. Another first-team player, Shkodran Mustafi, was sprinting toward me from the left.
He was slower than me, of course, so it was safe to say the ball was mine to claim. Even so, Mustafi was a seasoned first-team pro; he was positioning himself to react no matter how I chose to trap the ball.
As the ball descended, I noted his stance—it was textbook. Kolašinac was blocking me from behind, and Mustafi was cutting off my left, trying to force me to the right where I would be isolated.
If I tried to control it with my foot, Mustafi would immediately close in to challenge. What are you going to do? Mustafi's posture seemed to ask. My answer was simple.
Just before the ball hit the ground, I shrugged my shoulder, cushioning the ball and popping it to the left. Then, trusting my knees, I cut sharply, changing direction at an almost right angle.
If I were still Kim Taehyun, the man with the ruined ACL, such a violent, sudden turn would have been an absolute pipe dream. But I was Luka now. This body, boasting absurd physical specs, moved exactly as I willed it. The strain on my knees was absolutely zero.
"Schei...!" As I spun and sprinted in the direction of the ball, a German curse word slipped past my ears—very fitting for a man named Mustafi. All that lay ahead of me now was a panicked goalkeeper rushing out and a vast, empty space as wide as a desert.
Just as the ball was about to touch the grass, I lashed my left foot through it, unleashing a volley. Boom! The distance felt to be around seventeen or eighteen meters. If I were the kind of player who couldn't score from this range, I would have never clung to football with a half-crippled body in my past life.
The ball slammed into the back of the net, spinning fiercely before dropping to the ground. Even after I had plummeted to the absolute rock bottom of my life, the one weapon that had never betrayed me was still here. And now, it was with me in an even more evolved state.
"Luka!" "Tachibana!" Ignoring my teammates who were rushing over, shouting my name, I sprinted straight toward the bench where Gillard was cheering. Overwhelming speed, a simple but effective touch to beat a defender, and a clinical finish. Aside from a full-on dribble, I had shown them everything I could do.
"Gillard! You got that on camera, right?" Although dribbling was the core of my playstyle, it would be a crying shame if Wenger didn't get to see this. I immediately questioned Gillard.
"Of course! I got the whole thing." Since this was a proper friendly and not just a training match, he had done his job as a coach. But even if he hadn't recorded it, I wouldn't have felt cheated. I looked up toward the stands, and there he was—Arsène Wenger, staring down at me with sharp, piercing eyes.
Did we have a player like that in our squad? The overwhelming speed that brought to mind Theo Walcott or Kylian Mbappé, the sheer audacity to trap the ball with his shoulder while tightly marked, and that clinical finish.
Arsène Wenger, the manager of Arsenal, was struck with admiration by the play he had witnessed the very moment he stepped onto the pitch. He racked his brain, wondering if such a player had truly been under his nose all this time.
A height of around 180 centimeters, solid thighs that were prominent even beneath his shorts, blonde hair, and a strikingly handsome face that possessed a unique, exotic blend of Eastern and Western features.
Arsenal hadn't signed anyone during the January transfer window, and Wenger regularly reviewed reports on the youth academy. There was no way he would forget a player like this. Yet, no matter how much he searched his memory, no such player existed.
Soon, however, he realized who the boy talking to Gillard must be. He recalled how Gillard had burst into his office a few days ago, making a massive fuss about an unbelievable talent who had practically fallen into their laps.
Wenger had worked with Gillard for about three years now. The only other time Gillard had made this much of a fuss was during his first year at Arsenal, back when he had spent a year working with Cesc Fàbregas.
He was practically begging me to promote a sixteen-year-old kid who had just joined the club straight to the first team. Wenger could fully understand Gillard's excitement back then.
Fàbregas was a player Wenger himself had personally convinced to join Arsenal. And that very same Fàbregas had gone on to shatter Arsenal's youngest-player records, establishing himself as the absolute core of the team.
His name... was it Tachibana? Age fifteen? Sixteen? I heard he came from Japan. Japan... a wonderful country. Even if they weren't particularly great at football.
Wenger held fond memories of Japan. He had learned a great deal during his time coaching there. However, if asked whether he held a high opinion of Japanese footballers, his answer would be a resounding no.
From a Japanese player whose name he couldn't even recall from over a decade ago, to players like Ryo Miyaichi and Takuma Asano—who possessed pace comparable to Walcott but ultimately had to be deemed failures.
The play Tachibana had just shown was characteristic of those failed Japanese prospects. While his clever touch and volley were certainly impressive, such moments of magic could occasionally happen to any footballer by sheer luck. Thus, Tachibana's only reliable, consistent attribute might just be his raw pace.
However, the sheer decision-making required to use his shoulder in that split second was what made Wenger's heart flutter. Was that touch a stroke of luck, or was it entirely intentional? Wenger's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
If that was intentional... Would this boy, who had so effortlessly captured his attention, truly become a world-class talent on par with Fàbregas, as Gillard had so loudly proclaimed? Or would he follow the same disappointing path as his compatriots before him?
Show me what you've got, Tachibana. Completely forgetting about Mustafi and Kolašinac—the very reasons he had agreed to watch this match in the first place—Wenger kept his eyes locked on the young boy who had, for the first time in a very long while, managed to truly surprise him.