Because He's a Fullback

It was the final friendly of the season.

"Hey! Return it!" I yelled for the return pass, having already cut inside, but by the time the words left my mouth, it was already too late. Osei-Tutu—better known as Tutu—had unleashed a shot that sailed horribly wide of the goal.

"Ah, sorry," Tutu apologized, only just noticing me.

"It's fine, it's fine. Not your fault." I waved it off to show I didn't care, but Tutu was still walking on eggshells around me.

Well, I couldn't exactly blame him for being cautious. In situations like this, I usually gave the other forwards or midfielders a proper earful.

Even though this was just an unofficial match mixing the reserves and the youth squad, I was always dead serious about football. Feedback like that just slipped out of me instinctively mid-game.

But Tutu? He was a fullback. It was only natural for a fullback to lack vision and make mistakes, so I was willing to let it slide.

"Hey, I really mean it. It's fine. You're a fullback, after all."

The fullback. A sanctuary for the defeated, a position reserved for the talentless tagalongs of football. People in the football world often said that good fullbacks were rare, but the reason was simple: almost no fullback actually understood the game. It was a final refuge for players devoid of talent, which was exactly why they were so scarce.

In a way, the fullback position was like the support role in that notoriously toxic MOBA game that was popular when I was a kid—the one famous for ruining friendships. This trend was especially pronounced among players who were still stuck playing fullback at this age.

Good on the ball with high football IQ? You go to midfield. Great physicality? You start as a striker or a center-back. Fast with good dribbling? You become a winger.

Only after failing the screening process for every other position during their youth years do players finally settle into being a fullback. Naturally, world-class fullbacks were few and far between.

The ones who actually looked decent as fullbacks usually had enough quality to play as an average midfielder or winger in the league anyway. Expecting true "footballing ability" from a pure, natural-born fullback was simply cruel. Think I'm wrong? If they were that good, fullbacks would be getting paid a lot more.

Anyway, since fullbacks were basically ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the pity-picks of the squad, I only ever expected two things from them: holding the defensive line, and occasionally overlapping to clean up the winger's mess during an attack.

So, the fact that Tutu had actually ventured into the penalty box to join the attack was worthy of some extra credit. Of course, the sheer audacity of a mere fullback taking a shot was a major deduction, bringing his net score back to a flat zero.

"...Sorry."

"No, keep your head up, Tutu. You did great. For a fullback."

"..."

At my warm words of comfort, a faint tear welled up in Tutu's eyes. To think he'd be so deeply moved by a simple gesture. Had no one ever praised this poor soul before? Even if he was just a fullback, treating him like an outcast without a single word of encouragement was truly heartless.

This disdain for fullbacks was a deep-seated disease in the football world. In the end, I suppose I was the only one who truly cared for them, precisely because I understood that they were structurally incapable of playing good football. I patted Tutu on the shoulder.

"What are you doing? Get moving."

"...Huh?"

"Run. You have to defend."

I even offered him some guidance, seeing as he had completely forgotten his duties. It was only natural ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for Tutu to forget what to do next—no need to explain why. Watching him scurry back to his defensive position, I felt a swell of pride. At least he had enough intelligence to understand my instructions.

Look at him go. Yeah, at least he's fast. A warm, fatherly smile spread across my face as I watched Tutu's retreating figure.

Then, the Chelsea reserves launched their attack. After a quick sequence of passes, Hudson-Odoi whipped in a cross that met Giroud's head, sending the ball rustling into the back of our net.

Hudson-Odoi and Giroud. Giroud was a very familiar name, and Odoi was one I'd heard somewhere before as well.

Before the match, I'd heard that Odoi was a young winger splitting his time between the first team and the academy, while Giroud was only playing with the reserves to regain match fitness after an injury. His quality was easily that of a starting Premier League striker, and his movement was undeniably sharp.

"Hey! You should've blocked that! You let him cross way too easily!" Omole, who had just lost the header to Giroud, barked at Tutu for allowing the cross.

Honestly, from where I was standing, the blame for that goal lay squarely on the center-back who lost the header. It was only natural for a fullback to allow a cross; the center-back should have been more focused on defending the box.

Even if Giroud was a first-team player, if you asked which was harder—a fullback blocking a cross versus a center-back contesting a header against a Premier League striker—blocking the cross was easily the tougher task. Omole should have dealt with it.

Tutu had done his absolute best just by preventing a clean breakthrough and a one-on-one with the keeper. If anything, he deserved a pat on the back.

"Easy, easy, Omole. Let it go."

"What? Luka, you saw that too. Tutu just let him cross without any pressure—"

"Omole! I said drop it! Tutu is a fullback!"

"Wait, what does that have to do with—"

"Tutu did what he could. You're the one who should've been more focused."

"..."

"Stop shifting the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blame. It's pathetic, Omole. There is nothing sadder than blaming a fullback."

I scolded Omole, who clearly didn't understand the fundamental nature of football. Fullbacks are just worse at football than everyone else. If he lacked the footballing IQ to grasp such a basic truth, he was never going to make it to the first team either.

Regardless, Giroud's goal leveled the score at 2-2. I was slated to play sixty minutes today, which left me with about ten minutes. I figured it was time to grab a goal. Leaving the pitch with a draw would leave a bad taste in my mouth.

"Torreira! Send some balls my way."

"Yeah? You got it."

I called for a pass from Torreira, who was pulling the strings in the defensive midfield. Torreira was a player the first team had high hopes for.

I heard he had transferred from Serie A before the season started, but unable to break past first-team midfielders like Fabregas, Vieira, and Xhaka, he was currently relegated to the reserves. Supposedly, they were letting him adjust to the reserve league until his physicality was ready for the Premier League.

Still, as a first-team caliber player, his ball-carrying ability was leagues above the reserve level. If Torreira started feeding me the ball, scoring within ten minutes would be a breeze.

Before the match, I had been instructed to hold back on individual dribbles to focus on tactical adaptation, but we needed a goal now. I'd spent fifty minutes just circulating the ball, so the coaches would surely understand if I took the reins for the final ten.

Prrr! As the whistle blew, our central triangle of Torreira, Guendouzi, and Willock began to advance, circulating the ball. I spent a few minutes helping them keep possession, waiting for the right opportunity.

Tommy, playing as the left wing-forward, initiated a dribble, drawing the Chelsea defenders over to his side. Rather than forcing the issue, Tommy played a smart pass back to Torreira to escape the pressure. Right then, Torreira and I locked eyes.

Now! True to his first-team aspirations, Torreira delivered a perfectly timed pass right to my feet.

Grant, the Chelsea left-back marking me, chose to jockey and wait rather than lunging to intercept the pass. Seizing the opening, I turned to face him with a single touch.

As I began to sway my upper body side to side, his eyes darted frantically. He lunged forward, trying to shut down any space for me to run into.

Well, it wasn't a completely foolish choice. In these friendlies, I'd been asked to refrain from excessive dribbling for tactical reasons, meaning my primary scoring route had been limited to simple bursts of speed.

But if I lost the ball to a desperate lunge in a reserve and youth match, it would be an insult to the fifteen-plus years I'd dedicated solely to football. I didn't even need any fancy tricks. The moment I feinted right with my upper body, he bit hard, allowing me to easily glide past him on the left.

He must have had some backup, because the left center-back immediately rushed over to block my path to the goal. He tried to cut off the angle for a left-footed curler, but when I faked a shot with the outside of my right foot, he committed too early and got caught on his heels.

I pulled my right foot back, paused for a fraction of a second, and then exploded forward again toward the goal.

"Block him!" the defenders screamed desperately from behind, but I was barely fourteen meters out. The keeper rushed out in a panic, but with both corners wide open, I let fly.

Thwack! The ball exploded off my right boot like a cannonball, screaming toward the bottom-left corner. The keeper lunged, but the ball was already well beyond his reach.

"Luka!"

"Whoa! What was that? You just bypassed two defenders!"

"You should've been doing that from the start!"

"Whoa, easy now." I calmed down my teammates as they rushed over to celebrate, and we trotted back to our half. It would have been perfect if there were fans in the stands. It was a shame there was no crowd here to go ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wild for a play like that.

"Luka! Substitution!" And with that, my final play of the match was over.

"Yes, Coach!"

"That last play was excellent." Since the substitution had been planned beforehand, I walked off the pitch without any complaints, greeted by the coach's praise.

Of course, tactically speaking, I was supposed to link up with the fullbacks or attacking midfielders to create a more calculated chance, but since it was the final play, he didn't seem to mind.

"Luka, your play has definitely improved. Manager Wenger is keeping a close eye on your development as well. Your birthday is July 4th, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. You'll likely join the pre-season training camp as soon as you sign the contract, so be ready."

"Understood."

Although I had only played in unofficial friendlies so far, my performances over the past few months had already made a massive impression on the Arsenal coaching staff.

Furthermore, considering the long-term injuries to Van Persie, Walcott, and Wilshere—not to mention key players like Henry, Bellerin, and Campbell struggling with fitness—Arsenal was practically desperate to get me into the first team as soon as possible.

Even Saka was already getting first-team minutes. If it weren't for my age, it wouldn't have been surprising if I'd already made my professional debut.

For context, Arsenal had been sitting in third place when I first arrived in London, but a cascade of injuries to key players had dragged them down to a sixth-place finish.

With the squad decimated since February and March, the club had put all their eggs in the Europa League basket to secure a Champions League spot, effectively deprioritizing the domestic league. But thanks to that gamble, they had reached the Europa League final. And now, the coach was handing me tickets to that very match.

"And here are your tickets for the Europa League final. You said you have a family of four, right?" The coach handed me four tickets. Providing tickets for my entire family was a clear sign of how highly Arsenal valued me. I smiled warmly at this VIP treatment reserved for their top prospect.

"Thank you so much."

"Of course. Let me know if you need help with travel expenses. Oh, and the club has booked a block of hotel rooms, so let me know if you have trouble finding accommodation."

"Yes, sir. I'll look into it first and let you know."

Since my father was a former footballer, money wasn't an issue, so I politely declined the offer for travel expenses.

Late May. Well, skipping a couple of days of school is a small price to pay to watch the Europa League final. The final was being held in Azerbaijan. Since visiting Azerbaijan wasn't exactly an everyday opportunity, I called Luna as soon as the match ended. She was a bit easier to talk to than Mother.

But Luna's reaction was bizarre. Her voice sounded strained, as if she were holding back tears and suppressing a deep-seated anger.

What's with that reaction? Was she mad at me? Ever since I became Luka, our relationship had been pretty good. In fact, even searching through Luka's memories, I couldn't recall ever hearing her sound like this.

Tsk. Did something happen? Since a break was scheduled right after the Europa League final, I figured I'd have to make a trip back to Japan.