I Have Arrived (4)
Peep—!
The whistle blew to signal the start of the second half.
My position was left wing, subbing in for Saka. Since joining Arsenal, I had mostly played on the right wing for the youth team. However, the position etched into my very soul was left wing-forward. Naturally, my proficiency there was on another level, and it seemed Manager Wenger had picked up on that during training.
I guess you don't get to be a legendary manager by playing games. There was a reason he was famous enough for someone from a future generation like me to know him.
Thinking about the national team, I wanted to avoid the left wing-forward position for now, since Ronaldo was still looming over it. Actually, considering Portugal's wings, the right side wasn't going to be easy either.
Currently, Portugal's wing-forwards were Ronaldo and Figo. Both boasted massive reputations in Portugal. If I wanted to carve out a spot for myself on the national team, playing as a striker—where there was no clear, undisputed owner—was my best bet.
But that was something I could pitch to the national team manager once I got called up, proving I could play as a lone striker. For now, securing my place at the club came first. Making an impression here was crucial.
Make my mark here, play regularly on the wing, and start as the lone striker whenever Henry needed a rest. That would catch the national team's eye too.
That was my plan.
And the first step started now.
Maybe because we were already leading 2-0, or because it was just a friendly, but the Colorado Rapids' defense was loose and heavily focused on attacking.
It was the perfect scenario for me to exploit with my pace. The opportunity to showcase my strengths came sooner than expected. A defender's clearance came flying right toward me.
I scanned my surroundings and sprinted forward.
As I accelerated, the Colorado right-back marking me couldn't keep up and fell behind. I controlled the ball cleanly.
The real issue was the center-back closing in from the side.
While I ran diagonally toward the goal, he sprinted in a straight line to cut me off. The moment we faced each other, I threw an upper-body feint. He lunged with his foot, but I slipped past him in the opposite direction, penetrating the penalty box.
Now it was a one-on-one with the goalkeeper. Just then, I spotted Van Persie sprinting in from a distance. I couldn't be absolutely sure from that angle, but he was the only player who could be in that position right now.
It would have been incredibly easy to just drive forward, dummy the keeper, and slot it in myself.
But then, I remembered training, where I'd been yelled at to play more as a team. I also recalled Manager Wenger's preference for creating beautiful goals from perfect chances rather than taking selfish, low-percentage shots.
In that case, right here...!
I swung my leg wide, faking a shot. But the real move was a no-look pass slipped off my standing foot.
The goalkeeper bit hard on my fake, completely off-balance, and the ball rolled sideways. Right into the path of the oncoming Van Persie.
Unless he's a total idiot...
It was a tap-in served on a silver platter. I had even kindly taken the keeper out of the equation. Expecting to hear the sound of the ball hitting the back of the net, I turned my head.
Thud.
But what I saw was Van Persie completely miscuing the shot, sending the ball flying wide of the goal.
...Huh?
In my memory, Van Persie was a world-class striker who could score from any angle, at any moment. He was especially famous for his lethal volleys.
Even back when I was playing, his diving header in the World Cup was constantly featured in "Best Goals of All Time" compilations. And there was that famous volley against Barcelona off a pass from some random midfielder. Anyway, that was the Van Persie in my head.
Yet that Van Persie just blew a tap-in served on a silver platter?
Doubting my own eyes, I double-checked the player who had taken the shot. It was definitely Van Persie.
"...What a dumbass."
The insult slipped out of my mouth automatically.
"Hey! What kind of pass was that?!"
"What are you talking about?"
Maybe he was defensive because he had missed such an easy chance—one where the xG (expected goals), a metric not yet widely known in this era, would easily exceed 1.0. Van Persie raised his voice instead.
"If you're a forward, you should've finished it yourself, you bastard!"
"You're seriously complaining when I served it to you on a platter? Have some shame, asshole."
He was shouting, but his face had turned bright red out of sheer embarrassment. As I turned my back on him, Van Persie could only huff and puff, unable to find a comeback.
Damn it. I should have just scored it myself.
Even though it was just a friendly, I felt a brief pang of regret for wasting a perfect scoring opportunity. But looking over at the touchline, Manager Wenger was clapping with a satisfied expression.
Well, not bad.
Missing out on a goal was a shame, but it was only a friendly. The manager was bound to value the team-oriented play we had practiced in training. And though unintentional, having my biggest rival, Van Persie, completely botch a shot was a nice little bonus.
Alright, let's keep this up.
The match resumed with a goal kick from Colorado. As planned, we pressed high up the pitch. Before long, Xhaka intercepted the ball, launching our attack. Honestly, Xhaka wasn't exactly known for his defensive prowess, but against Colorado, it was child's play.
Either way, we began circulating the ball in a structured build-up. I stuck to my position, executing the passing sequences we'd practiced while waiting for an opening.
The ball found its way to Wilshere, who was playing as the attacking midfielder.
Our eyes met for a split second. I made a dummy run to the left, drawing the attention of their right-back, before instantly cutting back to the right. The defender couldn't react to my sudden change of direction. In that window, Wilshere delivered a crisp, Premier League-quality pass right to my feet without a moment's hesitation.
There was no need to take a touch. I used the momentum of the incoming pass to strike it first-time with the outside of my left boot, aiming for the far post.
Thwack!
The ball flew off my foot with a satisfying crack. The opposing goalkeeper, who had been guarding the near post, lunged toward the far post, but my shot beat him by a margin of two or three ball-widths, rippling the back of the net.
—Waaaaaaah!!!!!!!
"Ah, this is the feeling...!"
I hadn't been able to properly experience the roar of a crowd while playing unofficial matches. Feeling the fans' cheers for the first time in ages, I stood with my arms wide open, soaking it all in. Every hair on my body stood on end as a thrill shot from my toes to the top of my head.
From Wilshere's pinpoint pass, I could feel that I had finally left the shitty Championship and the J-League behind to play in a proper league. And now, I had the crowd's roar to top it off.
The reason I loved football was right here.
And if this had been our home stadium instead of a US tour...!
"Whoa, Luka. Nice one."
"Great pass from you too."
I high-fived Wilshere for the brilliant assist. After exchanging brief words of congratulations with my teammates, I headed back to our half. It was my first goal, but since it was just a friendly, the celebrations were subdued. Still, seeing the glare on Van Persie's face was more satisfying than any celebration could ever be.
"Tsk..."
I shot a smirk at the glaring Van Persie, and he quickly looked away.
"Luka! Substitution! Well done!"
And to top it off, I was subbed out. Normally, I would have signaled that I wanted to play more, but this was a friendly. Considering that key starters usually played fewer minutes in these matches, this was actually a very good sign. Especially with the Bayern Munich match coming up in three days...
I checked the clock; it had been fifteen minutes since the second half started. Playing only fifteen minutes in a friendly like this was a privilege reserved for key players. I walked back to the bench with a smile.
"Good movement. Better than in training."
Manager Wenger's voice was blunt, but it was undeniably praise. I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride.
To be honest, Wenger had a bit of a reputation for going trophy-less later on, but he was the only world-class manager I had ever played under. Receiving recognition from a man of his stature made me realize once again how glad I was to be playing football.
"I'll keep showing you good performances. I won't disappoint you."
And so, my first friendly match in this world came to an end. The final score was 4-0.
After the match, a message from Luna arrived on my phone. The article she linked was titled, Arsenal's 16-Year-Old Secret Weapon Debuts? Wenger Beams! It was a surprisingly hyped headline, considering we had only played against a team I'd barely heard of, the Colorado Rapids.
"Ah... I shouldn't be doing this."
But seeing the article triggered an old habit. My fingers moved automatically, guiding me into the depths of the internet. In my DMs, praise from Arsenal fans was piling up on top of insults from Japanese trolls, but that wasn't what mattered right now.
What I craved more than anything was validation from my homeland—the place that had mocked and ridiculed me like it was a game after my career fell apart.
I quickly browsed through Korean online communities.
"...Damn it."
Sure, there might be more buzz in dedicated fan cafes, but since I was currently registered as a Japanese citizen, signing up for Korea's top portal site was too complicated. I was about to lock my phone.
Wait, hold on.
I typed my name using the Japanese keyboard layout—which felt a bit awkward despite my memories—and finally found what I was looking for.
A rush of pleasure washed over me. Ever since my career fell apart, ego-searching had been a toxic habit that only dragged me down. But today, it felt incredibly satisfying.
Still, it felt a bit empty without Ju-cheol, who used to nag me every time I stared at my phone while smoking a cigarette. And thinking of Ju-cheol naturally brought my parents to mind.
My current family was decent enough, but except for my new younger sister, Luna, no one could replace my real parents, no matter how much they treated me like their own son. Having just played my unofficial debut, I found myself missing my real parents.
"What are you staring at?"
"Huh?"
"You don't think you won just because you got subbed off early today, do you? And that pass earlier was absolute garbage. In that situation, a forward should obviously finish it himself. Oh, but if you were too scared to shoot because you haven't even been weaned off your mother's milk yet, I suppose I can understand."
But seeing Van Persie, who had finished showering and was now spouting nonsense, instantly chased away all my sentimentality.
Right, who has time to be sentimental? I'm too busy playing football.
I flipped Van Persie the bird and replied.
"Sorry, I didn't realize you were too incompetent to even take a shot. I'll keep that in mind next time."
"You son of a..."
Watching Van Persie grit his teeth and glare at me, I figured playing alongside this guy would at least keep things interesting.
"You... just you wait! You think you can act cocky like this when we play against actual big clubs? Next time, I'll...! Hey! Hey! Where are you going?!"
Leaving the fuming Van Persie behind, I walked out of the locker room.
"Huh?"
"Oh..."
...Though it was a bit awkward when we ran into each other again shortly after, since we both had to wait for the team bus.
Having finished my first match amidst a bit of awkwardness, the International Cup—where we would face Bayern Munich, Fiorentina, and Real Madrid—was now right before us.