I Have Arrived (5)
"Hmm, Tachibana still seems like the best fit for the left wing. His performance was at its best when he played on the left."
"That's true. It's originally Walcott's position, so playing a similar role won't confuse the other players."
"Watching the match in person, his vision seemed broader than during training. Since it's his first pre-season tour, he must have been trying too hard to show off before. What do you think, Boss?"
As the assistant coach finished speaking, all eyes turned to one man. That man was, of course, Arsène Wenger, the absolute authority at Arsenal.
"Then we'll go with Tachibana on the left."
There was no major stir at the decision to start the newly turned sixteen-year-old prospect, Luka Tachibana, as the left winger.
After all, even if their opponent was Bayern Munich, it was only a friendly, not an official match.
The squad sheet for this Bayern match was mostly a rotated side.
If it had been a competitive match, a sixteen-year-old kid could never have displaced Theo Walcott, who recorded fifteen goals and six assists last season, or Freddie Ljungberg, who had sixteen goals and nine assists.
Of course, this match carried a bit more weight than other friendlies. The UEFA Super Cup against Bayern Munich, the reigning Champions League winners, was scheduled just a few weeks later.
In other words, this was a preview of the UEFA Super Cup. Since Arsenal was always hungry for silverware, they needed to win even minor trophies like the Super Cup. They wanted to use this match to figure out how to dismantle Bayern's tactics.
And the fact that Luka was selected for such an important match meant he had already risen to the team's third option, right behind Ljungberg and Walcott.
"Then Fàbregas should probably play at least the first half, right? It'll be good for him to get used to Bayern's tempo."
"I agree. Let's set up the Bayern match like this. Nketiah up front, with Tachibana and Van Persie on the wings. Wilshere as the attacking midfielder, and Fàbregas and Guendouzi in central midfield. The back four will be Tierney, Touré, Campbell, and Bellerín. Leno in goal."
"The attack is entirely made up of our future prospects. I hope the boys put on a good show."
"You've put the starters in defense. May I ask why?"
"A solid defense allows the young ones to focus on the attack, doesn't it?"
The coaching staff chuckled at the response, which was classic Wenger—always placing immense trust in young prospects.
That's the Boss for you.
"Ah."
Just as they were about to wrap up the meeting, Wenger spoke up again.
"By the way, how is the relationship between Tachibana and Van Persie looking?"
Luka and Van Persie. These two young talents, whom Arsenal held in particularly high regard, had been spotted bickering after training due to their similar positions and unyielding personalities.
So the Boss saw everything.
However, the friction wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Their strong personalities translated into fierce competitiveness, creating a positive synergy.
Surprisingly, the one putting in more effort was Van Persie, who already had first-team experience and twelve goals under his belt from last season. It was almost as if he was tacitly admitting he was still lacking compared to Luka.
"They aren't exactly friends, but they're pushing each other in a good way. After the Colorado match, Robin was out there doing extra shooting drills. It seems failing to convert Luka's pass really bothered him."
"I see. Keep an eye on them so they can continue to grow together."
"Of course, Boss."
With that, the tactical meeting ahead of the International Champions Cup match against Bayern Munich concluded in a warm atmosphere. It didn't take long for the starting lineup to be announced to the players.
"I'm so jealous, Luka. Starting against Bayern Munich."
"It's just a friendly."
Even if it was a rotated squad, there was no need to act like a child over starting a friendly, so I brushed off Saka's comment with casual modesty. Honestly, I wasn't surprised at all; it was only natural.
Considering my performance in training and the match against the Colorado Rapids, it wouldn't have been strange for me to walk straight into the starting eleven. While I wanted to protest and demand to play with the full first-team squad, I had enough confidence to know I could prove myself within six months. Biding my time for now was perfectly fine.
"Hey. Don't get cocky out there. Just play like you do in training."
Of course, there was no reason to play nice with someone who spoke to me with such a terrible attitude.
"Just make sure you don't drag me down. You have to actually make me want to pass to you if you want me to play like I do in training."
"Grr..."
Watching Van Persie grit his teeth was honestly quite satisfying. However, unlike the last match, I was comfortable with my right foot while he was strictly left-footed. With the two of us deployed on opposite wings and Eddie Nketiah—a workhorse striker whose only real strength was his work rate—in the center, Van Persie and I would need to establish some chemistry against Bayern.
"So you're starting?"
Before that, however, I had to deal with the guy currently standing in front of me.
"Yeah."
The guy spitting out those arrogant words was Cesc Fàbregas. And considering the skill he displayed during training, he definitely had the right to be arrogant.
In my memory, Fàbregas was a player who was incredibly famous in his youth but fizzled out later. He was managing by the time I was playing professionally, so I had never faced him on the pitch. He was basically from two generations before me, so I had only really heard his name.
Yet, his display in training was so brilliant that even I had to admit why the media hyped him up as a genius. He possessed truly prodigious talent.
His physicality was average, and his technical ability to escape pressure was nothing special. However, he sprayed passes that amazed even me watching from the sidelines. When playing a mini-game with him, the pressure was intense; if you didn't stay focused every second, you would miss his perfectly timed passes.
His understanding of space was so exceptional that it became glaringly obvious the moment you shared the pitch with him.
Of course, he had a fatal flaw. A flaw so severe it completely overshadowed his average physical and technical stats.
"I saw you play a bit in training. I hope you don't disappoint me. Oh, and if you're going to freeze up like an amateur just because we're playing Bayern, let me know in advance. I won't bother passing to you then."
This insolent tone, sounding as if he were the manager himself, was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to his personality.
He was the type of guy who would say whatever he wanted, even to the captain, Patrick Vieira. During a mini-game, when he lost the ball and Vieira was late to cover, he screamed at him so fiercely that even I—someone who never filters his thoughts—was taken aback.
The only people he was close with were guys his age like Wilshere, or fellow Spaniards like Bellerín. Even-tempered veterans like Bergkamp or Henry would tolerate him, though.
Of course, alongside Henry, he was the absolute core of the team. The coaches were busy coddling him, treating him like royalty. It was obvious that Wenger favored Fàbregas immensely. Except for Vieira, who constantly nagged him, everyone else just bent over backward to accommodate him.
Which was probably why those two clashed so often.
"Just focus on passing, you pass merchant."
Well, I wasn't one to back down from a pissing contest either. There was no reason to avoid a confrontation when a guy who had ignored me until now decided to pick a fight.
"Wh-what did you say?"
"Didn't you hear me? I said, just feed me the ball."
If I were the type to take that kind of attitude from a kid who wasn't even twenty yet, I wouldn't have been dragged through the mud so many times on the internet in my past life. Even now, I had no intention of bowing down to some brat who thought he was king just because he could kick a ball.
It seemed the Luka inside me felt the exact same way.
"Ha. You must be pretty confident."
"You've seen me play. You know what I can do."
"What a joke. And here I was, trying to be nice. Kids these days really don't know how to take advice, do they?"
Hearing this from a kid who was barely out of his teens was absurd, but physically, I was indeed the younger one here.
"Does age matter on the pitch?"
"Fine. Let's see what you've got."
As soon as Fàbregas walked away, Saka, who had been standing next to me, began to freak out.
"Luka! Are you going to be okay?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"That's Cesc Fàbregas!"
"He's just another player. Stop overreacting. He came over and picked a fight first. Was I supposed to just take it?"
"You haven't been in the first team long, so you don't know, but that guy is seriously petty. Once, I missed one of his passes in training, and he didn't pass to me a single time during the next match!"
"Then why did you miss the pass? If I were him, I wouldn't want to pass to you either."
"Are you saying that to mock me?"
"Oh, were you standing there? Well, I didn't mean for you to take it personally."
Does this guy seriously have no friends? Why is he still here?
Then again, Van Persie didn't seem to have anyone close to him other than Dennis Bergkamp, his fellow countryman. Maybe Kolo Touré at best.
"You little... Ugh, keep acting cocky and you're going to get burned. I guess you only provoked him because you're completely clueless."
"Are you worried about me?"
"...Fuck off."
Muttering something that might have been concern, Van Persie swore and stormed off. But why had he been lingering around in the first place? Come to think of it, Fàbregas had approached while I was already talking to Van Persie, so it wasn't that strange.
Either way, I wasn't worried. I had heard Saka's horror stories about Fàbregas, but from what I could see, the teammate Fàbregas disliked the most was Vieira. Yet, having watched several Arsenal matches, their chemistry on the pitch had never been an issue.
That meant he kept his personal feelings separate from the game.
Saka probably didn't get those passes simply because of a skill issue.
At the end of the day, midfielders were just pass merchants. If a striker got into a good position, they had no choice but to pass. Back when I played for the national team, there was a senior midfielder whom I hated so much we almost came to blows, but once the whistle blew, he couldn't stop feeding me the ball.
Midfielders were, ultimately, creatures destined to cling to the strikers' shorts and beg them to score.
Just like back then, the thought of this arrogant punk eventually submitting to my skill and feeding me passes sent a thrill through me.
There was nothing more entertaining than watching these self-proclaimed 'midfield generals'—bloated with ego just because they could pass—eventually bow to my ability and become mere pass merchants, desperately begging me to score.
Let's see how long you can hold out.
I truly couldn't wait for the match against Bayern.