The Greatest Carbon-Based Organism in History, the GOAT (2)
"Ah, no thanks. I'm good."
"Right, keep up the hard work. Let's play together sometime."
When I declined the autograph, Ronaldo flashed his signature toothy grin and turned away.
What's this? Why does he seem so normal?
Ronaldo. Who exactly was he?
Just off the top of my head, his career was a laundry list of controversies: wild parties, tax evasion, assault, surrogacy scandals, sexual assault allegations, and inventing his own martial art on the pitch by beating up opponents. He'd publicly dissed teammates, slapped a phone out of a young fan's hand, dared to skip His Ballon d'Or ceremony, committed the unforgivable "no-show" incident in Korea, and sent essay-length text messages to anyone who dared say a bad word about him...
Whew. The list went on and on.
In any case, Ronaldo was a player who generated endless drama, a man-child in the truest sense of the word.
The most petty thing he'd done, however, happened when a genius wing-forward from his former club, Sporting CP, scored 52 goals in a single league season at the tender age of nineteen. Ronaldo, who had scored a grand total of three goals in the Portuguese league himself, took to social media to mock him: "The Portuguese league is low-level. If I could go back to that time, scoring 60 league goals would be a joke."
And the sole reason he tore down a young prospect from his own former club? Because that player had said in an interview that Messi was the best in the world. Before that, they had only crossed paths once or twice at events. They had absolutely no connection.
Naturally, the player targeted by Ronaldo's social media sniper rifle was none other than me.
Of course, as a rational person, I didn't hate Ronaldo just because he targeted me. I had disliked him from the very beginning; this just made me dislike him more. And by "the beginning," I meant when I first started playing football. It annoyed me how he acted like he was on the same level as Him just because he scored a few goals, despite his lack of actual footballing grace.
Ronaldo's true value was merely serving as a supporting actor to make Him shine.
No, no, that wasn't the point right now.
I could write a two-hundred-page thesis on Ronaldo's antics, controversies, and personality, but that wasn't what mattered at this moment.
This was the first time I had met Ronaldo in person. And while he was arrogant enough to ask a complete stranger if they wanted his autograph, it was surprisingly disarming to see him act like a relatively normal human being.
Well, if he went around swearing at and hitting everyone he met in daily life, he'd be a literal psychopath.
But that was just a mild surprise. It didn't mean I was going to start liking him. Besides, I had much more important things to worry about right now—things that made spending any more time thinking about Ronaldo feel like a waste.
What mattered more than Ronaldo was today's match.
He said I'm playing the full ninety minutes today.
Thirty minutes as a left winger, thirty minutes as a center forward, and thirty minutes as a right winger.
Wanting to see if I had the stamina to last a full match, Arsène Wenger had given me the green light to play the entire game.
Honestly, getting to play a full ninety minutes in a friendly match like this was a rare privilege. Starters didn't need to overexert themselves in friendlies, and substitutes usually rotated constantly to give everyone a run.
But since I was a newly debuted player who could cover multiple positions, Wenger seemed keen to test my limits today.
It could be seen as a special privilege, but considering I had already bagged four goals in three games despite limited minutes since arriving in the US, it wasn't strange for me to receive this kind of treatment.
My place in the first-team squad was already guaranteed. Depending on my performance today, I might even leapfrog Robin van Persie to become the first-choice attacking option off the bench.
And if I could secure that first-choice sub role, proving my worth once the season officially started would be a walk in the park.
My matchup today is Carvajal, right? That's going to be tough.
For the first thirty minutes, the right-back I would be facing was Dani Carvajal.
In this world, Marcelo had been pushed to the right-back position due to Roberto Carlos firmly holding down the left-back spot, leaving Carvajal as a utility backup who covered both flanks. But the Carvajal I remembered—despite tarnishing his image in his later years—was a key figure in Real Madrid's historic three consecutive Champions League titles and was once widely regarded as the best right-back in the world.
Carvajal was one of the few truly elite full-backs in a position often populated by average players.
He wasn't the kind of opponent you could dismiss with a sneer of "he's just a full-back."
The fact that a player of his caliber was relegated to a utility backup role spoke volumes about the terrifying depth of Real Madrid's squad. Still, there was no reason to be intimidated before the whistle even blew. Since he was currently stuck behind Carlos on the left and Marcelo on the right, he might not yet be performing at the peak level I remembered.
Well, he still looked pretty good in the footage I'd watched.
Alright, let's see what you've got.
If I could break past Carvajal, it meant I could easily chew up and spit out most defenders in the Premier League.
I was already looking forward to the duel, and it didn't take long for the opportunity to present itself.
"Luka!"
Jack Wilshere, starting in central midfield today in place of Cesc Fàbregas, sent a pass my way.
Wilshere, who was subtly wary of me, rarely passed to me if he could help it. The fact that he was releasing the ball to me now meant Real Madrid's pressing was exceptionally tight.
Thanks to my good positioning, I managed to receive Wilshere's pass cleanly. But true to his reputation, Carvajal was already blocking my path before I could even take a few steps.
Behind him, Pepe was keeping a close eye on Eddie Nketiah—our center forward for the day—while positioning himself to cover in case I managed to break through.
Should I pass the ball back and look for another opening, or should I take him on?
My hesitation didn't last long. Given the intensity of Real Madrid's press, there was no telling when I would get the ball back if I passed it. Besides, a sixteen-year-old had the license to be bold.
I accelerated, driving straight at Carvajal. His expression flickered with surprise when I suddenly burst into top gear at such close range. Usually, attackers accelerated when a defender was running alongside them, not when facing them head-on, so his surprise was natural.
However, he quickly recovered, shutting down any dangerous angles that would allow me to shoot and funneling me toward the goal line, where there was virtually no angle left.
Of course, that was exactly what I wanted.
When you possessed overwhelming physical superiority, you didn't need fancy tricks. Without any complex skill, I simply shifted my body and the ball sharply to the left.
"What the—?!"
Carvajal gasped in shock as I made a sharp ninety-degree turn without shedding a single ounce of speed, keeping the ball glued to my foot.
Normally, changing direction so abruptly would send an agonizing strain through the knees, but my current body was practically indestructible.
Back when I was Kim Taehyun, I had often relied on this move, trusting my speed and ball control. Back then, my knees would scream in protest. Sending a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had given me a body capable of executing my vision, I sprinted down the goal line.
Of course, Carvajal, showing the instincts of a world-class defender, immediately recovered and tried to get shoulder-to-shoulder with me.
But in terms of raw speed, there was already a clear hierarchy between us. Realizing instinctively that he couldn't catch up, Carvajal lunged into a desperate sliding tackle. The moment his body left the ground, I dragged the ball back with the sole of my foot and stopped dead.
"Shit...!"
Carvajal slid helplessly across the turf. His tackle would have cleanly swept the ball away had I kept running, but I stood perfectly still, watching him slide past.
Yes! This is the feeling!
In the past, moves like this would take a heavy toll on my joints. Now, my body felt lighter than ever. It was exactly what I had always dreamed of.
Every time I played, recreating the peak performances of my past life filled me with immense gratitude. But that feeling lasted only a split second. I immediately surged toward the goal. Before the opposing goalkeeper could rush out to narrow the angle, I lashed the ball toward the near post.
Thwack!
The connection was absolutely perfect.
This was going to be the opening goal...!
Smack!
However, the goalkeeper, who had positioned himself perfectly to cover the near post, leaped and parried my shot away.
Ah, damn it...!
As the keeper rolled onto the grass, the number 1 and the name "CASILLAS" came into view on the back of his shirt.
Iker Casillas. Spain's legendary goalkeeper. Even when I had debuted in my previous life, his peak had been twenty years prior, yet his legendary status was known to everyone. Still, I hadn't expected him to save that. It was honestly a bit shocking.
Right, this is Real Madrid for you.
Of course, even a legendary goalkeeper couldn't instantly recover his positioning after diving.
Robin van Persie made a run and slotted the rebound into the empty net. Even with a defender tugging at his shirt and throwing him off balance, he accurately found the back of the net.
"Yessssss!!!"
Thrilled to have scored the opening goal against Real Madrid, Van Persie forgot it was just a friendly and ran around the pitch, celebrating wildly. While his antics looked a bit pathetic, Wenger was a manager who valued team chemistry.
Forcing a smile, I jogged over to Van Persie. As our teammates tried to mob him, he was still shouting and tugging at his own shirt. I reached out and smacked him on the back of the head.
Man, that head is just begging to be slapped...
Maybe having a head like that was why he was always plotting to stab the club in the back.
Who could say?
"Ow! Who the hell hit me?!"
It would have been great if Van Persie realized that getting smacked on the head was annoying enough to ruin any celebration.
Well, I can just keep teaching him.
I didn't know how long I would play for Arsenal, but I wasn't going to let him leave before me without getting my share of slaps in. Resolving to smack him on the head every time he scored, I trotted back to our half.
In any case, that made it 1-0.
After that, Real Madrid and Arsenal traded blows in a high-tempo match. By the time thirty minutes had passed and I shifted to the center-forward position, the score was tied at 1-1.
Around the fortieth minute of the first half, I pounced on a loose ball from a corner kick and tapped it in, putting us ahead once more. The first half ended with us leading 2-1.
Now, only the second half remained.
—Waaaaaaah!
As we walked back onto the pitch for the second half, a deafening roar erupted from the stands.
Looking over at the opposition side to see what was causing the massive commotion, I saw him. Ronaldo was stepping onto the pitch, waving to the crowd.
...Is it finally time to face him?
I wasn't a defender, but regardless, a showdown with Ronaldo was finally waiting for me.