The Greatest Carbon-Based Organism in History, the GOAT (3)
The stands erupted in a thunderous roar.
‘If someone didn’t know better, they’d think a real superstar just walked onto the pitch.’
The moment Ronaldo trapped the ball in the corner, the crowd lost their minds. Luka couldn’t help but find the wild cheering over a single touch ridiculous, but Ronaldo seemed to take it as a cue. He immediately launched into his signature “crab” dribble.
Back and forth. His flashy footwork danced around the ball in hypnotic patterns. Colasinac, who had come on as a substitute in the second half, watched the entire spectacle from barely a meter away, his face hardening into a stony mask.
Luka had to admit that if he were in the defender’s shoes, his expression would probably look the same. As a professional footballer himself, he couldn’t see any point in that tempo-killing nonsense. Colasinac might be a full-back, but he was smart enough to recognize useless showboating when he saw it.
Still, the fans—whose football IQ was apparently lower than a full-back’s—cheered wildly for Ronaldo’s antics.
Maybe Ronaldo wasn’t a footballer at all. Maybe he was just an entertainer here to make the crowd laugh.
‘Entertainaldo… nah, that doesn’t roll off the tongue. Entertwo? That doesn’t even make sense.’
While Luka stood up front, watching the show and trying to come up with a fitting nickname, Ronaldo suddenly released the ball. It wasn’t a breakthrough.
He simply passed it back to Carlos, who was charging in from behind. Luka had briefly wondered if Ronaldo had been stalling for time, but the famously selfish superstar wasn’t the type to do anyone any favors.
‘Looks like the pieces just fell into place. Couldn’t do anything himself, so he dropped it back.’
Carlos noticed the space in front of him and, from nearly thirty-five meters out, unleashed a shot without hesitation.
It was an undisputed fact in both worlds that Carlos was one of the greatest left-backs in history. With Milan’s Maldini now playing as a center-back, Carlos was widely regarded as the best left-back currently active.
His greatest strength had always been his willingness to join attacks and his thunderous shooting. As if to prove his reputation was no exaggeration, the moment his foot connected with the ball, it sounded like something had exploded.
‘Whoa… what kind of shot was that…’
It was a strike so impressive that even an opponent had to admire it. Fortunately, the ball slammed into the post and bounced back out. The goal frame was still rattling violently from the impact. The rebound flew toward the edge of the penalty area.
The player who collected it was Real Madrid’s reserve, Valverde. He had already been a first-team regular when Luka was still active, serving as a veteran presence at the club. Seeing him in his fresh-faced, almost rookie days felt strangely surreal.
True to his youthful inexperience, Valverde didn’t even try to create anything. He simply passed the ball straight to the team’s ace.
Real Madrid’s ace was, of course, Ronaldo. Receiving Valverde’s pass, he once again found himself with the ball just outside the penalty box.
But this time was different. The leg-shaking showmanship from earlier had been pure theater. Now Ronaldo burst toward the inside of the box, his legs whipping through the air.
Colasinac closed the distance to block him, but after a step-over, Ronaldo cut inside and fired a shot. The angle was tight—there weren’t many paths to goal—but Ronaldo hammered the ball precisely into the far corner.
It was too fast for starting goalkeeper Leno to react.
The stands exploded once more.
Ronaldo’s shot threaded the gap between Leno’s arm and leg, rippling the net.
‘Ronaldo could do something like that?’
Honestly, watching from the forward line, Luka found Ronaldo’s display quite impressive.
The Ronaldo in his memory was a player who won headers and poached goals. The only other thing that came to mind was how he had helped South Korea reach the round of sixteen. Luka had never bothered looking up footage of his actual play. He had only read about it in articles.
Back then, Luka had Messi—the living textbook of football. When he first started playing, Ronaldo was already being called washed-up, more famous for his bizarre antics than his performances.
Even the full match Luka had watched after arriving in this world hadn’t left much of an impression. It was last season’s Champions League final against Bayern Munich. In that game, Ronaldo had been completely shackled by Lahm. Though he created a few shots, Neuer saved them all. For ninety minutes, Ronaldo had been invisible before watching Munich lift the trophy.
But the play he had just shown… it was enough to understand why so many people in Korea loved him enough to fight online battles in his name even after a no-show.
‘It does look pretty cool.’
The dribbling that flowed from those long limbs had real flavor. The way he beat a man, the powerful shooting, and—though Luka hated to admit it—his undeniably handsome face.
If someone who didn’t know much about football watched him, it wasn’t strange at all that they would fall for Ronaldo’s game.
‘So this is prime Ronaldo? They said an injury forced him to change from a poacher to this style. No wonder he has so many fans.’
But football wasn’t about looking cool. Doing that kind of play in front of a full-back like Colasinac? Any striker could pull that off. Luka could do it right now if he wanted.
In the Champions League final he had hidden behind Lahm, yet against a weaker opponent like Colasinac he acted like a king. It reminded Luka of the kids at school who stayed quiet in front of the sports club members but acted tough around regular students.
“It’s fine, it’s fine. The opponent is that Ronaldo, after all.”
The defenders patting each other on the back for failing to stop Ronaldo were equally ridiculous.
“Then are you going to act the same way when we actually face them during the season?”
“The kid’s right. Even a friendly should be treated like a real match.”
Bergkamp, who had come on as a substitute in the second half, responded to Luka’s words. Even though neither side had their full starting lineups, the same applied to Real Madrid. Bergkamp clearly didn’t like the attitude that losing to Ronaldo was somehow inevitable.
Still, he couldn’t harshly criticize teammates whose confidence had been shaken by someone like Ronaldo.
“Bergkamp, please push the ball forward a bit more. There’s a talent here who surpasses Ronaldo, you know.”
“Pfft.”
“You really…”
Bergkamp burst out laughing at Luka’s words. The other players around them started shaking their heads or chuckling along with him.
Luka hadn’t said it to make them laugh. It was simply the truth. But if it lifted the team’s mood, that was fine.
What could be more uncool than correcting yourself with words? Besides, there was no need. In the end, he would prove it with his performance.
The match resumed with the score tied at 2-2.
However, there was one thing Luka had overlooked…
“Hey, mister! Pass me the ball already!”
“You go try marking that guy. See if you can send the ball forward. I’m working on it, so stop pestering me, you brat.”
The player marking Bergkamp was none other than Makélélé, the midfielder renowned as the world’s best defender.
‘This is seriously brutal. How the hell did those Bayern guys ever beat these monsters?’
Makélélé, who had also been introduced in the second half, stuck to Bergkamp like a leech. He cut off every dangerous passing lane toward Luka. All Bergkamp could do was recycle the ball.
‘This is exactly why I hate playing as a central striker.’
Although Luka could play both wing forward and central striker, the position he disliked most was center-forward.
When the midfield failed to supply the ball, there was nothing a striker could do. Watching it happen filled his chest with frustration.
Peep—!
Fortunately, Wenger felt the same frustration. The manager decided to make a substitution, bringing on Fabregas in midfield. Unless Makélélé could somehow grow a second body, he couldn’t mark both Bergkamp and Fabregas at once.
His personality was weird, but his football ability was top-class. Just having Fabregas on the pitch made the game feel a little more breathable.
“Hey!”
A pass finally reached him after so long. Fabregas had broken through that terrifying mark and delivered the ball to Luka.
He felt pressure against his back. Pepe was shoving him. As Luka held firm against the physical challenge, Pepe spoke up.
“You’re holding up pretty well. You’re Portuguese, right?”
Come to think of it, Pepe was Portuguese too. During their pre-match conversation, he hadn’t seemed interested, but knowing Luka’s background suggested otherwise.
Of course, Luka ignored him and passed the ball back to Bergkamp. But once Pepe’s mouth opened, he didn’t stop.
“Your mom’s Ines, right? She looks like she’d be a good fuck. I owed her a lot when I was young. If I’d known she’d end up marrying some Asian guy, I should’ve gone straight for it back then.”
Throwing out such mother-related trash talk against a sixteen-year-old from the same country in a friendly match. Luka was genuinely impressed. No matter how famous his mother had been as a model, scouting reports didn’t include the opponent’s mother. That meant Pepe had looked it up himself!
The passion for victory that drove him to research a much younger teammate’s mother just to shake his mentality in a meaningless friendly was so impressive Luka almost wanted to applaud.
“Really? I fucked your mom, but she wasn’t that great.”
Of course, this kind of trash talk was basically a greeting in football. Luka wasn’t a sixteen-year-old who would cry over mommy insults, so he fired back immediately. Pepe let out a short laugh.
“At least wait until you’ve got hair on your balls before you start lying like that…”
“Go open your mom’s urn and have a taste. You might still catch the flavor of my cum.”
The moment Pepe’s face stiffened at the follow-up greeting, Luka burst forward. While Pepe was distracted by the verbal exchange, Bergkamp finally shook off Makélélé and sent a pass that Luka received cleanly.
“You little shit!”
The pressure was still there. The pass wasn’t as clean as the ones he saw in training, so when Luka took it on the outside of his left foot, the ball popped up. Pepe charged at him like a mad bull. But Luka, with his back to the defender, leaped into the air and struck the ball again with his left foot while still airborne.
Bang!
The net shook amid another roar from the crowd. The opposing goalkeeper stood frozen in disbelief. Casillas, who had been in goal during the first half, was already on the bench. Luka briefly wondered if Casillas might have saved it, but he decided to simply lie on the ground and savor the moment.
“Luka! You crazy bastard! A bicycle kick from there!”
Bergkamp came running over immediately, grabbing Luka’s face and shouting.
“What, it was nothing special.”
“Ha… You score a goal like that against Real Madrid and that’s your reaction?”
“It’s just a friendly.”
“Unbelievable…”
When Luka stood up with Bergkamp’s help, the rest of his teammates rushed over and swarmed him in celebration.
“See? I told you there’s a talent here who surpasses Ronaldo right next to you guys.”
“Look at you showing off, you prick.”
“Your ego is definitely bigger than Ronaldo’s.”
“…It’s not that big.”
As they shared congratulations and headed back to their own half, Ronaldo approached. …With that trademark bright, toothy smile of his.
“Nice goal, Luka. Haha.”
What was this? After watching Pepe dig up personal information on a much younger player just to trash-talk him in a friendly, seeing Ronaldo offer genuine praise after conceding a goal made him seem almost… normal.
‘Was it really just my prejudice?’
Maybe the narrow-minded, petty one had been Luka all along, blindly hating Ronaldo simply because he was Messi’s rival. Maybe Luka was the weird one?
No. That couldn’t be right. After all, Ronaldo had been the one who took shots at him on social media.
If Ronaldo was normal and Luka was the abnormal one…
Then a certain article from his previous life suddenly came to mind. It had discussed banning heading in youth leagues because too many headers could kill brain cells.
Maybe after his injury, Ronaldo had changed to a style that relied heavily on heading near the goal, suffering irreversible damage to his brain in the process.
Like boxers who suffer from punch-drunk syndrome.
Behind the world’s greatest heading machine lay such a tragic backstory.
If that were the case, then football might have given Ronaldo an irreparable wound. It had turned a once-normal person into something so ugly.
‘Well, if there wasn’t something wrong with his brain, he wouldn’t have targeted me like that. And he wouldn’t seriously believe he’s better than Messi. Seeing how normal he looks right now, it must be a hundred percent. …I should be careful with headers too.’
No wonder he hadn’t seemed entirely normal.
Luka suddenly felt sorry for all the times he had cursed Ronaldo. He even felt a little pity.
“Huh…?”
“I’ll help you out.”
“What are you suddenly…”
Ronaldo looked puzzled at Luka’s words. But regardless, Ronaldo was a teammate he would have to chase titles with on the national team, and the squad’s ace (excluding Luka, who would soon join).
“Fighting!”
“Fighting? You’re not trying to pick a fight, are you?”
“Ah, it’s a Japanese thing. It’s like cheering someone on to do their best from now on.”
“I see. I’ll be looking forward to seeing your good side too.”
Now that he knew the truth, did that trademark toothy smile somehow look pitiful? Or was it just his imagination? Luka decided that from now on, whether with the national team or anywhere else, he would treat Ronaldo well and help him out.