The 2019-20 European Super Cup (1)
The European Super Cup against Bayern Munich, the reigning Champions League winners. Our lineup to face them hadn't changed much since the opening match. The only difference was that I was starting upfront instead of Van Persie.
"Do well. Don't freeze up like that guy did."
Perhaps that was why Fabregas, who rarely spoke to me, approached and struck up a conversation. "That guy," of course, referred to Van Persie.
During the opening match, Fabregas had delivered three key passes to Van Persie. However, an impatient Van Persie squandered every single one of them, leaving Fabregas with zero assists. It had been obvious during the game that Fabregas was incredibly frustrated.
After Van Persie missed the third pass, Fabregas had started making runs into the penalty box himself to hunt for goals.
Still, I hadn't expected him to come over and talk to me like this. Seeing him do so made it clear that Fabregas took this match quite seriously.
Well, as a professional, no match was truly unimportant, but the European Super Cup was essentially an exhibition event. In terms of significance, I ranked it lower than a league match or the FA Cup, so this was a bit unexpected.
Then again, Fabregas was a guy with a massive ego.
"Did you miss me that much?"
"Don't talk nonsense."
"And who are you comparing me to? I'm nothing like that guy, so just send the passes my way. Like you did back then."
"Ha... Let's see if you can play as confidently on the pitch as you talk."
Spitting out a line that sounded like a cartoon villain, he walked back to his spot. Knowing his usual personality, I expected him to snap back with something sharper, but he was definitely acting different today.
And Fabregas wasn't the only one. Even if the tournament's prestige wasn't the highest, winning this match still meant lifting a European trophy. The locker room was thick with a different kind of tension compared to the opening match, visible in the players' expressions.
In the midst of this atmosphere, Manager Wenger walked in and began outlining the strategy against Munich.
Munich's starting formation today was a 4-4-2, not much different from what they used during pre-season training.
Neuer was in goal. At right-back was Lahm, one of the greatest right-backs of the modern era. The center-back pairing consisted of Munich's mainstay Boateng and Rugani, who had transferred from Juventus this season. Alaba patrolled the left-back position.
Except for Rugani, they were all players who had dominated an entire era of football history. Neuer was hailed as the greatest goalkeeper of all time, and Lahm was easily counted on one hand when discussing the best right-backs in history.
On top of that, Boateng and Alaba were the Bundesliga's finest and ranked among the top defenders in the world. Aside from Rugani, whom I couldn't recall very well, Munich's defense was practically world-class.
On the wings was the legendary 'Robbery' duo of Robben and Ribéry. In central midfield, perhaps due to a lack of space at Real Madrid, Kroos—one of the best midfielders of the 2010s—remained at Munich alongside Schweinsteiger, a name I had at least heard of.
Finally, the strike partnership featured Lewandowski, a forward who dominated the 2010s and 2020s, and Müller, who possessed the highest football IQ in Germany.
Excluding the new signing Rugani, Bayern Munich fielded the exact same lineup that had defeated Real Madrid to conquer the Champions League the previous year.
Aside from Rugani, they were all players I knew well or had at least heard of in my past life. I knew what to expect, but seeing their names on paper was still intimidating.
This squad is seriously sickening.
I looked over our players while listening to Wenger's tactical briefing. Honestly, the only players on our side who could match Munich's class were Bergkamp, Fabregas, and Vieira. While Ljungberg, Toure, and Campbell were reliable, they weren't considered the absolute best in the Premier League, and the rest couldn't even compare to Munich's star power.
In other words, the only area where we could compete with Munich was the midfield. In fact, if Bergkamp dropped back just a bit, we would have the numerical advantage, making it highly likely we could dominate the midfield battle.
"Building up from the midfield is crucial. Especially since Kroos lacks work rate and shows weaknesses in defense..."
Wenger was making sure to emphasize that point to the players.
Kroos could pinpoint a long pass anywhere he wanted and was excellent at escaping pressure, but his weaknesses were defensive capability and work rate. Although Schweinsteiger covered for Kroos with his trademark work rate, he wasn't a defensive specialist like Real Madrid's Makelele. Thus, it was hard to call Munich's midfield solid.
The real problem was breaking through the world-class defense lurking behind them.
In fact, in last year's Champions League final, Real Madrid had dominated Munich's midfield with Zidane and Makelele, but they ultimately failed to pierce Munich's peak-form defense and lost.
However, the difference between last year's defeated Real Madrid and us was that I was the striker!
"Luka, as we discussed in training, your role is vital. Since we have numbers in midfield, I want you to drag their two center-backs away and create space for Pat and Fran to make runs."
The manager wanted me to create space for Vieira and Fabregas to penetrate. Vieira was the textbook definition of a box-to-box midfielder, highly skilled at making late runs, while Fabregas possessed incredible passing ability and a knack for entering the penalty box to create intricate plays—so much so that he had played as a false nine during his Barcelona days.
Since the opponent only had two midfielders, if Bergkamp dropped deep to help win the midfield battle and I could pull the center-backs out of position, either Vieira or Fabregas would inevitably be left unmarked. The manager's request was perfectly logical.
That is, if I were just an ordinary sixteen-year-old debutant.
"Leave it to me."
Wenger offered a faint smile at my confident reply.
"But, Boss."
"Yes?"
"Creating space is fine and all, but... it's okay if I just break right through them, right?"
"...I'll leave that to you."
At my declaration of breaking through, the corners of Wenger's lips curled up a bit more.
Once the locker room talk wrapped up, right before we headed out to the pitch, our captain, Vieira, slung his arm around my shoulders. Since he had warmed up a bit before coming into the locker room, his pungent body odor hit me instantly. I managed to keep my face neutral and listened to him.
"Hey, kid."
"Yes, Captain?"
"Just like you told the boss, go out there and tear them apart."
"Of course."
Vieira chuckled and opened his mouth to say more, but I gave him a reassuring gesture and slipped out from under his arm. The smell piercing through my nose and straight into my brain was certainly doing a job of waking me up.
Wow, holy shit. That smell is unreal...
Back in my professional days, some of my teammates in sports like MMA or weightlifting used to carry smelling salts to sniff ammonia and wake themselves up before a match. Now, I finally understood why they did that.
Forget about pre-match jitters; that smell had snapped me completely awake. I bet this odor played a part in why Fabregas disliked Vieira so much.
In any case, with a clear head, I took the hand of the mascot child standing next to me and walked onto the pitch. As the anthem echoed through the stadium, I glanced toward the section where the club-allocated tickets were.
My family had traveled all the way to Turkey to cheer me on. Haruka was there with them, too. My father still wore a solemn expression, while my mother clapped with a gentle smile. Luna and Haruka were cupping their hands around their mouths, shouting something.
I couldn't hear them over the roaring stadium noise, but it didn't matter. This was the sight I had yearned for ever since my injury.
After my injury, when I became a useless, overpaid flop, the stadiums were filled with nothing but curses directed at me, and my parents eventually stopped watching my matches. If my original parents could see me standing on the pitch again, what kind of expression would they make?
Honestly, since becoming Luka, I had thought about looking for my parents. Aside from soccer players whose ages or names were slightly altered, this world was remarkably similar to my past life, down to the famous politicians and celebrities.
But I was afraid. Afraid that if I looked for them, they might not exist at all. And even if they did, they wouldn't recognize me. I had no idea what face to make or what to do if I met parents who didn't know who I was.
So, I chose to live as if they had passed away. Besides, trying to find my past parents would be a betrayal to the father and mother who loved and treated me as their own son now.
"Luka. What are you spacing out for?"
"...Ugh."
Just as I was getting sentimental, Vieira slung his arm around my shoulder again. The smell instantly snapped me back to reality.
"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now that you're on the pitch, after acting so confident in the locker room?"
"...Me? Of course not."
Slap!
"Ow!"
Vieira's thick hand smacked my back. The stinging pain completely cleared the rest of the fog from my mind.
"Play with confidence. I'll keep feeding you the ball."
"...Aren't Bergkamp and Fabregas the ones who feed me the ball?"
"And I'm the one who gives it to them. I don't care if you waste chances. I'll win the ball back from those bastards every time. Just play your game, Luka."
My game... Yes, the only thing that mattered was soccer. It didn't matter who my past family was or who my current family was. The only thing that mattered was playing my game, just as Vieira said. Proving that I wasn't just some lucky player who had one or two good seasons, despite what my mockers used to say. Showing the world exactly who I was.
And claiming the rightful glory that I should have earned.
Ever since I became Luka, that was the only thing that mattered to me.
The weak Kim Taehyun—who had fallen too far and too fast, wasting away his days with alcohol, cigarettes, and therapy, bristling like a hedgehog at everyone because he hated showing vulnerability after endless mockery—was no longer here.
In his place was a new body, a new family, new friends, and the one thing that remained unchanged: soccer.
The eyes of the packed stadium fell upon us. And I was ready to draw every single one of those gazes to myself. Ever since becoming Luka, I had prepared every single day for a moment like this, making my debut in a massive match.
"Let's go!"
"That's the spirit, kid."
As I shouted from the center circle, Bergkamp responded from behind me, and Müller, preparing for kickoff, smirked at me.
Let's see how long that smirk lasts.
Tweet!
And the match began.