The First Derby (1)
"...Hmm, the position that's giving us the most trouble is definitely the left wing-forward spot."
At the head coach's words, the Arsenal coaching staff gathered for the meeting all nodded in agreement.
For the past seven seasons, the man occupying Arsenal's wing-forward position was their current starter, Walcott.
Except for when he was sidelined by injuries, Walcott had always held down the starting spot. Along with Bale, his Premier League-class pace made him a crucial attacking option for the team.
His off-the-ball movement was also top-tier, constantly shifting to create space for Henry, which served as another primary weapon in the team's offensive arsenal.
But this season, the situation had changed.
A player had suddenly burst onto the scene, delivering better performances than Walcott in both training and actual matches.
That player was, without a doubt, the sixteen-year-old prodigy, Luka.
His speed was neck-and-neck with Walcott's, but the coaching staff had realized through training and matches that Luka held the upper hand in almost every other category required of a forward: finishing, dribbling, and escaping pressure.
In particular, when it came to the line-breaking role Arsenal demanded from their left wing-forward, Luka was clearly a cut above.
The only things Luka lacked were experience and link-up play.
However, with world-class playmakers like Henry, Bergkamp, and Fabregas on the pitch, Arsenal didn't necessarily need their left wing-forward to be a master passer as well.
"The issue is that Luka's movements might overlap with Henry's. Luka loves to cut inside with his dribbles. He does it well in training, but they've never played together in a real match, so building chemistry will take time."
"That's true. But no matter how good Walcott is at creating space, don't we need a true 'crack' who can decisively break down the opponent when we're facing Manchester United?"
"Hmm... Rather than technical aspects, I think mental fortitude is more important since this is a match against our arch-rivals, Manchester United. Walcott's experience will be much more valuable on such a big stage."
"Didn't Luka already prove himself in the UEFA Super Cup?"
"Oh, come on. You must be joking. The Super Cup might be a continental trophy, but honestly, it doesn't carry the same spine-chilling pressure as a rivalry match against United."
"Hmm, that's true. Still, he doesn't seem like the type to get stage fright, does he? The kid literally said 'fuck' to his own home country when they called him up. His heart must be made of steel."
"Ahem."
"...Anyway, the point is that in terms of individual quality, my choice is Luka."
"But you can't deny that Walcott fits the team better, right? Even the fans know his defensive contribution has improved significantly since last year."
With the other positions firmly locked down, the debate over the final spot raged on. The coaches fiercely argued their cases, pitting Walcott against Luka, and Luka against Walcott.
If one had to put a ratio on it, about sixty percent of the coaches supported Luka, while forty percent backed Walcott.
However, when opinions were this divided, the final decision at Arsenal ultimately rested on one man.
"So, Boss, what are your thoughts?"
With no conclusion in sight, the coaches turned their gaze toward Arsène Wenger.
Wenger, renowned as one of the best in the footballing world for scouting and developing young talent, had only observed Luka in training for about a month and a half. Yet, he already knew exactly how immense the boy's talent was.
Honestly, even without Wenger's legendary eye, anyone with a basic understanding of football who watched Luka train could easily tell how good he was.
What weighed on Wenger's mind, however, was Luka's young age and his aggressive temperament—one fierce enough to hurl profanities at his own home country.
A match against Manchester United was destined to be a fiery affair. In such a heated atmosphere, a young and aggressive player could easily get swept up in the emotion.
If Luka, who was still defensively raw, got carried away and made a reckless tackle, their entire game plan would fall apart.
Especially considering Fabregas, who, despite being in his third year, had lost his temper in the previous match and lunged at Robben with a dangerous tackle...
We were lucky we could contain Robben and win, but it was risky. Having Fran or Pat on the pitch is already a gamble, but if we add Luka to the mix, it could introduce too many unpredictable variables.
The more he thought about it—not just Fabregas, but even Vieira, who always lost his cool and charged like a bull whenever Manchester United and Roy Keane were involved—the more he felt that starting the calm and experienced Walcott was the right call.
Add to that the fact that Henry and Luka hadn't played together in a real match yet, and that Luka had played as a central striker in both games where he scored, and the choice clearly pointed to Walcott.
"We'll start Walcott. If Walcott can wear down Neville with his active movement, we'll be able to use Luka much more effectively later on."
"Understood. Let's go with Walcott for now, then."
And so, Walcott was chosen to start as the left wing-forward for the rivalry match against Manchester United.
"Well, I expected it."
"Really? That's surprising. Knowing your temper, I thought you'd fly off the handle immediately."
What did he know about my temper? I glared at Saka, who was smirking beside me.
"Look at that glare. How can I not tease you when you react like that?"
What was wrong with my glare?
Saka was mistaken; I understood the inner workings of a football club all too well.
Walcott's annual salary was a whopping nine billion won. He was one of the top five highest earners on the team, right behind Henry, Campbell, Ljungberg, and Bergkamp. It was unrealistic to expect such a high earner to be benched for a prospect after just one or two good games.
Back in my Newcastle days, I had commanded a hefty salary myself, which kept me in the starting lineup even when my performance dipped. I was well-versed in the 'logic of money.'
Knowing this, I had already prepared myself to play as a substitute for at least the first half of the season.
Of course, no matter how important the 'logic of money' was, a professional club's ultimate goal was to win.
If I could show what I was capable of while coming off the bench during the first half of the season, they would eventually have no choice but to start me. Time was on my side.
Besides, given my young physical age, I couldn't ignore the risk of injury. No matter how much of a cheat code this body was—practically author-certified—injuries could strike at any time.
Rather than Wenger falling in love with my play and writing my name down for every single match, it was better to ease into things and manage my fitness.
Yeah, damn it. Resting is good. I've already played two matches. ...But still, am I really behind Walcott?
The London weather, gloomy as always, seemed exceptionally depressing today.
"It's okay, Luka. Life has its ups and downs."
"I hate to break it to you..."
"Yeah?"
"...but I actually made the bench. Shouldn't I be the one comforting you?"
"..."
Offering a silent prayer for Saka, who hadn't even made the bench, I headed home.
When I arrived, the atmosphere in the house was noticeably tense.
"...Is it that obvious?"
Even while we were studying English together after dinner, the room remained quiet. I finally asked Luna, who was memorizing vocabulary words next to me.
"Yeah. Extremely."
Her reply was blunt. It seemed my disappointment was so glaringly obvious that even Luna could read it.
"Tsk."
"But I guess the other players really are good, huh? What was that match we watched in Turkey again?"
"The UEFA Super Cup."
"Right, that one. When I watched that, you looked like the best player out there. Ah, is it because Henry is back? He's the best player on the team, right?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
At my response, Luna went back to her vocabulary book. Then, Haruka, who had been walking on eggshells around me all day, finally spoke up.
"Still, with your skills, Luka, I'm sure you'll get to play. You've gotten so much better since middle school."
"Middle school? You saw me play in middle school?"
"Huh? Oh... Didn't I mention I was the manager for the soccer club in middle school too? Our schools played against each other once in the Tokyo regional qualifiers. Even back then, I couldn't take my eyes off you, Luka."
"Really? Was I that good?"
I searched through Luka's memories, but I couldn't recall seeing Haruka.
Well, it made sense. There was no reason for me to look at the opponent's bench during a match. Honestly, the games from back then were so unmemorable that I only vaguely recalled the final match we won.
"Ooh~ is that true? You couldn't see anyone but my brother?!"
"T-That's not what I meant, Luna!"
Blushing furiously at Luna's teasing, Haruka grabbed Luna's arm and shook it. The sight brought a small chuckle to my lips.
"Oh, by the way, is Beckham playing too?"
"You actually know who Beckham is?"
"Even if you don't know soccer, you have to know Beckham. He's playing, right?"
"...He's not playing."
"Aw, what? If neither you nor Beckham is playing, is there even a point in going to watch? Oh, right. Haruka, don't you like Beckham too?"
"W-What are you talking about?"
"Hey, it's fine to like him. Why are you getting so defensive? Is there any girl who doesn't like Beckham?"
"Well, true. But did you really like guys with Beckham's style?"
"If you go into her room, she probably has a Beckham poster up."
"What? You have an Arsenal player living in the house, and you put up a poster of a Man Utd player?"
"No, no! T-That's not it! I-I received it as a gift!"
"If you like Beckham, you should've just said so. Want me to get you an autograph?"
"I told you, it's not like that..."
Still, chatting with them helped lift the gloomy mood a bit.
Yeah, just because I was relegated to the bench doesn't mean they'll keep me there forever.
I didn't know what Wenger was thinking by dropping me from the starting lineup after I scored in two consecutive matches, but as long as I was on the bench, an opportunity would come.
Anyone could see I was the first-choice substitute. Even if I didn't start, I just had to prove myself the moment my boots touched the pitch.
Just give me one chance.
With that firm resolve, the day of the home match against Manchester United arrived.
—Booooooo!!!!
Since it was our home game, a chorus of boos rained down on the Manchester United players as they warmed up. However, none of them looked intimidated.
Instead, their faces were filled with irritation—a sentiment shared by our players as well.
The gloomy sky from yesterday had finally opened up, drizzling rain onto the pitch.
But despite the rain, it wasn't particularly cold.
"Listen up, everyone. Losing to those bastards at home? You all know that's absolutely unacceptable. Keep your heads in the game. I trust there isn't a single person here who's going to stand by and watch those pricks run wild in our own backyard, right?"
"No, Captain!"
Before the match, our captain, Vieira, was fueling the team's fighting spirit with his own burning hatred.
"Destroy them. Make sure they can't even walk off the pitch when the whistle blows. Don't back down for a second. We all know those bastards are nothing."
"Oh, and... if anyone is standing tall like nothing happened when the match ends, I'll kill you myself. Today, we destroy them, and we leave everything on the pitch until we drop. You all know what I mean? Let's go!"
"YEAAAAAH!!!"
The locker room erupted, the heat rising instantly.
The starting eleven lined up in the tunnel, while the substitutes headed toward the bench.
"..."
"..."
Even amidst the noise, shouting could be heard from a distance. Vieira and the United players were likely clashing in the tunnel.
Looking at the players emerging onto the pitch, their excitement and tension were already palpable.
Ah, I want to play too...
I was confident I wouldn't lose in a battle of nerves either...
Peeeeeep!
Leaving my lingering regrets behind, the match against Manchester United kicked off.