Pre-Season (Part 2)
Was this what it felt like?
High school tournaments and Olympics had seen plenty of spectators, yet never with this weight. Fifty-five thousand and ninety-seven seats filled the stands. Since it was a home game, nearly everyone wore blue—City fans to the last. But no thrill stirred in my chest. Instead, a genuine excitement for the sport itself welled up. “Not even my official debut. Just a pre-season match.” The real issue, though, was my teammate. When I glanced sideways, Sanchez’s face had gone deathly pale. The sniper nickname from Peñarol rang hollow; the heat of the crowd had frozen him solid. At least the others didn’t seem as rattled. Castillo, at least, was relaxed—Guerrero, however, worried me for a different reason.
“Hey! Today I’m scoring a hat-trick, so pass only to me! If you don’t, we lose the match, man~”
Teammates no longer answered. In such a short time they’d all realized Guerrero was simply talking to himself and was content with that. Whether he liked it or not, neither Guerrero nor Castillo showed any tension. I wondered for a moment if they were all right, then decided to let it go. “Sanchez has played pro before; he’ll sort himself out.”
Looking back later, I should have loosened the kid’s tension right then. If I’d only managed even a little earlier, the first half would have been far less grueling.
Tiki-Taka was the name.
Short, rapid passes maintained high ball possession while players rotated continuously, carving out space and exploiting it. The plan was to tire the opposition and leave gaps in their defense for scoring chances. Why was I explaining this now? Because, as I’d just described, Tiki-Taka created those gaps through precise passing. But seeing it another way, a single missed pass, poor positioning, or a split-second lapse in concentration could hand the opponent a decisive opening. It was like a finely tuned clock—every gear had to mesh perfectly. If even one part slipped, chaos followed.
[Shot from Preston’s Lucai! Ah, thankfully Jung Tae-woo saves it!]
That was the goalkeeper’s hardest job. Peter Guardian’s tactics started as a 4-3-3 but shifted fluidly to 3-4-3 or even 2-4-5 depending on the situation. In such a system every player had to think constantly: Where to pass if the ball was available? How to move if it wasn’t? Guardian had drilled three plans into them—Plan 1, 2, 3—and Sanchez had learned them all. It wasn’t flawless, but it fit the team. Yet perhaps the pressure had been too much. Sanchez’s creative passing had vanished; he held the ball too long, lost it multiple times, and fed it in the wrong direction, shattering Tiki-Taka’s rhythm.
“I can’t give it back to Sanchez. Then…”
I rolled the ball to Castillo and walked forward slowly. “If Sanchez can’t play his part as a component, I’ll act as the lubricant.” I moved up the lines with the defenders in Tiki-Taka rhythm. Opposing forwards rushed forward, desperate to block me. They’d studied my play from the Olympics but didn’t dare launch reckless challenges. I knew I was ready. The reason young forwards needed two full years was that only then could their habits and movements be completely analyzed. Only by beating those studied patterns could you truly be recognized as elite.
“Sorry, but I don’t have any little habits.”
Even world-class players had at least one tiny tic. A slight raise of the hand when striking with the right foot, or a glance over the shoulder before a left-footed skill move. Those subtle tells were ingrained in every athlete. Yet strangely, I had none. “With no such habits, even experienced defenders couldn’t stop me.”
Shooting straight up the middle, I sent a quick through-pass to our captain, Mathias.
[It’s almost the first time City’s ball movement has started from the goalkeeper. Jung Tae-woo’s dribbles and passes look nothing like a goalkeeper’s!]
It didn’t matter whether the play ended in a goal. In any sport, flow was everything. In football, there was no stronger shot than a well-executed pass to start momentum. Bang!
Guerrero took Mathias’s pass and fired a powerful shot that glanced off the crossbar by inches. But listen closely—City was riding the wave.
[Latte penetrates! Pass connected—here it comes!]
Ha. Let me correct that. If flow was this good, Sanchez should have snapped out of it. Instead the tension only seemed to deepen. “He transferred from the second division after playing pro, right? How can his mentality be this weak?” They knew Sanchez wasn’t normal, so they poured everything into attacking his side. Please, no.
No matter how hard I coordinated defense, a sudden counterattack left me no choice but to rely on raw skill.
[Ball straight to Lucai. Lucai, Lucai!]
At least Castillo was living up to his nickname—“Iron Wall”—and made it difficult for the opponent to shoot.
“Good. Come on then. You don’t get many easy chances like this, do you?”
[Luca i shoots high to the right!]
It wasn’t that fast. The sudden pressure prevented him from generating proper power. I launched myself forward. In the past I would have relied purely on reaction time, but after professional training at City and the Olympics I had grown dramatically different. My angle, hand position, and ability to read the ball’s trajectory were all sharper. Of course I couldn’t save every shot, but this one…
[Shot! High! Whoa! Unbelievable performance! Jung Tae-woo’s unbelievable performance! He’s telling us: goalkeepers don’t need age or experience. He’s proving why he’s the starter!]
[How is he saving a spinning ball so easily? He’s incredible!]
I clenched my fists and stood. The crowd erupted at my save.
“Hah. Of course. Ederson would have conceded a hundred percent.”
Thanks to Sanchez, I was putting on a show for the fans on my first City match. “Is it good for a goalkeeper to perform like this?” A fleeting doubt crossed my mind, then vanished. “Whatever. Just enjoy it for now.”
SBS, the broadcaster of the Premier League, had been torn between anticipation and worry. At seventeen, Jung Tae-woo had earned his place in the Premier League with his talent—a good story on its own. But his position was goalkeeper. In the football world, goalkeepers’ experience was paramount, and the attackers he would face were the toughest in the world. This pre-season was crucial: he had to prove he could survive in the Premier League.
If he conceded a mountain of goals while being broadcast live, the commentators didn’t know how they would react.
“Jung Tae-woo is still only seventeen. The Premier League is the world’s best league. He may need time to adapt.”
“But his skill so far suggests he can handle it.”
The commentators had prepared those lines. Yet the moment the match began, it became clear Jung Tae-woo’s concerns were unfounded.
[Wow! He’s really playing well. Jung Tae-woo isn’t nervous at all—he’s stopping the ball calmly!]
Jung Tae-woo. His talent was silencing every worry. Age and experience were irrelevant; his skill dominated the pitch.
And the moment Jung Tae-woo’s save appeared on screen…
[Jung Tae-woo! Jung Tae-woo!! Jung Tae-woo!!! Unbelievable! That’s beyond human ability! A seventeen-year-old boy is knocking on the Premier League door! No—he’s already smashed it open! Jung Tae-woo is Manchester City’s future! The new era of goalkeepers has begun!]
The commentators’ excited voices echoed across the nation.