Real Madrid Takes a Beating
Only a few minutes into the match against Real Madrid, I could feel it in my skin—they were nothing like any other team.
Plays that would have worked against anyone else simply weren't landing, and that alone made me understand how different Real Madrid really was.
This was the kind of quality that made it obvious why people ranked them among the greatest clubs in the world.
I was still grinding through that hard truth when it happened.
I took a pass from Iniesta and tried to turn—and a massive impact slammed into my back.
I went down hard onto the pitch.
The referee didn't hesitate. The whistle cut through the air at once.
Peeeeep!
A foul was called. I glanced at the man who'd shoved me over—Beckham—then pushed myself back to my feet.
Beckham, huh.
I still couldn't quite believe it. David Beckham, fouling me.
What chance did a guy who'd been playing in K League 2 ever have of meeting Beckham on a pitch?
Maybe that was why, even after getting fouled, I felt good about it.
Huh. Getting fouled by a world-class player feels… weird.
Weird in a good way, almost. If they were fouling me, it meant I was enough of a threat to force them into it.
Sure—once I got used to this, a world-class foul would just piss me off like any other. For now, I decided to enjoy it.
Whether the Real players could read my mind or not, they kept fouling me plenty.
I'd go down after a trip, anger flaring—then I'd see who did it, and the anger would melt away on its own.
Michael Owen.
Every time I looked at whoever had just fouled me, I kept being stunned all over again.
…Zidane.
Every single one of them was someone you could call world-class without a second thought.
Messi, of course, had no idea what was going through my head. He jogged over during a brief stoppage in play.
"Junho. You okay?"
I was fine, so I said so.
"I'm good."
Even after that, Messi checked the spots where I'd been fouled, then nodded like he'd made a decision.
"I'll get revenge for you."
"Uh… how?"
Messi smiled.
"I'll do the same right back to them."
Uh… I'm fine, Messi.
From that point on, Messi started punishing anyone who fouled me.
"Aaagh!"
Sergio Ramos—who'd fouled me earlier—got kicked by Messi and went tumbling across the turf.
"Lying on the ground suits you."
At that, Ramos lost it completely.
"@!#$%^&*"
His Spanish was too fast for me to catch the words, but I could tell he was unloading some serious abuse.
Watching it felt pretty satisfying, sure—but I couldn't help worrying about Messi.
I knew full well that stacking up that kind of karma always came back around.
"Messi, you can stop now."
I told him it was enough. He wasn't having it.
"No. Not yet. This much isn't nearly enough."
I could see it—his eyes had flipped.
"Haaah……"
I sighed.
After four years, I knew the truth: once Messi went into that mode, nobody on earth could talk him down.
"Just… take it easy……"
"Don't worry, Junho!"
He said it brightly, but with those flipped eyes it had zero persuasive power.
So, with my anxiety climbing, the match restarted—and Messi fouled even more than before.
Real Madrid weren't about to sit still for it either.
Once their players started fouling in earnest, Messi—who never had much of a frame to begin with—got turned into a punching bag.
And watching all of that from the back line was one particular defender: Jorge.
Brought on as a substitute in the second half, Jorge still had energy to burn—and he poured every bit of that surplus into physical battles.
"Whoa……"
Whump!
Michael Owen, locked in a challenge with Jorge, went flying through the air.
Even allowing for the size difference, launching a player like that meant Jorge's physique was straight-up ridiculous.
You could see Real Madrid's attackers starting to panic in the face of it.
Fair enough. I went through the same thing.
I understood completely. I'd experienced Jorge's physicality myself.
Not that experiencing it made it any more manageable.
Real Madrid's forwards looked like they were reaching the same conclusion.
"Fuck……"
After getting bounced around in one challenge after another with Jorge, Michael Owen finally snapped and swore out loud. The rest of Real's players didn't curse—but the way they looked at Jorge's frame made it clear they were thoroughly sick of it.
"Jorge, mind lending me about ten centimeters of height?"
Watching every attacker who tangled with Jorge go flying, Messi seemed to have finally grasped just how much physical tools mattered.
"Mm… that's not possible. Drink a lot of milk, though. You might grow another five centimeters."
"Even if I grow five more, I'd only be one seventy-five……"
Messi had never once thought of his small stature as a real problem.
Something that could have been a serious handicap for a footballer—he'd simply papered over the entire thing with pure ability.
There'd even been days when he'd wondered if being short might actually be a good thing.
A lower center of gravity meant sharper, more agile movement than taller players could manage.
But looking at Jorge, Messi found himself thinking that whole idea might just have been self-consolation.
If he'd had Jorge's body, he could've skipped the dribbling entirely—just plow straight through any defender in his way and be done with it.
Still, Messi shook his head almost at once.
No amount of envy was going to give him Jorge's physique. Better to accept the body he had now.
Huuuh…… Still pisses me off, though.
The anger rising in his chest, however, was another matter entirely.
Then Messi went completely off the rails.
Even on a normal day his influence on a match was enormous—but now he'd blown past even that.
Calling it a Messi-dominated game wouldn't have been an exaggeration. His performance was that outstanding.
"Junho!"
He took my pass and began to accelerate, building speed as he went.
Every defender who stepped in front of him was turned into a fool as he kept driving forward.
Among the players Messi made look stupid were elite defenders like Sergio Ramos and Walter Samuel—but none of them could stop Messi when he was in this kind of form.
In the end, Messi dribbled past nine men including the goalkeeper and created a goal out of nothing.
Players from both Real Madrid and Barcelona stood there with their mouths hanging open.
Even the Real Madrid crowd, which had been roaring all night, fell into a silence so deep it was as if the noise had never existed.
"……"
"……"
The silence didn't last long.
Messi wheeled away toward the Barcelona away fans for his celebration, and the sight snapped them back to life. They erupted into praise.
"You're Barcelona's treasure!"
"Play here forever!"
While the Barcelona supporters celebrated, the Real Madrid crowd answered with abuse.
"How do you not stop even one of them?!"
"Do you know how much you lot are worth?!"
Hearing the insults from the home fans, Sergio Ramos felt nothing but injustice.
How the hell was I supposed to stop that?
In all his years as a defender, Ramos had never felt a wall quite like this.
No matter how brilliant a striker was, he'd always believed he could deal with them—and he had. That was why he was playing for Real Madrid in the first place.
But against the seventeen-year-old kid celebrating over there, he couldn't think of a single way to stop him.
It felt more like a natural disaster than a footballer.
People don't try to fight a natural disaster—they try to get out of its path. Ramos kept thinking he'd simply been swept up in one.
Of course, fouling him was an option—but the situation made that hard to pull off.
He already had a yellow card from the first half, so he had to be careful about fouls. And if he roughed Messi up, that Jorge guy would come over and personally give him a lesson in manners with his body. All Ramos could feel was how unfair it was.
"What the hell happened in 1987?"
The match was finally winding toward its end.
The score stood at 1–0—nothing had gone in except Messi's goal.
Hmm. This is still too close.
We were ahead, yes, but at 1–0 there was no room to relax.
One goal against us and it was level; another and we'd be behind. Just like that.
Real Madrid's attack was more than good enough to make that happen.
I kept playing under that constant edge of anxiety—and then the chance came for Barcelona.
Iniesta won the ball with a clean tackle on Zidane in midfield, then immediately slipped it to me beside him. The counter was on.
Real Madrid needed a goal, so their line was pushed high—and that left acres of space behind them.
Most of their players had poured forward, leaving only three defenders in their own half.
Three men weren't enough to stop Messi and me.
I sold a shot, dragging two defenders toward me, then released the pass to Messi.
He took it, beat the last defender in front of him, and ran clear to the edge of the box.
He rounded the onrushing goalkeeper as well and rolled the ball into the empty net.
It trundled over the line.
The ball nestled in the goal and drove the final nail into the match.
After that, nothing dramatic happened. The whistle went, and Barcelona beat Real Madrid 2–0 to take all three points.