Not Much Hair Left
After Real Madrid got demolished in El Clasico, it was only natural that Mom—a Barcelona fan—would give Dad, a die-hard Real supporter, a hard time.
"Pfft—"
"Don't laugh."
Dad looked thoroughly scraped raw by the sight of Mom cackling right in his face. And I had the sinking feeling that this exact scene would repeat itself forever—at least until the day I retired.
Hmm. Could Real even beat Barcelona at this point?
Barça had Messi. They had Jorge, who hadn't even existed in my previous life. And this time, even if I hadn't been at my absolute best, I was still the one who set up Messi's goal—the dagger that finished the match.
If anything, taking that beating from Real had snapped me out of my complacency. Honestly, ever since debuting for Barcelona, I hadn't faced a side of Real's caliber, and my hunger for improvement had started to fade. I was winning even when I half-assed it, so I'd gotten a little lazy.
But this Real Madrid side had woken me up. People that good were still grinding in training every day. For someone who hadn't even reached the absolute peak yet to start slacking off? That was unforgivable.
I would keep climbing until there was no one left who could stand against me.
"Couldn't even manage a single thing and lost 2–0, huh?"
"Hey…"
While I was steeling myself with that new resolve, my little sister had jumped in and joined the pile-on against Dad.
"I didn't see Real failing to score even once either, to be fair."
"Kh—"
"Well, that just means the gap in quality is that big, right? So don't be too disappointed, Dad. Real losing to Barcelona is just the natural order of things."
"Guhk!"
Dad looked like he was foaming at the mouth after taking a pure fact-check straight to the chin from his own daughter. Still, as much as they ribbed each other, I knew they cared. So surely they'd ease up soon.
"Lequi disposed of!"
…Yeah. The caring was definitely still in there.
Probably.
After taking down their toughest rival of the season, Barcelona went on a tear.
Barcelona were humming along smoothly—not just in the league, but in the Champions League as well, pocketing two wins without much drama. With no injury-driven shocks on the horizon, if things kept going like this, a Champions League title was still an open question, but La Liga looked all but theirs.
Of course, the season wasn't even halfway done. Anything could still happen.
"Where's the banana?"
"Left it at home today."
Jorge, it seemed, had shown up to training without his usual banana stash.
"Aw. I need a banana or I don't feel right."
"I brought one."
Messi—who had started carrying bananas around ever since he started hanging out with Jorge—pulled one from his bag and handed it over.
"Oh, thanks, Messi."
Jorge took the banana and started eating. That was when Iniesta wandered over from across the pitch, sunlight catching his scalp so hard it practically glowed.
"It's thinner than last time."
"Ha… yeah."
He'd left the subject out entirely and Iniesta still knew exactly what he meant. Looking at him, I felt a pang of genuine pity.
I am never, ever going bald.
Thankfully, nobody in my family or among my relatives was bald or dealing with hair loss, so I figured I was probably safe.
Hair loss is mostly genetic, right?
It wasn't a hundred percent hereditary, but genetics definitely played a major role. Looking at it that way, Iniesta going bald had been inevitable. Someone in his family already had it.
"You should've taken care of it from when you were a kid."
If Iniesta had paid attention to his hair and managed it properly from a young age, it would almost certainly have been fuller than this. Every time I saw that empty real estate, it just hurt.
"How was I supposed to know it'd get like this?"
"Wait—you didn't know?"
"Huh?"
"If someone in your family has hair loss, your odds of getting it are sky-high. You should've prepared in advance."
Iniesta's face went red. Time to change the subject, fast.
"Anyway—how's it going with the girlfriend?"
His face flushed again, for an entirely different reason.
"We've kissed."
"Oh… so there really is someone willing to kiss you."
"What the hell is that supposed to—"
Sensing that Iniesta's scalp was about to turn red again, Jorge cut in.
"If you've already kissed, it can't be much longer now."
Iniesta twisted in place, clearly catching Jorge's meaning.
"Right. Just the final hurdle left."
The grim determination on Iniesta's face was too much. I couldn't hold it in.
"If you do end up going for it, wear a mask."
"Why?"
"Your girlfriend might look at that empty head of yours and suddenly get the ick."
That finally did it. Iniesta lunged at me.
"You son of a bitch!"
"I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."
Having no interest in getting hit, I dodged and ran.
"Just flip the situation! You wouldn't want to do it with a woman who had no hair either, would you?"
Iniesta's eyes rolled back in pure rage as he tore after Lee Junho.
Watching the two of them, Messi murmured,
"Junho is the devil."
"Even the devil would probably say that's a bit much…"
"Yeah, true."
On the day of the Valencia match, I was at home.
I'd taken a knock to the foot in the previous game against Villarreal and ended up with a bruise. It wasn't serious enough to keep me from playing, but Coach Frank had ordered me to rest.
"Something this light can turn into a major injury later. Just sit this one out."
When the coach put it that firmly, there was no point in stubbornly insisting I play. So I decided to rest and watch the match from home.
"Hmm… I've forgotten how to lose."
Jieun had come over the moment she found out I was sitting the game out.
"At this rate, you guys might win the title undefeated, huh?"
"Maybe."
An undefeated title run was never easy—but it didn't feel impossible either. The Barcelona side we had now was an unstoppable machine. Against Real it would be tough, sure, but I didn't see us losing to anyone else.
While Jieun and I were talking about an undefeated season, the match kicked off.
"In purple on the left, Barcelona. In black on the right, Valencia."
The opening minutes were pure feeling-out. Messi and Iniesta flashed the occasional spark of brilliance, but nothing turned into a goal. Time ticked on, and as the first half settled into its middle stretch, Barcelona finally started to push.
A Valencia player took a heavy touch. Puyol didn't miss it—he snapped up the ball and immediately found Iniesta higher up the pitch. With a Valencia player charging in from behind, Iniesta kept it simple and laid it off to Xavi Hernández. Xavi, equally uninterested in forcing anything, fed Messi, and the three of them kept peeling pressure off with every pass.
Xavi, Iniesta, and Messi just kept circulating the ball, making Valencia look foolish. Once they'd drawn the tracking runners out of position, the trio finally drove forward.
"Absolutely elite-level passing from Barcelona!"
"Wow, for real…"
The commentator and Jieun both breathed out in admiration. And while they were still marvelling, Barcelona's attack had already reached the edge of the box, still carving open the defence with that same beautiful interplay. Messi floated a cross into Iniesta, who was making a run into the area.
Iniesta got his foot to the ball with what little hair he had left fluttering behind him. The shot took the slightest of deflections, slipped through the keeper's legs, and nestled into the net.
Iniesta wheeled away in celebration—and in the middle of his sprint toward the corner flag, I watched a few more strands of hair drift free.
"Ah…… there really isn't much left…"
Watching what little hair he still had fall out like that was genuinely tragic.
Yeah. I'm buying him some hair-loss medication.