Reflection
The second half followed much the same pattern.
Valencia carved out the occasional dangerous chance, but none of them were enough to open Barcelona’s goal. And once attack after attack came up empty, the momentum inevitably swung back to Barcelona.
From there it was simply Barça bullying Valencia with sheer physical superiority, finishing 2–0 and pocketing another three points.
“Hmm…. We won again today!”
Jieun, sitting beside me watching the TV, said.
“This should put some real distance between us and Real now.”
Today’s win stretched the gap with Real Madrid to seven points.
Seven points wasn’t an impossible deficit to overturn, but it was more than enough to make life seriously difficult—especially if Barcelona kept this undefeated streak going.
“Heh…. Those Lequi bastards…”
Jieun had been in a foul mood for a while after we surrendered first place to Real by six points last season. So of course she was floating on cloud nine now that we were sitting pretty on top of Real Madrid this year.
And I had a feeling her good mood was going to last a long time.
Because losing to Real Madrid wasn’t something that would be happening again.
The day of the third Champions League matchday dawned.
Our opponents were AC Milan—the side that, in the original history, would go on to finish runners-up in this season’s Champions League.
Hmm.
A team good enough to reach the Champions League final was more than qualified to be called a powerhouse. Their squad was stacked accordingly: Pirlo, Kaká, and a whole host of other players operating at Real Madrid’s level.
I was loosening up, casually scanning who was on the pitch for Milan, when my eyes met Kaká’s while he was warming up.
Our gazes locked, but I didn’t feel anything close to the surge of excitement I’d gotten facing Real. Sure, Kaká was a Ballon d’Or winner… but my friend had eight of those things.
More importantly, I’d made a complete fool of myself against Real Madrid, so my nerves were still razor-sharp.
Anyway. Staying locked in like that, the kickoff eventually rolled around.
Right before the referee’s whistle, I glanced over the Barcelona starting eleven and was struck all over again by how broken we were.
Messi alone is already ridiculous.
I’d gotten so used to it that I’d almost forgotten: even the best players in the world looked shabby next to Messi. Which meant there was no real reason to tense up no matter who lined up against us.
Whatever. They’re not better than Messi.
With that thought, the referee’s whistle blew and the match was underway.
Once the game started, my first impression was that it was more manageable than I’d expected.
Maybe because I’d already gone up against Real? The big-name aura stopped freezing me up, and I was finally able to show what I could actually do. And what I could do turned out to be pretty damn good.
“Give me the ball!”
I shouted for a pass while Messi was surrounded by Milan players. Without even looking my way, Messi whipped an outside-of-the-boot ball through the defenders and straight into my path.
I used raw strength to shrug off the defender shoving me from behind, collected it cleanly, and—rather than try anything flashy—slid a simple pass to Iniesta who was ghosting past me.
The moment the ball left my foot I was already bursting into the box. Iniesta saw the run and whipped in a cross.
“Junho!”
Hearing Iniesta’s call, I leapt for the incoming ball. Two defenders grabbed at me to stop the header; I powered through both of them and smashed my forehead into the ball. It rocketed toward goal—looked certain to go in—until the Milan keeper flung himself full stretch and somehow kept it out. The rebound popped free.
I never took my eyes off it. The second the ball came loose I was already charging. The defenders reacted, but far too late compared to me. Completely unchallenged, I smashed the rebound into the empty net.
My early goal put us 1–0 up and the game restarted.
“Plenty of time left—hold the line!”
Because the goal had come so early, AC Milan didn’t rush into any tactical overhaul. They stuck with the plan they’d brought: drop deep, weather Barcelona’s ferocious attack, and look to nick a goal in the second half to decide things.
Still plenty of time.
Milan’s manager figured that as long as they didn’t concede again, a one-goal deficit was always recoverable.
The minutes ticked by. Just as the first half was winding down, we launched one last attack.
Xavi, Iniesta, Messi and I knocked the ball around in midfield and pushed forward together. In no time we were right on the edge of the penalty area.
I took the final pass and dribbled straight at the defenders blocking my path, slipping past them one after another. Milan players lunged and grabbed; I shrugged every hand off and kept driving. Before I knew it I was clean through on goal.
Far post!
I checked the keeper rushing out and struck it. The ball slid past him and nestled into the net.
The Camp Nou erupted. I sprinted toward the corner flag for the celebration, home fans already on their feet. I slid across the grass on my knees, soaking in the roar.
Soft as hell.
Nothing like the K-League pitches. While I was still enjoying the feel of that pristine turf, a massive shadow fell over me.
“Junho!”
Jorge. He’d always been huge, but he’d kept growing and was now pushing the high 190s. The weight pinning me down was anything but light.
“Ah! Jorge, you’re heavy.”
“S-sorry.”
He tried to get up, but Messi and Iniesta came flying in right after him and landed on top of Jorge, trapping all of us.
“Guys… move, I can’t breathe.”
Jorge alone was already bad enough. Adding Messi and Iniesta on top made breathing a genuine struggle.
“Messi, do not get up.”
“Wh-what?”
“Lee Junho, you owe every bald man on the planet an apology. How do you even look at yourself, roasting someone over their hair of all things?”
Iniesta had clearly been storing this up. Every time I opened my mouth I’d been needling him about the baldness, and the stress had finally boiled over.
“Alright… I’m sorry, okay? Just get off me already…”
I apologized, but Iniesta only pressed down harder.
“Guhhh!”
“I don’t feel an ounce of sincerity.”
From Iniesta’s perspective I was just saying whatever it took to escape. Sensing no real remorse, he kept crushing me until the referee finally ordered everyone off.
After receiving my thorough education from Iniesta, the first half ended.
Ahhh…
I’d been buried under that pile for so long that my ribs were still aching.
“Wasn’t that a bit much, honestly?”
Messi shot me a look.
“Compared to everything you’ve put Iniesta through, that was nothing.”
I cast my mind back over my own crimes: asking him if he’d traded his hair for football skill, joking that any kid he had would end up just as bald and how tragic that would be…
Yeah. Thinking about it again, I might have gone a little overboard.
From now on, family was off-limits.