How to Fight Racism
Lee Junho's daily routine never changed much.
He woke early, loosened up, finished breakfast, and headed into work at Camp Nou. There he trained with his teammates and sharpened his game. Whenever something was unclear, he never hesitated to ask and pick up the theory, then stayed late on the pitch until his body had locked it in.
The sight of him working like that was enough to exhaust anyone watching.
Today, though, was different.
It was a league match day.
Waking early, stretching, eating, and setting out for Camp Nou were the same as always—but after that, nothing was. They only went through light prep before boarding the bus for Real Madrid's home ground, Estadio Santiago Bernabeu.
"Ah… an away match."
Iniesta's voice was deflated.
"Isn't that kind of a good thing?"
Messi's casual reply made Iniesta snap.
"Are you serious, Messi?"
"Yeah."
The answer came without a second's pause, and Iniesta's head dropped.
"That place holds about eighty thousand."
"Right?"
"And almost every one of those seats will be packed with Real Madrid fans."
So what?
Catching that look from Messi, Iniesta pressed on.
"All of them hate us. They'll boo us the whole game. They'll throw garbage."
"Well. Yeah."
"Haa… Honestly, I think El Clasico should be played in a stadium right in the middle between Real Madrid and Barcelona. Every away trip is just suffering."
I agreed with him.
This was my debut season, so playing El Clasico at Real Madrid's home was a first for me. But every time I'd gone away, the boos had been standard issue and the racism had come free as a passive, so I already knew tonight would be no different.
"Haa……"
I couldn't help letting out a sigh of my own.
"Mm…."
Messi looked like every ugly memory from past away trips was replaying in his head as well.
While the three of us sat a little gloomier, Frank—Barcelona's manager, seated up at the front of the bus—spoke.
"No need to worry. Outside factors never bridge a real gap in ability."
Frank's words lifted the whole squad. What he meant was obvious: on pure quality, we were clearly better.
"Mm… yeah, when we faced Real last time it was pretty easy. They didn't have the level their reputation sells."
Messi said it as casually as if Real fans wouldn't line up to shoot him for it.
"They just felt like little kids."
If anyone else had said that, I would've told them to shut up. Coming from Jorge, though, it landed. Last El Clasico, he had completely shut down their attackers.
"Hmm····."
Messi and Jorge were rolling out confidence, but I couldn't join the parade. In that last Clasico all I'd done was get kicked around all day and dump the ball onto Messi so we could win. Straight-up Messi, please mode.
For an ordinary player that wouldn't have been a big problem. Of course you'd struggle against Real Madrid's defense and end up dumping the responsibility on Messi. I couldn't afford that.
My goal wasn't to be the kind of player who only watched Messi and Jorge shine. It was to surpass them.
Of course it wouldn't be easy—becoming a player better than Messi. That was exactly why the hunger burned hotter. If I'd been the type to settle for an easy target, I wouldn't have chosen football again in this life. I could have used future knowledge to print money and coast forever without a problem. Maybe that would even have been the smarter path.
But even back when I was grinding in K League 2, I'd carried a dream in my chest. I wanted to become the one player who stood above even the ones who had carved their names into the sport—Ronaldinho, Pelé, Maradona, Ronaldo, Messi. That was why, when a new life was handed to me, I chose football again without hesitation.
So I had to break through my limits. Through the wall that had stopped me last Clasico, and higher still. Only then could I reach that dream.
We arrived at Real's home ground, Santiago Bernabeu Stadium.
The Barcelona squad stepped off the bus, pushed past the reporters, and headed into the stadium. I was among them.
The moment I set foot inside Santiago Bernabeu, a roar hit me so hard I thought my eardrums might split.
"Hooooooooooooooo!!"
It wasn't only the noise. The sea of white kits filled my vision. I had already known it in my head, but I felt it again now—tonight would not be easy.
"Fewer than at Barcelona, though."
Unlike me, Messi didn't look the least bit cowed. The last Clasico had clearly given him confidence.
"Ugh… there are so many people."
Iniesta, on the other hand, looked small under it. I understood completely. The white tide stretching out in front of us wasn't merely unfriendly—it was going to show open hostility. And that hostility had already started. Some of them were right there in my line of sight, pulling their eyes into slits for me to see.
"Want me to go say something?"
Messi flared at the sight of it, but I stopped him. For people like that, the gesture came as habit. Even if Messi shut them down now, they'd be back at it before long.
"No."
That was why I almost laughed. The second I put a goal past them, every one of those little performances would freeze into silence.
"It's fine."
The match kicked off—and the pressure hit me from the first whistle.
"Go back to your country! You Asian!"
The white kits started pouring abuse down on us. Strangely, it only helped me lock in deeper. The more of their insults I heard, the clearer the picture became of how good it would feel when those mouths finally went quiet.
So unlike last Clasico, I brought absolute focus from the opening minutes.
Seventh minute of the first half.
Real Madrid won the ball and started a counter—or tried to.
I snuffed the counter with a tackle and drove straight into the space Real Madrid had left open by committing numbers forward. I wasn't alone—Messi and Iniesta came with me.
There?
Yeah.
After a quick wordless exchange with Iniesta, I threaded a pass into the empty left channel he was already sprinting into. The ball cracked Real's left side wide open. A defender scrambled across to cover, but one man wasn't enough for Iniesta. Whatever he was on paper for Real Madrid, against Iniesta he became just another ordinary defender and got beaten clean. Iniesta flicked a glance into the box to see who was arriving and released the ball at once.
The pass was aimed at me. I watched the dropping ball all the way and met it with my foot.
BOOM!
The strike left my boot with the sound of a cannon going off and rocketed toward goal. The keeper reacted on pure instinct, but the ball was simply too fast. It ripped the net.
In the same instant, Santiago Bernabeu fell silent.
"······."
"······."
"······."
And in that silence, I danced.
For the celebration, I danced the samba.
I'd felt it watching the 2022 Qatar World Cup round of sixteen, when Brazil scored on us and broke into samba. Just looking at that dance made you furious.
"Dance with me."
And I knew full well that when several people danced it together, the rage only got worse.
"Uh… is this okay?"
Even as he fretted, Messi started dancing beside me. Jorge joined in with the most awkward steps imaginable. Naturally, Real fans' faces went scarlet—and trash started flying our way with it.
"You sons of bitches!"
"Guh!"
Curses and garbage came down together, and I just laughed. Acting like that only proved how thoroughly I'd gotten under their skin.
It's not over yet.
And I still had eighty-three minutes left.