Value Revealed
After El Clasico ended, the storm hit.
"Was performing a caterpillar crawl celebration meant to provoke Real fans?"
I answered the reporter's question about the caterpillar celebration.
"Yes, that's right. Real fans crossed the line first with their racism, so I simply responded in kind."
Was it because I was a top-tier prospect?
To my surprise, people answered my interview in kind.
Ferguson, still in charge of Manchester United, spoke out on my behalf.
He never named names, but anyone could tell Mourinho had just stuck the knife into Real fans.
Even my friend stood by me.
Under the weight of so many public statements, Real Madrid offered an apology of sorts: for the next three matches, they would sell tickets for only fifty percent of the stands.
Watching it all unfold left me feeling strangely dazed.
Wait—Ferguson just jumps in out of nowhere?
The sudden appearance of Ferguson startled me, but there was a reason for it.
Alex Ferguson had been watching my performances closely, and he had already made up his mind to sign Lee Junho.
"There's no room for doubt anymore. Once this season ends and the summer transfer window opens, we bring in Lee Junho."
And Ferguson was far from the only manager eyeing me.
José Mourinho, who had crowned Porto kings of the Champions League in 2004 before moving to Chelsea, was currently locked in a title race with Manchester United.
"No question..."
Watching me score a hat-trick in El Clasico sealed it for Mourinho—he decided then and there that he would bring Lee Junho in.
It wasn't just Mourinho and Ferguson. Other managers had started casting hungry glances my way as well. Everything I had built step by step finally exploded into the open with what I showed in that El Clasico.
"Hmm... With the way United look right now, maybe I should give them a go?"
Once Barcelona realized how many managers were circling Lee Junho, they began preparing a contract extension.
"We're already contracted through 2008. Do we really need to lengthen it further?"
At Marcel's words, Coach Frank exploded.
"Don't talk nonsense. Of course we have no intention of selling, but Junho might want to leave—and if some club swimming in cash comes after him, he could get tempted by the money and walk!"
Under Frank's roar, Marcel bowed his head.
"My thinking was short-sighted."
Seeing Marcel own the mistake cooled Frank's temper somewhat, and he continued.
"So the moment this season ends, we lock in a new contract. No exceptions."
"Understood."
My performances also left someone else torn between worry and hope—my childhood friend, Park Jieun.
Looking at how he's playing right now, every big club is going to come after Junho. Especially Real Madrid. Over my dead body will those bastards steal him away.
Worried whether I would stay at Barcelona, Park Jieun asked me.
"Junho."
"Yeah?"
She took a moment to gather herself, then said,
"Even if you transfer someday, Real is absolutely off-limits. You know that, right?"
I burst out laughing at Jieun's words.
"Haha! What, you think I'll run off to Real the second they wave a big paycheck? That's disappointing."
Park Jieun shook her head hard.
"No, of course not... I was just asking."
Watching her fluster, I laughed inwardly and answered.
"I'm not going to Real."
"Huh? For real?"
"Yeah."
At my firm reply, Park Jieun threw her arms around me.
"Thank you—really!"
Buried against her massive chest, I managed a strained reply.
"Yeah."
After El Clasico, Lee Junho's value skyrocketed.
No one missed it—least of all Barcelona fans.
Fans who had already watched Real Madrid snatch away one Barcelona player after another fretted that I might be next.
"Haah... If Real open their wallet again this time, he'll leave."
"Exactly."
While most Barcelona supporters fretted, I opened my mouth.
Barcelona fans erupted in cheers.
"Blessings upon the prince from the East!"
"We love you!"
Barcelona fans had suffered plenty at Real's hands. They had watched the club's carefully raised prospects fall for Real's overwhelming financial lure time and again, crying tears of blood every single time. But this time I had stated my position in an interview, clear and unshakable: no matter how much money Real Madrid put on the table, I would not go to them.
What they overlooked, however, was this—I had said I would not go to Real Madrid. I had never once said I would not go to any other club. They simply failed to notice.
"Out of principle I won't go to Real Madrid, but that doesn't mean I have to stay at Barcelona for the rest of my life, right?"
I was already keeping the possibility of a move to another club in mind.
Plenty of managers had begun eyeing Lee Junho, but the season was not over yet, so nothing major happened for the moment. Still, once the 2004–2005 season finished, every other club would bare its teeth at once—that much was certain. Knowing it, Barcelona was already preparing the re-contract.
Well. Even while all those ambitions writhed and coiled, time kept moving.
Before anyone knew it, the league had reached Matchday 30, and Barcelona were still undefeated. One more win would lock in an early title.
"Just one step left!"
Everyone knew it, so when Coach Frank spoke, the Barcelona players answered with a roar.
Barcelona had also stayed alive in every other competition, and among them was the Copa del Rey. In the original history—before my intervention—Barcelona had drunk the bitter cup of elimination in the round of sixteen. Because of me, they were now in the quarterfinals.
And that was far from the only butterfly effect I had caused.
Originally, Barcelona would already have dropped points in the league and seen their unbeaten run snap. Because of my intervention, after thirty league matches they sat on an absurd record of twenty-eight wins and two draws, still undefeated.
"Quarterfinals!"
In the original timeline they would have fallen to Chelsea in the Champions League round of sixteen on a 4–5 aggregate. This time was different. With Jorge added to the back line, Barcelona's defense had grown even sturdier. They conceded fewer goals than before and beat Chelsea 4–3 on aggregate to advance to the Champions League quarterfinals.
"Just three more wins."
Having reached the last eight, Barcelona began to hungrily eye the Champions League title. And why not? Only three victories stood between them and the trophy—dreaming of lifting it was only natural.
If Barcelona won this Champions League, it would be the first time they raised the trophy since the 1991–1992 season—thirteen years later.
"It's been a long time since we won the Champions League."
"You're telling me. But if we win it this time, we can feel that emotion all over again, right?"
Two men who had been young in 1991–1992 were middle-aged now, in 2005. They wanted to taste once more the feeling they had known in their youth.
And younger Barcelona fans were no different.
"They won it once before, but that was before we were even born. I want to see us win it while we're still alive."
"Same here."
They had never once watched Barcelona win the Champions League. Precisely because of that, they longed for it all the more. Having never seen it, the emotion they would feel if Barcelona finally lifted the trophy felt even more tantalizing—so they hoped and hoped.
That Barcelona would win the Champions League.
And it was not only the fans who wanted it.
"If you're a Barcelona player, you ought to win the Champions League at least once, right?"
Barcelona players who had never tasted Champions League glory burned with resolve. The Champions League carried the highest prestige of any club trophy, and their will kept blazing. Of course it could never stand alongside the World Cup—the absolute pinnacle across every competition, Euro or Copa América included—but that was the domain of the national team. So what they hungered for was Champions League glory.
Time passed under that weight of expectation.
Before anyone realized it, Barcelona stood on the brink of the Champions League final.