Next Up, Real Madrid
Once the match ended and training was about to start, I finally managed to get Messi's autograph.
I scored Messi's first signature.
Knowing the future Messi would become the GOAT of football made this one worth a fortune. Not that I planned on selling it later. Coming back to the past just to peddle Messi's autograph? How much could I even make?
"Alright, let's get started."
While I was lost in thought, Garcia walked over and announced the start of training. Messi and Jorge, who had been sitting and resting after the match, got to their feet.
"We're finally training."
Jorge looked genuinely moved at the idea of beginning training with Barcelona.
"Yeah."
Messi's eyes were shining too. And honestly, so was I. This was Barcelona training—I couldn't wait to see what they had in store. I wasn't putting down the K-League or anything, but the odds were high that training here would be a step above. They had a real system in place; that was how Barcelona kept producing solid prospects. The so-called three musketeers—Busquets, Iniesta, and Xavi—were living proof.
Oh.
Speak of the devil—there was Iniesta. Still young, so the hair loss had only just started to show a little. I walked straight up to him.
"Hey."
"Uh... hey."
Iniesta looked startled that I'd suddenly spoken to him.
"I saw you play earlier. You were good."
"Oh. Thanks for the compliment."
"So what's your name?"
"Andres Iniesta."
"Nice! Cool name."
I acted like I was hearing it for the first time.
"I'm Lee Junho."
"Okay."
"Quick question, though—do either of your parents have hair loss?"
"Huh?"
"Or maybe your grandpa?"
My question seemed to short-circuit his brain; Iniesta froze mid-sentence.
"My dad has hair loss."
"So it's genetic, then. Hang in there. I'm rooting for you."
Iniesta's eyes twitched as he struggled to keep up with the conversation.
"Thanks."
Classic Iniesta. Even when I brought up the balding, he didn't get mad. What a good kid. Why did someone this nice have to deal with hair loss? Maybe he'd sacrificed his hair in exchange for football genius. The guy really was ridiculous with a ball at his feet.
Barcelona's youth training was famous worldwide. The club had an outstanding reputation for developing players with exceptional technical ability. Their youth program had a few key features.
First there was La Masia, Barcelona's training facility and the heart of everything—from the youngest kids all the way up to the first team. Technical work went hand in hand with tactical and intellectual education. The technical side itself was no joke. Barcelona youth training zeroed in on developing pure ability: dribbling, passing, touch, finishing. Everything focused on making players better at handling the ball.
They drilled team play and tactics just as hard, pushing players to understand the game together and read situations as a unit. On top of that, the youth teams played in regional leagues and international tournaments so the kids could pile up real match experience and grow. How could a club like that not be perfect for young players?
And they didn't stop at football. Barcelona cared about character development too—teamwork, leadership, self-management—so their prospects were ready to succeed not just in the sport but in life. With all that, it was no wonder their youth program became world-famous.
Of course, later on the club would hit money troubles and sell Messi, but that had nothing to do with me. I wasn't planning to bury my bones at Barcelona for life anyway.
Either way, this was my first training session at Barcelona, and right now I was just happy.
"There's that weird face again..."
Messi's voice floated over from beside me, but I was in too good a mood to care. I felt certain. Keep training like this and my game would have no choice but to improve. Sure, everyone else training with me would get better too. That part didn't worry me, though.
In my past life, when my brain ordered my body to move a certain way, it took forever for the body to catch up. This new body just went wherever I thought, turning the plays that used to live only in my head into reality.
"What, did he wipe out dribbling by himself?"
"Looks like it."
There were still rough edges, of course. Time would sand those down.
Training wrapped up. Everyone sat around dripping sweat while Garcia stood in front of us.
"Good work today."
After the quick praise he got straight to the point.
"We've got a match scheduled."
I could feel the young players buzzing with excitement.
"Quiet down and I'll tell you who we're up against."
They fell silent at once, eyes sparkling as they stared at Garcia.
"Our next opponent is Real Madrid."
The pitch erupted all over again at the name Real Madrid.
"Real?"
"I have to start. No question."
I heard the other kids muttering around me.
"Real Madrid..."
Hearing that name made me feel the weight of where I was all over again—Barcelona, the other half of La Liga's great rivalry with Real Madrid. Of course, none of that meant anything if I didn't get on the pitch. Sitting on the bench for ninety minutes would be pointless.
Luckily I had plenty of confidence. I was sure I could lock down the striker spot here.
"I know you're all wondering about the starting lineup. I'll announce it on match day. Between now and then I'll be watching your form and deciding based on that. So even if you've been starting, don't get comfortable. Work hard."
Garcia's words lit a fire in the eyes of the new arrivals. If what he said was true, anyone who showed enough quality could take a starting spot—even if they'd only joined yesterday.
After that the competition turned fierce. Veterans and newcomers alike threw everything they had into catching Garcia's eye so they could play in the next match. Messi, Jorge, and I were right in the middle of it.
"I have to play in that game."
Messi said it like a vow. The reason he looked so grim was simple: he had flown all the way from Argentina to Spain for growth-hormone treatment, but Barcelona's board was still hesitating over the investment. I knew the future—I knew Messi would get the treatment and stay—but young Messi had no way of knowing that. He must have been worried sick about what came next.
Still, I didn't think he needed empty words of comfort. Messi might have been shy and introverted, but no one understood his own ability better than he did. And this wasn't a problem that would get fixed just because I said something nice.
"Then you'll play."
Believing in him was the best I could do. Messi glanced at me for a second, then stood up.
"Where are you going?"
He walked off without looking back.
"To practice."
I quietly followed. Two people practicing was better than one.
In the end it became the three of us. Jorge came over and wanted in.
"Let me join too."
"Sure."
We started training with Jorge and Messi, and I saw something unexpected.
"Ugh!"
Messi couldn't hold his ground against Jorge in a physical battle and went down.
"You okay?"
"Y-yeah, I'm fine."
Jorge helped Messi back to his feet.
"I didn't mean to."
"I know."
Watching them, I was reminded how young Messi still was. Later, once he debuted in La Liga, that low center of gravity would make him almost impossible to knock over. Right now he was even smaller than that.
"Ack!"
Messi went flying again. Honestly, Jorge's physique was just ridiculous. Even Messi couldn't stand up to a charging bull. Looking at those writhing muscles, I was sure of one thing: Jorge was the kind of defender you never wanted to face.
A week slipped by. Short yet long, and suddenly it was match day against Real Madrid. We gathered early in the morning with Garcia standing in front of us. Every one of us hung on whatever was about to come out of his mouth.
"Alright. Here's the starting lineup."
When Garcia finished reading the names, pure joy hit me. My name was on that list. So were Messi's and Jorge's.
Wait for me, Real. I'm coming.