Ecosystem Destroyer (2)
The first thought that hit Cha Tae-oh upon arriving at CD Coslada's home ground, Estadio Municipal de Oliveto, was, Is this really an amateur club's stadium?
It was big enough to easily hold around 5,000 fans. The locker rooms and showers were in decent shape, and they even had a physiotherapy room. On top of that, there was a pub selling beer and snacks for the crowd, plus a club shop for uniforms. Sure, there were signs of wear and tear here and there, and without a separate training pitch, they practiced on the home field—rough around the edges in spots. But from a pure amateur club perspective, it was the kind of shortfall that just warranted a wry smile and a shrug.
"Spaniards are really serious about soccer," I said.
Uncle Adrian caught on quick and let out a small chuckle. "Pretty much any European is."
"Honestly, I was shocked. I had no idea an amateur club's stadium would be this nice."
"We're in Madrid, kid."
"Even so. Back in Korea, no amateur club could dream of calling a place like this home."
Uncle Adrian grinned. "Truth is, it's the same here."
"Huh?"
"Madrid's got plenty of clubs with stadiums this size. But ones like ours that keep the facilities maintained and invest in the pitch? Rare as hell. How much revenue can an amateur club really pull in?"
"So this place...?"
Uncle Adrian curled his thumb and forefinger into a circle and held it up. "Investments."
"Investments?"
"I told you my big brother is one of the owners, right? There are four of them total, and they bought the club with a shared goal."
He added with a grave look, "They want to take this club from semi-pro level to pro—straight to La Liga 2."
That made it all click. Once I heard the ambition, the stadium's shortcomings suddenly stood out more. Trying to fit into a pro mold while stuck in amateur constraints naturally highlighted every gap.
"It's a grand vision. First, they gotta climb to Tercera Federacion."
Tercera Federacion—Spain's fifth tier, the bottom rung of the semi-pro leagues. From what I'd researched in Korea before coming, there were over 320 teams just in that division. No wonder they rated me so highly just for being a pro veteran. Breaking into pro here was a massive hurdle.
"You must be Theo. Adrian's told me all about you. Nice to meet you."
The first person Uncle Adrian introduced me to was CD Coslada's manager, Vitolo—Victor Hernandez. Despite being just over 170cm, he had a solid, compact build. Unlike Uncle Adrian, who'd failed to go pro and become a chef, Vitolo was a former pro himself. He'd played as a striker, of all positions, and even in his forties, he still looked the part physically. Uncle Adrian had lamented that if he'd been 5cm taller and injury-free, top-flight soccer might've been in reach—instead, recurring niggles and lacking explosiveness had pushed him to semi-pro by his mid-twenties.
"We'll run the formal trial, but with your pro experience, it's a rubber stamp at this level. We're gunning for promotion and the title, though, so the squad needs proof you're the real deal. Especially since your pro stint was in Korea, not Spain."
Vitolo waved a hand through the air. "Not dissing Korean soccer, of course."
He glanced at Uncle Adrian. "I didn't just screw up, did I?"
"Not at all."
"Good."
He turned back to me. "Heard you're aiming for a pro trial. Any contacts yet?"
"Not yet."
"Agent? Adrian said no. Right?"
"Yeah. I speak some Spanish, so I haven't bothered."
"Language is a weapon. Smart move."
Vitolo grinned at us both. "I've got buddies—scouts, coaches at pro clubs, even board guys. I can make intros, so get your form sharp here. It'll feel basic compared to your pro days, but don't sleep on it."
He added quietly, "It's rough out there."
Uncle Adrian chimed in. "Rougher than you think."
I nodded silently. I had some idea. A senior who'd played down to Spain's third tier had warned me: pro soccer had that beautiful passing game we all knew, but semi-pro was brutal, chaotic—the polar opposite.
"I'm looking forward to it. Korea's second division was pretty physical too."
"You'll adapt quick, then. You look sturdy—should hold up fine."
Vitolo patted my shoulder. "Anyway, let's do this. No clue how long we'll have you, but..."
He tacked on, in a good way, clearly mindful I was his buddy's nephew.
After Vitolo, I met the coaching staff. Amateur setup meant just three besides the boss: head coach, assistant, and trainer. The head and assistant handled tactics and drills; the trainer did weights and physio.
"Hard to snag coaches. Experience means pay, and poaching from semi-pro is a nightmare. Everyone's hanging on for promotion this year."
Four months left in the season, and CD Coslada sat third in the regional league. No telling how long I'd stick around, but while wearing their shirt, I'd give it everything for the same dream.
And that resolve...
"Faster! Push harder!"
...only grew once training kicked off.
Desperation poured from every Coslada player. They trained with grim determination, all chasing pro dreams. No training fees, appearance money, or win bonuses—just raw hunger. It fired me up too. I joined that first session with my own burning goal: become a pro legend, a transcendent star.
Being the ex-pro, eyes locked on me constantly. No pressure, though—if they picked up even one thing from my play, that was a win.
"Mini-game time. Split into two teams, half the pitch, 15 minutes. I'll pick sides."
Vitolo divided the twenty-odd players. Nine-a-side, including keepers. I slotted in as striker, my natural spot.
"Don't give the opponent space!"
"Help your teammate under pressure!"
"Check your teammates' positions! Not just the ball!"
Vitolo and the staff barked feedback nonstop, pure passion. And in that mini-game, I saw exactly why they were amateurs.
...On-ball play's the weak spot.
Earlier drills had shown solid basics—not amateurish at all. Most had youth academy pedigrees, Tiago included. But with the ball? Gaps everywhere: crumbling under pressure, sloppy passes, shaky first touches, hesitant dribbles, poor decisions, botched finishes.
You master those drilled fundamentals on the pitch to go pro. That's just entry-level.
...I flamed out at pro level myself.
"Vicious cycle."
Off-ball movement, pressing, and game sense? Pro-caliber. But on-ball weakness dragged it all down, making their soccer rugged.
That ruggedness tested me too. Opponents body-checked subtly even off the ball, trying to rattle me.
Perfect. Thank you very much.
Thud!
I knew they were glued to me. Back to goal, I took the pass, flicked a first-touch turn to shake the marker.
The failed presser grabbed at me as I drove forward, but I ignored it, charging on. More defenders swarmed.
Normally, I'd drag it wide, pull defenders, pass to the runner in the gap. Blind charges weren't my forte.
But the goblin's play? Ripping through reckless tacklers with power, speed, skill—like prime Ronaldo, the Brazilian one.
I wanted to recreate it.
Thud!
Glancing around and ahead, I accelerated. My mind flashed the path: how to burst through, finish.
As if I'd done it a thousand times.
Brain schemed, muscles fired—big and small, synced to bones. I dodged flying tackles with feather touches, never slowing, storming into the box.
I hadn't dribbled like this since middle school.
Yet it felt effortless. Instinctive.
By the time I snapped to, I'd shredded the defense, one-on-one with the keeper.
I eyed his narrowing angle, then rifled an instep drive into the far right corner.
And that shot...
Thwack!
The keeper flailed and missed. Net rippled.
I braked to a halt, stunned myself.
Amateurs or not, that wasn't my usual game. But body followed vision perfectly. No fail.
Just like the goblin.
Needed to test: fluke or real?
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
In that short mini-game, I rattled the net relentlessly. Zero errors.
These guys, academy-trained since kids, crumbled like civilians against me.
Thrilling... but not satisfying. Thirstier, even. Would this work in Europe's top flight?
Tweet!
The coach's whistle ended it. Only then did I notice the awe-struck stares.
Tiago summed it up: "That's... pro level...."
Respect gleamed in his eyes.