I Will Save You All (2)
I'd seen it coming from a mile away. UD Socuellamos, today's opponent in our head-to-head with AD Alcorcon B, wouldn't be that far off our level. And my hunch was spot on.
The Socuellamos players had solid semi-pro skills. Definitely better than amateur level, but still a long way from pro caliber.
But they had one edge over our teammates: aerial duels and physicality. Their average age looked to be mid-to-late twenties. One midfielder seemed a bit younger, but otherwise, no one appeared youthful. Their frames and muscle mass told the same story.
We, on the other hand, had some freshly called-up youth players in their teens, so we were bound to get pushed around in the physical battles. Same went for headers—battles in the air.
“Stay calm! Keep it calm! If the pressure's intense, look for a teammate nearby! Don't try to do it all yourself!”
Coach Jordi Calavera's bellow carried all the way to me in the distance. The empty stands in this fourth-division match probably helped it echo.
“No wonder they're flirting with relegation.”
Technically, we were a cut above. Blood's thicker than water, after all. I'd only glimpsed the Socuellamos players for about five minutes, but it was obvious enough to size them up. Their basic skills lacked polish.
The problem? Even with better fundamentals, our guys kept retreating under the opponent's aggressive pressure and physicality. When the back line drops, the midfield follows, dragging the second line and forwards down with them.
“Lines! Hold the lines! Keep the spacing tight! You're drifting apart!”
Coach Calavera's volume was climbing. They'd prepped well, but getting steamrolled from the kickoff had to be frustrating. Especially since the opponents weren't pulling off any genius tactics or boasting a game-changer—just brute physicality shoving them into the lead.
At least we didn't need to sweat conceding.
Thwong!
“…Pfft.”
The moment Socuellamos's striker unleashed his shot, laughter bubbled out of me. How could a guy bulkier than me have weaker shot power than skinny Miguel Amaro?
On one hand, it made no sense. Why stick a big lug who shoots like a girl up top as a striker?
But soon enough, I got the answer.
Clang!
A goal in the 7th minute. The shaking net, regrettably, was ours.
“...Headers are his thing, huh.”
The scorer was that same forward I'd mocked. Feet with a girl's touch, head with a macho vibe... what a monstrous hybrid.
“This won't do.”
While that goal went in, I hadn't done much. A bit of forward pressing, some help in defense, then watching a sudden cross turn into a header goal. That wasn't why I'd run my ass off.
No proper passes reaching the striker—what was I supposed to do?
“They said they were struggling without a finisher...”
Now it looked like that wasn't the issue.
I could play like I did at CD Coslada—Ronaldo-style tank mode, bulldozing forward. But after training sessions that emphasized a slightly different approach, I had no choice but to stick to my assigned role early on. That's what the coach had asked for pre-game, after all.
“But this way, we're screwed.”
I chewed my lip, muttering, then glanced at Coach Calavera. Back at the bench from the technical area, he was deep in discussion with his assistant. Probably brainstorming how to circulate the ball like in practice.
Two options now. Blindly hoof long balls forward for the attack to chase and scrape together a shot. Or someone breaks the defense with a solo play for a real chance.
The first wasn't bad. But garbage long kicks are tough even for world-class forwards.
The second?
“...I can handle that.”
No one else fit the bill. Breakthrough leads to a goal chance; failure means a foul at worst. Socuellamos couldn't stop my dribble otherwise.
First, seize the momentum.
Peep!
The whistle restarted play...
Thud!
Pat-pat-patter!
The tank roared to life.
‘Pushing with our bodies—they can't move an inch.’
A satisfied smile spread across UD Socuellamos's coach's face.
A clash between 13th and 15th. A win would drop AD Alcorcon B below them and escape the drop zone. For this crucial match, Socuellamos's coach deployed the "body tank" strategy.
Maximize your strengths to boost win odds. With physical superiority over Alcorcon B, he leaned into it hard.
And it worked. Alcorcon B's lines dropped deep; midfield and defense crumbled under pressure, no passes escaping forward.
Plus, one pressure-won chance became a goal, grabbing an early lead. No wonder the coach beamed.
...He did.
“Hm?”
...Until then.
The unfamiliar Asian forward, Cha Tae-oh, who'd been invisible early on, grabbed the ball.
“Wha...?”
One defender staggered from a feint. Another rushed in for a challenge but got outpaced and overpowered, tumbling down.
Two ball touches, one fake step. Two escapes, breakthrough success.
Cha Tae-oh shredded the first defensive line cleanly—and didn't stop. Charging toward the box like he dared them to take it.
“Pressure him! Pressure!”
Socuellamos's coach yelled. Not a crisis yet—just surprise at the solo run. Two midfielders were closing from the flanks, two center-backs anchored the box. Even if they fell, piercing the CBs meant a one-on-one with the keeper.
‘Impossible.’
The coach was certain. Cha Tae-oh wouldn't fire a dangerous shot inside the box.
But...
Thud-thud!
To dodge a right-flank tackle, he nudged the ball right to left with his right foot, then surged with la croqueta, escaping...
Drag—thud!
Left-side pressure? He stopped it with his left, pulled it back under his right sole, flipped direction right, shaking them off!
It happened so fast—the left defender mistimed his tackle; the right one got caught in the reversal. They collided.
Cha Tae-oh, using absurd individual skill to toy with two defenders, waltzed into the box unmarked. The CBs had to stop him, or it'd be a clear chance.
But they hung back. Instinct said he'd try piercing them too, after that solo run.
Wrong call.
Whump!
The instant he entered the box, a low, fast, precise shot rocketed at the near post. He exploited the space they'd yielded.
Clang!
The bullet, skimming the grass, ripped the net.
‘What the hell is that guy?!’
Just two minutes after Socuellamos's header.
To reiterate: there's a clear gap between fourth-division semi-pros and sixth-division amateurs.
...It's just negligible to me.
At first, I wondered if starting the dribble from near the center circle was too reckless. I'd planned to break through moderately, pass to a teammate, and burst into the box.
But by the time I snapped out of it, my shot was already whizzing past the keeper's hands into the goal.
Anyway, we'd flipped the momentum back. Our turn now.
They'd be rattled by my unexpected haymaker. The striker they'd dismissed as harmless suddenly dismantled their defense and scored—they had to be stunned.
Expect shakes for a while. Especially as I touch the ball more.
“Hold up, hold up. Everyone, listen to me.”
I gathered the teammates rushing for the celebration, calming their hyped asses.
“We got no reason to lose to those guys. You think I scored 'cause I'm that good?”
Obviously I am.
“They're hacks. Just dumb muscle.”
Which is true.
“Play with confidence! You killed it in training—why pussy out like idiots?! Show what we practiced, and beating them's a joke!”
Dead serious.
“Mistakes are fine.”
Not really.
“Even conceding is okay!”
Absolutely not.
“I'll score more than that, so just collide. Remember our drills? Let's do that. They're below us in the table. Forgot?”
Looks like you did, from how you're playing.
“Don't panic in the back. Trust me—keep pinging passes forward.”
Just give it all to me, you heavy-burdened souls.
“I'll take it from there and make goals.”
“……!”
I will save you all.