I Will Save You (3)
In soccer, the first touch is incredibly important. How you take that first touch dictates your next move and heavily influences the opposing defenders' reactions. It's not just about receiving the ball cleanly—knowing how to drop it into the perfect space for your follow-up action is equally vital. To do that, you have to anticipate your next move before the ball even arrives, which means constantly scanning your surroundings. Defenders read your first touch to predict your intentions, so its significance can't be overstated. They say you can tell if a player is pro material—or even a future star—just from one first touch. It's one of the core fundamentals.
Honestly, back when I played for Gimpo United, my first touch wasn't that great. But now? Totally different story. After the goblin granted me those godlike soccer skills, the first thing that skyrocketed was my first touch.
"Theo!"
*Thwack!*
World-class players sometimes neutralize pressure with nothing but a masterful first touch. And when it happens, you can't help but gasp in awe.
*Tok!*
That was me right now. Every time I received the ball, I placed it perfectly with my first touch. Sometimes I'd knock it long to render an onrushing defender useless; other times, I'd magnetize it to my body for ironclad control. And crucially, I always oriented it toward the opponent's goal for my next move.
Of course, they never stole it from me once. I surged forward effortlessly, opportunities unfolding naturally...
*Splash!*
The net rippled wildly. Whenever I got the ball, a scoring chance materialized. Well, not every one ended in a goal—my skill wasn't the issue.
*Thud!* Tweet!
UD Socuellamos players, desperate, started fouling me left and right, yellow cards be damned. Ten minutes after my opener, I bagged two more for a hat-trick. From then on, they fixated solely on stopping me, clinging to the hope that shutting me down would let them claw back into the game. Before my touches ramped up, they'd controlled the tempo, so it made sense.
But they overlooked one key fact.
"Hold your defensive shape! Why the hell is the line breaking down? He's keep penetrating inside!"
Ironically, their early dominance came from not pressing me hard. They spread the pressure to my teammates, starving me of service. If they wanted to stop me, they should've cut off passes altogether—forcing me to drop deep and dribble forward like on my first goal.
"What are you idiots doing? Space is wide open!"
By the time the UD Socuellamos coach's roar reached my ears...
*Splash!*
The net shook again. Not my goal this time.
"VamoOOOOOOOs!!!!!!"
The scorer: Miguel Amaro. Exploiting the gaps from their fixation on me, he drove in and finished coolly, then sprinted to the corner flag roaring triumphantly.
"Uwaaaaaah! Vamos! Vamos!"
Vamos—basically "Let's go!" I joined the huddle celebrating Miguel's strike and fired off another pep talk.
"See? I told you we could do it. Those guys are ignoring everyone else right now—no pressure on you lot. That's why chances are opening up."
(Note: No captain's armband on me. Even the actual captain was hanging on my every word.)
"I said it before—you're all more skilled than them. Play with confidence. Now some of 'em have yellows, so they can't come at us as freely. Keep executing our training drills!"
"Vamos!"
"Don't settle for a three-goal lead. Hammer them mercilessly till the final whistle!"
"Vamos!"
"So the next teams we face piss themselves just seeing us!"
"VamoOOOOOOOOOs!!!!!!!"
I got carried away yelling about making them piss themselves... and it fired them up even more? Man, do I have a knack for captaincy?
Jordi Calavera watched the match in a daze, half out of his mind. With halftime looming, the scoreboard read an astonishing 7-1.
Five of those goals came from one player—and Jordi couldn't tear his eyes away. A comet who signed a semi-pro deal in under a week, now single-handedly dominating the game: Cha Tae-oh.
...How the hell did a guy like that score zero in Korea?
It made no sense. Sure, this was semi-pro level, but even an AD Alcorcon A-team starter couldn't dictate like this. Pros outclass semis, but not by this margin.
Yet Cha Tae-oh had ascended to the heavens, relegating UD Socuellamos to the dirt. An unbridgeable chasm.
...Is Korean pro soccer that far below Spanish semis?
Koreans he'd faced as a player had solid technique and talent. But none delivered this level of awe.
Jordi shook his head. League disparity didn't explain it—especially since Cha's league was Korea's second division.
Did his potential explode after coming to Spain? Nah, that doesn't track either.
At some point, Jordi stopped watching the game altogether, agonizing over the enigma in his head. No answers came.
Tweet! Tweet!
Halftime whistle. He gave up thinking. Best to just accept this surreal reality.
Theo must be ours. No semi-pro deal will hold him.
Unease crept in. Were scouts from other pro clubs watching?
Jordi Calavera had warned that the lack of a goalscorer had the team in crisis. Early on, I'd dismissed it as an excuse. No matter their pressure and physicality, passes forward just weren't connecting.
But after Miguel's goal, up to my sub around the 25th minute of the second half, I realized it wasn't bullshit. These guys could attack—they were even sharper in the match than in training. Fluid passing, smart press-breaking, solid off-ball runs. Since the opponents weren't doing it, our guys' quality stood out more.
Then it hit me: how desperately they'd waited for a reliable finisher. And how the previous "strikers" had let them down.
What's the point of great passes if the forward flubs the finish? They'd defaulted to other routes, habits ingrained. My hat-trick in 15 minutes restored their faith— no wonder they were buzzing.
I'd worried about the relegation battle, but this fourth-tier level? Perfect fit. Keep scoring, and we'll climb out of danger this season.
Tweet! Tweet!
Final whistle. The board displayed our merciless tally: 12-1. My debut: seven goals.
Roooar! Boos rained down inside Estadio Municipal de Santo Domingo, AD Alcorcon's home.
"Disastrous."
Iñigo Chapé, the technical director, rose grimly from the VIP seats. No wonder the fans jeered: zero goals from 11 shots on target against the league's bottom-feeders, then gifting a late winner for a 0-1 loss. The opponent had just one shot on target—that became the decider.
Attack woes plagued them all season, even after winter striker signings. Solid defense kept them mid-table, safe from relegation. But that fueled the frustration—a balanced attack could've eyed La Liga promotion, a club first.
Always money. Damn money.
Budget constraints made splashing cash tough. As TD handling ins and outs, it was brutal.
"Hoo."
Sighing, Iñigo checked his phone. A soccer app alert: B-team result, same kickoff time.
He squinted. "12-1...?"
Thought his eyes were failing. Nope, solid 12. Blinking, he answered a staffer's call.
"Director, you see the B-team result?"
"Just checked. Draw 1-1, or win 2-1?"
"Pardon?"
"Flashscore glitched—the numbers are off."
"Uh, Director. The numbers are correct."
"Hm?"
"B-team won. 12-1."
"What? Red cards galore?"
"None. Pure twelve goals."
"Weren't they slumping lately?"
"Yeah, but... Scout said the new striker was otherworldly."
"New striker?"
"Korean who signed semi-pro a few days ago."
"Korean? How good?"
"Seven goals solo."
"Seven?"
"Subbed at 70' even."
"...What?"