A Striker of a Different Class (3)
Two days of vacation came to an end, and as I returned to the training ground, Coach Jordi Calavera greeted me warmly.
“Theo! Get some good rest?”
“Yeah, plenty.”
“Good to hear. How's the body feeling?”
“I could play right now if you wanted.”
“Haha! Perfect, just perfect. See you out there.”
My condition was genuinely good. Or, to be precise, it had been good even when I first arrived in Madrid. Just a bit of fatigue, that's all. Hmm. Thinking back now, I wasn't even that tired.
...Right after getting back to Madrid, Yuko and I had gone at it all night—how many rounds was it again? Still, the next day we took it easy. Once in the morning, once after lunch, once after dinner. This clear-headed condition and light body I had today? All thanks to my restraint and self-care.
“Hey, look, the hero of Korea's here!”
“Come on, everyone, give him a round of applause first.”
After exchanging greetings with the club staff, I headed into the dressing room, where my teammates spotted me and immediately burst into applause. I raised a hand slightly in thanks.
After all the clapping I'd gotten lately, it didn't embarrass me one bit anymore.
“I was on edge the whole time. Scared you'd get hurt. Tiago said the Iran players were especially rough, so I was extra worried.”
“Those Iran guys were rough, just like Tiago said. When you subbed off, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Only got to watch the game relaxed for like the last ten minutes.”
“But the Korean players were really good.”
“Yeah. All the ones we praised play for big clubs.”
“And one of our Alcorcón guys—my teammate, no less—is right there with them. Felt so damn proud, haha!”
I glanced back and forth between Miguel Amaro and Joni Montoya, then let out a chuckle. These two, along with Tiago, had watched my A-match debut against Iran together. After the game, they'd even sent me a group photo. Funniest part? All three were decked out in red outfits to cheer for Korea.
The memory hit me, and I opened my Boston bag to pull out the gifts I'd prepared: jerseys with my number, 18, emblazoned on them. Signed, of course.
“Whoa! Thanks, Theo.”
“Damn. Gonna treasure this.”
...Treasure, huh. Seeing the two of them so thrilled with my jerseys brought a natural smile to my face. I glanced at them and said casually,
“Your turn next.”
I hoped someday these two would join the Invincible Armada—the nickname for the Spanish national team. Not easy, of course. The competition here was brutal. But I wanted it to happen.
“Hm...”
Miguel Amaro, staring at my jersey, nodded as if he'd made up his mind.
“Alright. I'll give it a shot. What's the worst that could happen?”
I grinned at his resolve. That's why I liked this guy.
Carlos Belmonte. Sounded like a person's name, but it was actually the name of our Round 6 opponent's home stadium: Albacete Balompié. They were stuck in the mid-to-lower table, unable to escape it for three straight seasons in La Liga 2.
Their main tactic—typical for mid-to-lower table teams—was to drop deep, defend, and hit on the counter with rough, direct soccer.
I'd only joined training for one day before heading out on this away trip, but Coach Jordi Calavera still put me in the starting lineup. No surprise there. Sure, we had Alejandro Rigo as another striker option, but... he hadn't shown any real sharpness in his sub appearances.
“Keep 'em from coming inside!”
“Press hard so they can't get the pass!”
“Stay focused, focused! Forget we're one slip from the relegation zone!”
The Albacete Balompié players were laser-focused on defense over attack. They marked me tightly, blocking me from turning toward goal whenever I got the ball. That naturally opened up space for my teammates to receive and move.
Still, their leaders kept yelling at their teammates not to give us that space.
...As if funneling all their defense onto me would work.
Tap!
Like always, when they locked down in a deep block, I slipped back toward the second line. Their defenders couldn't all stick to me, leaving their line disorganized. If too many came with me to block, they'd expose the space behind.
Leave the numbers as is and build another wall in the middle? Tap, tap!
“...!”
Then the flanks were wide open.
Whip!Splash!
The opener came from our midfield ace, number 10, Maurinho. Miguel Amaro toyed with the ball in the wide-open flank—vacant because they'd packed the center—then cut inside. He played a cutback through the gap I'd dragged their defenders into, and Maurinho finished it cleanly.
This was our third go-to scoring route when I was shut down and our fixed wingers had limited shooting angles. And it was paying off nicely.
After Maurinho's goal in the 25th minute, Albacete Balompié had no choice but to push forward more aggressively. Staying locked in deep while trailing by one? That was basically forfeiting.
For our attack, it was another opportunity.
Thwack!
We snuffed their attack and immediately fed the ball to Maurinho in midfield. He shrugged off the press with silky play and slotted it to me charging forward.
I was putting away most of the goals and dragging the team to wins, but Maurinho was a huge part of Coach Jordi Calavera's tactical setup. The coach obsessed over injury prevention for him almost as much as for me—maybe even more.
I'd never had a major injury since pro debut (granted, only two years in), but Maurinho had missed half of last season to injury. Glass cannon territory.
A true ace is irreplaceable. Maurinho fit the bill perfectly.
Anyway. I took the ball, forced their defense back, then passed to Nico Salaberria. He glanced at me sprinting toward goal and...
Whip!
A pinpoint left-footed cross right onto my head.
I kept my momentum, locked eyes on the ball, leaped...
Splash!
I redirected it just enough, and my header ripped the net.
33rd minute, second goal. With the score at two-nil, the Carlos Belmonte crowd chilled out. Except one spot.
“The reason we win and you lose!”
“What we've got that you don't!”
“Theo! Theo! Theo!”
“Cha! Cha! Cha! Cha! Cha!”
The away end, obviously. Heard they'd come up with that chant recently... Ouch for a team without a real goalscorer.
“Score some damn goals!”
“When the hell are you making La Liga with this crap?”
“Fuck!”
“Get your heads in the game!”
Hm. Our fans' chants must've gotten under the home supporters' skin. Curses started flying onto the pitch, and Albacete Balompié's play crumbled faster.
Push forward? Our counters terrified them. Sit deep? No chances emerged.
Our two center-backs were on the slower side, so teams—like RCD Espanyol—had exploited that when we pushed up. But that weakness was mostly patched now.
Scrape!
“Nice tackle!”
“Yes!”
“One more goal just like that!”
“Alcorcón! Alcorcón! Alcorcón!”
Thanks to holding midfielder Pierre Mvubu's rising form. His quick feet and long legs poked the ball away with increasing precision.
Explained why technical director Iñigo Chapé had pushed so hard to snag him from the free agency market this summer.
Good vibe. Good flow. No La Liga 2 team seemed capable of stopping our winning streak. Assuming the squad and form held steady.
Tap!
Of course, variables didn't matter.
Tap, tap!
Even if we fell behind... I could sweep their defense, create a one-on-one with the keeper...
Whip!Splash!
And finish perfectly.
Late in the half, I broke through three defenders on a solo run for my second—multigoal—and the score hit 3-0. Any fight left in Albacete Balompié's eyes vanished.
Tweet! Tweeeet!
Halftime.
“Enrique. In this situation, you need to push up faster and join the attack. And your positioning is too central...”
Even in this near-perfect half, Coach Jordi Calavera had nitpicks. He pulled up footage to tweak a few players' movements.
As he gave feedback, assistant coach Dario Terraz approached me while I caught my breath, patted my shoulder, and said,
“That's it for you today, Theo. Rigo's coming on for the second half.”
We'd secured the lead, and though I'd rested well, it hadn't been long since the international break. So I played only the first half before subbing.
Plenty of gas left in the tank, but I couldn't argue with the staff. Besides, two goals wasn't bad.
I nodded quietly, removed my shin guards, and watched the rest from the bench.
Attack lost its edge without me. Alejandro Rigo just couldn't replace me yet.
But we didn't collapse. Our other ace, Maurinho, was still out there.
I watched leisurely. Until around the 10th minute of the second half.
A chill seeped onto the pitch. I straightened up from the bench backrest without thinking.
Something was shifting oddly. Not defeat—it was like the ominous rumble before an earthquake.
Thud!
“Arrrghhh!”
“...!”
A raw scream pierced my eardrums.