A Striker of a Different Class (4)
Albacete Balompié fell 3-0, extending our league winning streak to six, but the team's mood was icy cold.
We'd gathered for training ahead of the Round 7 clash with Racing Santander when the bad news finally hit.
"ACL tear plus meniscus damage... yeah, that's a season-ender for sure."
In the physio room, Rubén Soriano grimaced mid-massage, his face etched with worry.
Right after the Albacete game, Maurinho had gone straight to the hospital for scans. The verdict: ruptured right ACL and lateral meniscus tear. Even with a speedy recovery, the medical staff pegged it at a minimum six months out. And if rehab dragged or complications arose, it could stretch to two years—whispers of that weren't uncommon.
"Maurinho's gotta be gutted mentally."
"Sent him a text to cheer him up, but no reply."
"Nothing we can do right now. Once he's through surgery and into recovery, we all visit. That'll calm him down some."
The teammates in the physio room nodded slowly at Rubén Soriano's words. No one looked happy.
Maurinho was our next-biggest ace after me—no real backup in sight.
With momentum high on six straight wins, this season-out threat was a morale killer.
To shake it off, we'd have to prove on the pitch that we could thrive without him.
"This timing is straight-up bullshit."
Our starting left-back, Enrique, scowled and grumbled.
"Worst-case for Maurinho no matter what. Injured sucks, but if we drop form, he'll stress; if we keep winning without him, he'll feel sidelined. Damn it."
As fellow Brazilians who hung out often, Enrique was more fired up than the rest.
Actually, we had another Brazilian on the squad—dual Spanish citizenship too. Number 7, the ace symbol, but benched: Gustavo Hossa.
Unlike Enrique, he seemed indifferent to Maurinho's injury.
"If one guy's out and the team crumbles, is that really a proper team?"
Not wrong, but it explained why he didn't gel with Maurinho or Enrique despite the shared roots. Maybe my imagination, but Hossa looked almost... expectant.
We had midfield options, but none could fill Maurinho's shoes.
Our squad gap between starters and backups was stark.
Among backups, Hossa had the best individual talent.
He'd been edged out by coach Jordi Calavera's tactics not suiting him. Poor link-up, narrow vision, greedy play.
Still, he wore 7 because he shone on the ball.
Last season, he'd started wide-ranging from central to flanks.
With Maurinho out, expecting a shot made sense.
In pro ball's cutthroat world, teammates were rivals in the same spot.
Not exactly competing directly, though.
"You've all heard about Maurinho. It hurts, but we push on. Let's give him nothing but win news from his hospital bed. Give it everything."
Even Jordi Calavera's face was shadowed. Plenty to ponder on filling the void.
I was curious what he'd decide: stick Hossa on the bench with a backup mid, or deploy him and tweak the 4-3-3?
Up to departure for the Round 7 away at Racing Santander, he ran tactical tests in training.
And on match day, the call came.
"Hossa, you're in Maurinho's spot. Nothing changes. We play our way."
They say good fortune breeds disaster.
Before the season, Jordi Calavera braced for early turbulence. Imprinting his tactics short-term was unrealistic—form would fluctuate.
But he believed: weather the storm, and the team could climb high.
Reality outdid expectations wildly.
Tactical flaws lingered, though improving fast. Still, he spotted gaps.
Couldn't nitpick everything—six straight wins post-opening.
No coach tweaks trivia in a hot streak; big changes even riskier.
God tests me like this.
Round 7 away at Racing Santander underway, arms crossed, Jordi Calavera watched.
Maurinho's season-ender left a midfield hole. After staff talks, plug with Hossa, no tactical shift.
Hossa didn't fit the holding role perfectly.
No choice—couldn't overhaul a working system for him.
Other mids lacked tactical fit too. If all middling, Hossa's skills edged it.
Knew crisis would come...
Starters can't play forever. Humans falter—injuries, form dips.
He managed loads carefully.
Yet here we were.
Endure. No choice.
He banked on Hossa. Not his favorite—stubborn, anti-tactical style.
Couldn't ditch easily. Tame him.
Preseason efforts to integrate him showed promise.
But benching soured things. No outbursts—team winning big.
Hossa felt wild, ego-driven.
Thud!
Damn.
Hossa was miles from Maurinho's replacement. No press resistance, vision, precise passes, links.
He hogged in midfield, solo heroics.
"Release quick! Now!"
Jordi Calavera's roars rained, but ego persisted.
[Hossa turns risky! Can't beat double mark, loses ball again.]
[Turnovers piling up. Hossa struggling to adapt there.]
Three giveaways already by halftime—X-Men vibes for AD Alcorcón.
Midfield supply stalled, attack dulled.
But.
[Miguel Amaro breaks flank! Passes to Cha Tae-oh, who ignites!]
[Dribble on point! Yes!]
[Cha Tae-oh! Bursts inside, shoots!]
Thud!
[GOOOOOOAL!]
[Cha Tae-oh!]
[No angle, but he buries it! Scoring machine as ever. Score 2-1! Late first half, Alcorcón leads by one again!]
Conceded one, but still ahead.
All Cha Tae-oh.
The wondrous striker who crafts goals solo, any system.
Watching, Jordi Calavera nodded slowly.
Right. Team sails because of Theo.
Any tactic, test—Cha Tae-oh means no loss. Proven again.
But his face stayed serious.
Can't rely on one man.
Build a unit where goals flow anywhere.
...Theo leaves someday.
Perfect time for experiments—even sloppy, with him...
[Cha Tae-oh shot feint! Pulls, left-foot rocket!]
Thud!
[GOOOOOOAL! Another from Cha Tae-oh!]
[Incredible! Ruthless scoring!]
[Lefty midrange slices net! 14th minute second half, Alcorcón pulls two ahead!]
With a class-apart goal poacher, defeat's off the table.