Loach (3)
"It ain't over till it's over." A legendary quote from Yogi Berra, the New York Yankees' iconic catcher. It was also the mantra of Gimpo United's manager, always on the tip of his tongue.
And for good reason. Gimpo United had a knack for collapsing in the dying minutes, conceding equalizers or even winners far too often.
Thwack! I bit my lip as the net rippled. The stadium's energy turned ice-cold in an instant.
50th minute of the second half. With five minutes of stoppage time fully played, Levante UD had turned their final corner kick into a goal, making it 2-2.
I glanced at their striker, who had smashed home the dramatic equalizer with a header and was now roaring toward the away fans. Manuel Olivabas. Tiago's words flashed in my mind—if it weren't for me, he'd be the brightest star in La Liga 2.
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After Manuel Olivabas's equalizer, our last attacking chance ended with them clearing it away. Our winning streak came to a halt. Seven wins, one draw.
Honestly, that was an incredible run already. But letting a sure victory slip away like that hung heavy in the dressing room.
"We didn't lose. We didn't get beat. So don't hang your heads like losers. These things happen in soccer—you can't avoid them. Shake it off quick and focus on the next game. That's what matters most."
Jordi Calavera usually picked apart our shortcomings even in victory, but today? Nothing. He just wrapped up his team talk with some encouragement.
"Everyone's keeping quiet, but we all know whose fault today's loss was."
"Who? Mvubu?"
"Nah. He screwed up bad, sure... but honestly, we all know why the team's been off in the last two games. Tactics all twisted up."
On the drive home, Miguel Amaro griped from my car, his voice thick with frustration, to me and Joni Montoya.
"Gustavo, right?"
"Yeah, that asshole."
Miguel Amaro clearly had it in for Gustavo Hossa.
"Thinks he's hot shit. Fucking hell. Why doesn't he pass the damn ball? If he could solve it like you, Theo, fine. But the nerve of him. I'd be too ashamed to look my teammates in the eye."
Miguel kept fuming.
"Think about it. Why don't Maurinho and Enrique hang with him? Same Brazilian roots and all. Obvious, right? Gustavo's an outsider."
Trash-talking a teammate, but neither I—gripping the wheel—nor Joni Montoya stopped him. Or rather, we didn't bother.
"Everyone's biting their tongues 'cause we're winning... but if Gustavo keeps starting, trouble's brewing. Guy's too selfish."
Miguel poked his head between the seats from the back.
"Theo, anyone else saying it might not stick, but if you told him to play for the team...?"
I shrugged, eyes on the road. "That's for the captain, Rubén, or vice-captain David."
Joni Montoya from the passenger seat chimed in. "Yeah. And he ignores the coach anyway—think he'd listen to Theo?"
"...Fair point."
Miguel slumped back. "Coach baffles me too. Is Gustavo that good? Why sacrifice for him? Oscar's not great, but... better to start him, no?"
"Agreed."
I stayed quiet, focused on driving. Years in Korean soccer had drilled respect for coaches into me—it still weighed heavy.
"If Gustavo starts the next one too, I'll be disappointed in the coach, honestly."
Gustavo Hossa hadn't meshed in those two games. Forgot training drills in real matches, played his own game.
Jordi Calavera must've been gutted. But could he bench him easy? ...Nah, felt like a few more chances coming.
If he'd dump him after two games, no point in those tactical experiments for him. Plus, Maurinho's backup Oscar Santos... had no real edge. At least not in Jordi Calavera's system.
"Dunno. Feels like Gustavo starts next too."
Joni Montoya seemed to think the same. But for different reasons.
"Next game's Wednesday. No time to prep."
La Liga 2 has twenty-two clubs. Used to be weekends only, no midweeks, but no international breaks either. Now midweeks fill those gaps.
First eight rounds were weekends, but round nine vs. SD Huesca? Wednesday midweek.
Today's Saturday game done, skip holiday tomorrow—only two real training days.
"Tch. Anyway, hope Gustavo sits. No fun linking up with that prick. Damn it."
Miguel's pouty face glared back in the rearview. For some reason, I had a hunch I'd see it again in a few days.
And that hunch...
"See? Told you."
"Shit. Damn it. Fuck."
...Came true two days later.
Ahead of SD Huesca, Jordi Calavera ran training in the same 4-2-3-1 as vs. Levante UD. No changes.
Gustavo Hossa still central in the #10 role, David Fraile and Pierre Mvubu as the double pivot in a 3.5.
Jordi Calavera kept chatting with Gustavo, trying to integrate him. It was... almost pitiful.
If Maurinho weren't hurt, no need for this hassle.
Miguel Amaro still hated it—most teammates did too—but I hoped Gustavo would fit quick. Among backups, he had the most talent. That's why the coach clung on.
If he contributed, our promotion charge would cruise.
But...
Thud-thud!
Gustavo Hossa crushed my hopes clean in round nine too. Come match time, same greedy play, dragging the ball forever.
Probably his go-to last season—worked then, so he stuck to it.
Vs. SD Huesca, first half wore on, and I gave up on him. This guy's the wrong piece for our puzzle.
One more letdown: Late first half, Gustavo forces a dribble, loses it. Doesn't track back—just shakes his head, stabbing the turf with his studs.
And that turnover...
Thwack!
...Wasted my hard breakthrough and pass to Nico Salaberria for our opener.
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First half ended 1-1.
I caught my breath, heading down the tunnel to the dressing room for halftime rest.
Then... commotion nearby. Raised voices. Someone fighting, no doubt.
The argument sharpened. Vice-captain David Fraile's bellow hit first.
"You lost the fucking ball, you prick!"
Aimed at...
"This a blame game? Lost it in the final third? Just venting on me, huh? Admit it!"
"What? You little shit, open your trap...!"
David Fraile lunged at Gustavo Hossa. Captain Rubén Soriano jumped in, prying them apart.
"You selfish fuck! Can't you see your play makes everyone work harder? If you can't see that, your eyes are just for show, you blind bastard!"
"Blind? Fuck, you done?"
"You just say fuck?"
"Ha! What, you can curse, I can't? Who's the selfish one?"
The brawl escalated when—
Bang-bang!
Someone hammered the dressing room wall, seizing control.
"Sit! Shut your mouths and sit the fuck down! Now!"
Jordi Calavera. His iron-fist side—we'd never seen it. Players froze. David Fraile and Gustavo just glared, retreating to their lockers.
"Fighting each other now? When we need unity more than ever? I said forget the past!"
"......"
"It's a tie. We're not losing. We can turn it. That goal? Forget it. Obsessing changes nothing—doesn't unscore it."
"......"
"We must be one! One! That's how we beat them all and reach the top!"
When he hammered "one," was he glaring at Gustavo? ...Nah, just my imagination.
Anyway, Jordi Calavera shut it down. As always, he dissected our first-half flaws. Players cooled off, calmer now.
Gustavo too. Until...
"Oscar, you're on for Gustavo second half. Same role as last game."
Jordi Calavera had hit his limit. Gustavo stared blankly at him instructing Oscar Santos—like a hammer to the head.
Then fury flickered in his eyes. Wounded pride.
I felt zero pity. His own grave.
Oscar Santos still lacked presence. But his hustle contrasted sharply with Gustavo.
No more disruption from the loach—maybe that's why, or proving we didn't need him...
Thud!
Thwack!
14th minute second half: David Fraile's screamer flipped momentum our way.
I nodded in another header, extending my scoring streak to nine straight.
Midweek game, two-goal lead—Jordi Calavera subbed me around 35' for Alejandro Rigo. Rested other starters too.
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No twists. Final: 3-1.
No multi-goal, but goal and assist? Solid.
Thanked the fans, back to dressing room. Mood? Sky-high, way up from halftime.
...Or so it seemed.
"Where's Gustavo?"
"Uh... he... left early."
"...What?"
"Tried to stop him, but... sorry."
The room froze. Not from Gustavo bailing.
From Jordi Calavera's face after the manager's words.
It wasn't the coach we knew.