A Forty-Year-Old Hides His Age (3)

División de Honor Juvenil.

That's how the league's name is pronounced in Korean, and it stands as the highest level of competition available to Spanish players under the age ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of nineteen.

División means league, de Honor means honor, and Juvenil means youth — so translated literally, it would come out to something like "the most honorable youth league." In terms of prestige, it's the youth equivalent of La Liga, the top flight for adult players. The way the season is run is remarkably similar, too.

Kicking off on the first weekend of September and wrapping up around April or May, this youth league determines its standings on a points-based system.

Seven groups of sixteen teams each play home and away fixtures, and the top two teams from each group by total points earn the right to compete in the championship playoff.

For the record, the groups are divided by region. Real Madrid belongs to Group 5.

Group 5 encompasses the clubs based in Madrid, Castilla y León, and Extremadura, and during the league season, teams only ever face opponents from their own group.

And what does that mean?

It means that if you want to face teams from other regions — especially your oldest rivals over at Barcelona — you have to make it to the championship playoff first.

Of course, points don't merely decide who advances to the playoffs. Just like in any professional league, the youth league has relegation as well.

The bottom four teams in each group drop down to the Liga Nacional, effectively the second division of youth football, swapping places with its top four.

In other words, youth players fight just as fiercely for survival as the adults do.

If there was any comfort to be had, it was that Real Madrid's Juvenil A — my team — was a well-respected powerhouse even among youth sides.

Heading into matchday 23, Real Madrid Juvenil A sat in second place in the group with 52 points.

Qualification for the championship playoff was all but secured, and even if we lost every remaining match, relegation was practically impossible.

And with only a three-point gap separating us from Atlético Madrid at the top, reclaiming first place in the group wasn't out of reach either.

Which made today's win an absolute must.

— That was the rundown Nico gave me from the seat beside mine.

"Still, Valladolid's not that strong of a team. As long as we don't get careless, we can win this comfortably."

"……"

"What? Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?"

Staring at his puzzled expression, I asked quietly.

"…Weren't you in the starting lineup today?"

"What can I do about it? I woke up this morning shivering all over — you think that's my fault? Even if I said I could play, they'd still tell me to sit on the bench."

Even as he said it, Nico was coughing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— khh, khh — into his fist, and I let out a sigh.

Snoring, coughing, you name it. Tonight I'm definitely sleeping with earplugs in.

Pweep—

While I was entertaining such thoughts, the referee's whistle blew, and the players lining the pitch snapped into motion in perfect unison.

Matchday 23 of the División de Honor Juvenil.

The moment our match against Real Valladolid began.

I had made the substitute list for the matchday 23 fixture against Real Valladolid.

Any ordinary player would have been thrilled to accomplish that just a week after joining the team, but for me — whose goal was a spot in the starting eleven — the result left a sour taste.

I'd given training everything I had in order to make a proper impression, but the lack of a proven track record in actual matches seemed to be what held me back.

It stung my pride, sure… but there was no need to rush. The coaching staff's concerns about my lack of real-game experience would vanish on their own the moment I bagged a few goals in a match like today's.

The problem was that the opportunity didn't seem likely to come easily.

"See? What did I tell you? They're not that good."

I wanted to snap back at him — what does the opponent being weak have to do with you being smug about it? — but I couldn't be bothered. What was the point of arguing with a guy hacking away from a cold?

In any case, Nico wasn't wrong.

For roughly twenty minutes after the opening whistle, Real Madrid's youth players had dominated the match on the strength of their overwhelming possession.

Could any phrase fit better than penned in and picking them apart?

The opposing keeper's dazzling performance had kept the scoreline at nil so far, but if this kept up, even that seemed like a matter of time.

Of course, saying the opposition goalkeeper was playing well was another way of saying our strikers were flailing.

"Ohhh!"

"So close!"

"How does that not go in?!"

And right on cue, Real Madrid squandered yet another scoring chance.

Their central striker — after a genuinely tidy off-the-ball run to manufacture a one-on-one with the keeper — sent his chip sailing clean over the crossbar.

His name was Joel, if I remembered right?

Good movement, terrible finishing. That was already the third chance he'd torched like this. Even Nico was wincing.

"Joel's been in rough shape lately."

"Is that normal for him?"

"Not normally, but his touch seems to have abandoned him recently. He hasn't scored in his last three games."

That was truly a shame.

You might think I'd be pleased that my position rival was burying himself, but the starting job was going to change hands sooner or later with or without his help.

It's not like I can't push a single youth striker out of the lineup. I'm over forty years old — I have no intention of stooping to rooting for a kid to slip up.

"Man, we could really use a goal about now…"

"Eh, it'll come eventually."

"This is no time to be laid back. Last week we were pressing this smoothly too, and then one counterattack and we lost the—"

Before Nico could finish, the situation on the pitch flipped in an instant.

Right after play resumed from a Real Valladolid goal kick, an aerial duel at the halfway line sent the ball glancing off a teammate midfielder's head and falling loose toward an opposing striker who had been loitering near the penalty box.

A one-on-one with our keeper materialized in a heartbeat, and the Valladolid forward shaped to cut the ball inside with the outside of his boot, picking out the far corner with pinpoint precision.

A composed finish — nothing like what's-his-name on our side.

"…See? Told you."

Again — why are you the one being smug?

As I looked at the guy jabbering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠away between hacks of his cough with something between pity and contempt, the head coach — who had been talking with the manager — strode over toward us.

"Nico, how's that cold coming along?"

"Fine, sir. Honestly, I could've started today without any problem."

"Noted. Just get loose. You're going in the moment the second half starts."

Then he turned his gaze to me.

"Doin, you warm up too. You're going on with Nicolás at the start of the second half."

"Alright, Doin. Let's do this together."

"Just get me the ball."

"Say no more."

On the pitch, seconds before the second half kicked off, Nicolás Becker flashed a wide grin at Kang Doin, who answered with all the enthusiasm of a tax form.

They were down 1–0 at home, yet Nicolás's mood was anything but sour. The simple fact that he was finally getting to play a competitive match alongside the striker he'd admired so much had him quietly thrilled.

That's right.

To put it bluntly, he liked Kang Doin.

It wasn't just that the kid spoke good Spanish, or that they shared a room. They'd only trained together for a single week, and in that short span, Doin had proven exactly what he was worth.

Clean first touch, intelligent movement off the ball, ice-cold finishing — and when the situation called for it, he could take defenders on and carve out chances himself.

How much garbage had he been feeding passes to, hoping to find a striker like this? The guy whose "shots" belonged in a home run derby, the guy who bottled one-on-ones, the guy who couldn't even convert a penalty.

He had no intention of badmouthing his teammates, but the truth was that every assist they'd squandered over the years had been a genuine waste.

It had gotten bad enough that he'd seriously considered switching to striker himself. That's how dire the striking situation at Real Madrid's academy had become.

And now, at long last, he'd met a proper forward. How could he not be over the moon?

Granted, the kid was a year younger than him, a little stiff around the edges, and had the gall to stuff tissues up his own nose while pretending to sleep…

But honestly, who cared? Next to the talent the kid possessed, such things were trifling indeed.

Pweep—

At the referee's whistle, Kang Doin — sent on in place of Joel as the central striker — rolled the ball backward, and the second half was underway.

"Khh! Khh!"

Some trace of a cold lingered — probably from sleeping bare-bellied the night before — but his condition itself wasn't bad.

Since taking the lead in the first half, Real Valladolid had dropped into a low block and devoted themselves to defending.

Collecting the ball at the halfway line, Nicolás pushed forward slowly, scanning for somewhere to unload a pass.

Launching an attack down the flanks would work fine, or he could simply carry the ball upfield himself.

The moment that thought crossed his mind—

"Nico!"

Kang Doin, locked in a bruised-rib battle with the opposing center-back in front of the box, threw his hand up high.

With a defender plastered to his back like that, what on earth he thought he was going to do, Nicolás couldn't begin to fathom.

And yet his leg moved on pure instinct, lofting the pass forward. What is a midfielder's sacred duty, if not to serve his striker?

The ball zipped in low and hard toward Kang Doin, who shook off his marker in an instant and dropped back toward the halfway line to receive it.

No — to be precise, he pretended to receive it.

"…!"

Drifting back to collect the pass, Kang Doin braked hard, spun on the spot in one fluid turn, and came charging right back toward the penalty box.

Flicking the ball up off the tip of his right boot as he went.

The pass had been struck with such venom that the ball carried its full momentum straight into the box, and the Valladolid center-back scrambling after Doin found himself caught wrong-footed, the ball vanishing from his field of view.

In a single touch, Real Valladolid's defense had collapsed.

Other defenders scrambled back in a panic, but Kang Doin had already reached the penalty box, where the ball was rolling free.

The only man left inside the box was the goalkeeper.

And Kang Doin was the calmest finisher in a one-on-one that you would ever meet.

"Doni—!!"

"Dammit! I knew I could count on you!"

Kang Doin saw at once that the keeper — charging off his line to narrow ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the angle — had left his legs spread wide open.

A left-footed instep drive from the ambidextrous striker ripped into the net, and his teammates mobbed the forward who had scored two minutes into his official debut, not bothering to hide their excitement for a second.

Nicolás was no exception.

"You're the best! Doni! Absolutely the best!"

"Your pass was good too. One more, yeah?"

The man of the match was as deadpan as ever, but that hardly mattered.

As the gloomy old days — the era of mountain-sized chances squandered by men who couldn't finish a sandwich, let alone a chance — flickered past like a fading lantern show, Nicolás shouted with secret, trembling gratitude at having finally found a proper striker.

"That's just one? Keep finding space like that! I'll feed you as many as you want!"