A 40-Year-Old Uncle Hides His Age (5)

Dopamine is a sweet, irresistible drug for high school students ground down by academics and entrance exams. There's a reason kids that age fall so easily into the temptations of alcohol and cigarettes.

And I knew perfectly well that my very existence had become dopamine for them.

He played for Real Madrid, so he was famous. He was Korean, so he was exotic. Fame and novelty rolled into one package — there was no way in hell they wouldn't be interested.

To be honest, though, this kind of attention was something I was quite used to.

Part of it was that I'd lived off public attention as a professional footballer, but the bigger reason was my miserable family background.

After all, I had no parents.

For kids raised in orphanages, getting sneered at the moment they walked through the school gates — look at that kid with no mom and dad — was simply the natural order of things. When you got bullied, there was no parent to show up and raise hell on your behalf.

Fortunately, I was on an athletic team, so I never had to serve as the delinquents' errand boy, but whether in the classroom or the football club, I could never shake off the label of 'the kid without parents.'

Whispers behind my back. Subtle, calculated dismissals. Snide remarks about my unpaid club fees.

Seen in that light, the Spanish students' interest was remarkably wholesome and pure by comparison…….

"Spanish is so hard. Hehe."

And so I played the fool who couldn't speak the language. The dopey follow-up laugh, added to make myself look as dim-witted as possible, was a bonus.

"Oh, so your Spanish still isn't that good yet?"

"A shame. So you can't understand a word ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠we're saying?"

"Well, we'll be seeing each other for months anyway. If you're curious about something, just ask us slowly later."

Thankfully, no one doubted my performance. It was worth appearing in that five-million-admission movie as a cameo back when I was being hailed as a national hero after the World Cup.

Thanks to that, the crowd surrounding me gradually drifted back to their seats, and I was finally able to sit down in the spot the homeroom teacher had assigned me earlier.

I'd apparently just lied to a group of people who were being nice to me, and my conscience twinged a little — but there was nothing to be done about it.

It wasn't that I disliked these kids. I wasn't sorting them by how much money they were worth or anything.

It was simply that a man with my long experience knew the truth:

Kindness and attention may be sweet, but one careless step can turn them into a lethal poison.

Whew…….

This is an era where a single person can be dragged into the gutter with nothing but fabrication and slander. There was no telling what trouble might come of mingling with students and chattering about this and that.

For a concrete example: years down the line, when I debuted as a Real Madrid first-team player, a student with a grudge against me could post a single message — I'm his old classmate, and he bullied me at school — and make my entire professional career a miserable ordeal.

If it were pure fabrication and slander, that would be one thing. But if I'd so much as sworn at the kid even once, the problem would balloon out of control.

My mental age had long since passed forty, but I was still human.

I had emotions. When I was on edge, I swore. In fact, I made plenty of mistakes during my playing days in Saudi Arabia.

So the safest option was to say nothing at all. Cut off every opportunity for an emotion-driven slip-up before it could exist.

Thankfully, I'd already made my pitch about my shaky Spanish, so the classmates would stop pestering me from here on out.

All I had to do now was attend school quietly and focus on football. These were classes meant for kids anyway — as long as I didn't sleep, I could pull off a quiet model-student act with no trouble at all.

Yes.

That's what I thought, right up until first period.

"So what is linear programming? It's a mathematical technique for finding the optimal solution that maximizes or minimizes an objective function within a given set of constraints……."

"The standard form is expressed as Ax≤b, Aeqx=beq, lb≤x≤ub, and by transforming the inequalities or equations into……."

"Now, let's try the example problem in the textbook. There's a bakery that can use 12 kilograms of flour and 8 kilograms of sugar per day. A cookie made with 0.2 kilograms of flour and 0.1 kilograms of sugar sells for 4 euros, and a cake made with 0.4 kilograms of flour and 0.3 kilograms of sugar sells for 6 euros. If the bakery wants to maximize its daily profit……."

Son of a— what is this.

First period, applied mathematics. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠As alien language poured out of the teacher's mouth, I realized something had gone very wrong.

They'd told me to choose between the sciences, humanities, and social sciences, and I'd picked social sciences without thinking twice — so why the hell was there math in here too?

And so I spent fifty-five minutes of first period staring blankly into the void.

O-okay. Math was always my weak subject. I'll just work hard at the other classes…….

That fragile little hope of mine was obliterated the moment second period began.

Spanish history.

"In 1931, Spain abolished the monarchy and established the Second Republic, attempting radical change……."

"During this period, land reform, the granting of autonomy to Catalonia and the Basque Country, the separation of church and state, and military reform were all pursued……."

"And then in 1936 came the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, as Francisco Franco……."

Hm. I see.

By the end of second period, my assessment of the situation was complete.

I closed my eyes with a sense of serene clarity. Then I laid my face down on the desk.

Time for a nap.

"Hoo……."

Three days had passed since I'd started attending school.

In that time, I'd made a decision.

Focus on what I'm actually good at.

No human being can ever be perfect. Where there are strengths there are weaknesses, and where there are things you excel at, there are things you don't.

So I resolved to concentrate on football alone. I'd keep attending class, sure — but beyond school hours, I wouldn't spend a single minute studying.

This is absolutely not a man over forty hitting a wall against high school coursework and giving up on his studies.

Absolutely not.

"Hoo— hoo—."

Anyway, for those reasons, I had promptly abandoned the history assignment the school had handed out, and I was now sweating buckets alongside Niko in preparation for the next match.

Niko, who had demanded a one-on-one to practice man-marking defense, was now gasping for air after being skinned three times in three attempts.

The sight of him sprawled out on the grass in a giant spread-eagle was genuinely hilarious.

"So? One more round?"

"Hold on — hoo…… let me catch my breath first."

The guy who'd called timeout at my question spent a while regaining his breath, then propped up only his upper body and clicked his tongue, muttering that this made no sense.

"Unbelievable. How do I not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stop you even once?"

"Maybe your defending just sucks?"

"Then what does that make everyone who's been stopped by my defending until now?"

"Guys whose defending sucks even more than yours."

"Joder. Can't even argue with that."

He clicked his tongue — tch — and flopped back onto the grass. Joder is about equivalent to 'fuck' in English, so he must have been seriously frustrated.

Maybe I should offer a little comfort.

"Don't take it too hard. Your opponent is me, after all."

"Wow, what a comforting thing to say. Are you mocking me?"

"Not mocking. If you get good enough to stop me, you'll hold your own at the first-team level too."

"That's…… fair, actually."

Hm.

I'd expected an irritated denial, but an unexpectedly obedient concession came out instead. Niko sat up with a sigh.

"I was included in the first-team training squad during pre-season, you know. Trained with the starters for a while."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Didn't last more than a few days before I got sent back down, but…… anyway, things went decently on the attacking side. Defending, though, was brutal. It was like hitting a wall."

"……."

"That's exactly how I feel going up against you right now."

A snort of laughter escaped me at Niko's words. Wasn't he essentially saying that the current me wouldn't be out of place among first-team attackers?

Well, it was obvious if anything.

"Our captain graciously bestows his praise upon me — I hardly know where to put myself."

"I'm not joking, you know? Where the hell did this guy even come from…… Are Korean kids all this good at football?"

"Not even close. Look at the other kids who came to Spain with me."

We were on different teams and in different dorm rooms, so I hadn't had many chances to talk with them — but through Tony, who managed the exchange students including me, news trickled in from time to time.

Both of them were reportedly suffering considerably from the language barrier, and their training results were nothing to write home about either.

Playing football in a completely alien environment was never an easy thing to begin with. I'd struggled plenty adapting myself when I first played in Saudi Arabia.

"Hmm, Park and Kim, was it? I don't really follow the B team or the C team, so I can't say. Are they any good?"

"Hard to say?"

They had both been fairly hyped prospects back in middle school, or so I'd heard.

But given that I had no memory of playing alongside either of them during my national team days, I figured they weren't exactly destined for greatness.

For all I knew, this study-abroad gamble might have completely broken them, leaving them beyond recovery.

"I'd guess they're not as good as us, at least."

"Fair point — otherwise they'd be playing for the A team. What a dumb question to ask when I should be worrying about my own skin."

Just as Niko said.

The twenty-fourth round of the División de Honor Juvenil was scheduled for three days from now.

The opponent: Atlético Madrid, the current leaders of our group.

Running second in the table, three points behind, we needed a win — absolutely, non-negotiably — if we wanted to reclaim first place.

"You're going to score for me in this match too, right?"

"Feed me passes and I'll bury them."

"Oh? Feeling confident about playing, are we?"

I shrugged and flashed a grin. It might have looked like a guy strutting around after one decent game — but unfortunately for them, my confidence wasn't unfounded.

Because two evenings ago, after training, Manager Ismael had given me the nod about the match.

For reference, in the previous match I'd been subbed on at the start of the second half and played forty-five minutes.

What that statement implied…… hardly needed explaining.

But out of consideration for the manager, I didn't point out the obvious. Thankfully, Niko had enough sense to roughly grasp that I'd be starting, even without a word-by-word breakdown.

At that, Niko fixed me with a somewhat worried look.

"I get that you're buzzing after your first match went so well, but don't get careless. Atlético Madrid's defense is on a whole different level from our last opponent."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. As far as I know, they've conceded the fewest goals of any team in our group."

He also offered a word of caution that scouts would already be analyzing me.

"And after that hat-trick in forty-five minutes last match, Atlético Madrid is probably marking you already. It'll be a completely different situation from last time."

"Hm."

"Of course, I'll do everything I can to support your attacking play, but…… this weekend's match won't go as smoothly."

So never, ever let your guard down.

That was presumably the message Niko wanted to convey — though honestly, it didn't land with much force.

On the outside I looked sixteen, but inside I was over forty.

Not to mention I'd spent twenty years as a professional. My career goal tally exceeded seven hundred.

I may be bad at studying, but I'm not bad at football.

If a little analysis was all it took to shut me down, I'd have been shut down ages ago.

"Kang DoIn……."

Atlético Madrid's Juvenil A manager murmured the name of the striker who had debuted for Real Madrid just last week.

It was Thursday, with the Round 24 match of the División de Honor Juvenil looming. Atlético Madrid's Juvenil A coaching staff were exchanging opinions on the Korean striker who'd become the talk of the league.

One of the coaches, flipping through the player's file, spoke up.

"That's this kid? The one who scored three goals in forty-five minutes against Real Valladolid?"

"That's him. Word is he only joined the club recently."

"Korean, you say? Never heard of any prospect like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this coming out of there."

They sat around a U-shaped arrangement of wooden desks, and at the center, a projector was playing footage of Real Madrid's Round 23 match, provided by the analysis team.

Calling it match footage was generous, though — the second half was effectively a highlight reel of one man.

"His movement off the ball is something el— wait, look at that. Is that a upper-body feint before receiving?"

"Forget that, his first touch is absurd. No matter how hard the pass comes in, the ball just dies at his feet. Half the first-team players out there can't even do that."

"And look, he's comfortable with both feet. Composed finishing, and he's quick too."

"Those sons of bitches at Real Madrid. Where the hell did they dig this kid up?"

Just as the coaching staff's assessments veered from analysis into outright worship, Atlético Madrid's Juvenil A manager stepped in to moderate.

Yes, the Korean boy was good. But they weren't about to surrender the flag and forfeit before kickoff, were they?

"Everyone, it's too early to jump to conclusions. That's the only sample we have."

"True enough. The Korean lad might have just been in exceptional form that day. Valladolid was never much of a defensive side to begin with."

"Right. And our defense is nothing like those pushovers. So from now on, let's figure out how to shut this Korean down."

Fortunately, the capable coaching staff produced answers quickly at the manager's direction.

"Looking at him, he's not short, but his frame seems a bit slight, no?"

"Probably because he's still growing. At that age, everything goes into height, not bulk."

"Then for Sunday's match, we should start Theo and André."

"And we need to tell the players to get physical in defense — fouls are fine. Don't let him play comfortably. Who knows what he'll pull off if we do."

Over nearly an hour of meetings, the coaching staff compiled their methods for containing the Korean striker.

They would field two well-built center-backs standing over 185 centimeters to overwhelm him physically, and pair it with rough fouls to keep his nerves frayed at all times.

By their reckoning, these were reasonably concrete, highly feasible measures.

As long as the players executed the instructions properly, a comfortable victory in this match was well within reach.

And Atlético Madrid's youth team had conceded the fewest goals in the league this season. Surely they, of all teams, could contain one Korean striker.

"Good. Let's show this young lad just how solid our defense really is."

And so the manager of Atlético Madrid's Juvenil A side, too, harbored not a shred of doubt about winning Sunday's league match.

Which meant……

At least, not until the next match kicked off.

"Damn it."

Sunday.

Atlético Madrid's Juvenil A manager, watching the match from the bench, squeezed his eyes shut along with a curse.

Unable to believe what he was seeing, he blinked over and over — but the scoreboard confronted him with cold, merciless reality.

Two to nil.

Kang Doin, who had already scored twice today alone, celebrated with a casual whoop and traded congratulations with his teammates, while the Atlético Madrid players stared blankly at the scene.

And what it meant was painfully simple.

They were screwed.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

Over the total collapse of his meticulously crafted defensive scheme, Atlético Madrid's manager made no attempt to hide his emotions.

He kicked over the water bottle stationed in front of the bench in a fit of frustration, while Ismael, Real Madrid's manager, snuck sidelong glances at the display and smirked with undisguised glee.

All of this, mind you, a mere twenty-seven minutes after the opening whistle of the Round 24 match of the División de Honor Juvenil.