Things More Important Than Money (2)

Nothing in this world lasts forever.

Love, power, and the value of currency are the classic examples.

And of course, the Korea Football Association was no exception. Despite a never-ending parade of scandals, the president of the KFA had wielded near-absolute power without so much as a scratch — but in the end, he could not outlast the passage of time and the will of the people.

The newly elected KFA president, like the one before him, came from the corporate world — but his work was genuinely solid.

He poured money into youth development, made the processes for hiring managers and selecting players transparently public, and by decisively scratching every itch that football fans had long complained about, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠earned widespread praise.

That said, Korean football did not become dramatically stronger overnight. Korea was still treated as an easy win at the World Cup, failed to win the Asian Cup, and suffered lopsided defeats whenever it ran into a powerhouse nation.

And that would remain true for at least another twenty-five years — in other words, at least until I retired as a professional footballer.

Anyway.

The Football Association currently spared no expense when it came to youth development.

And this Spain Study Abroad Project was part of that youth initiative.

The program showed the play of Korea's young prospects directly to scouts from Spanish clubs recruited well in advance, and whichever players caught the scouts' eyes were taken to Spain to train alongside the club. An overseas development program, in short.

If I recalled correctly, a similar study-abroad program in Germany had once unearthed a world-class striker.

Well, the reasons hardly mattered. What mattered was that this program opened its doors to anyone with the talent, and for those who seized the opportunity, it offered support without reservation.

Full coverage of expenses abroad, visa issuance, Spanish tutoring — the benefits piled up and kept piling.

That was also precisely why I intended to apply without a moment's hesitation.

Yes.

After all, who on earth hates free stuff?

"Director."

Kang Jun-young, the director of Haneul Sarang Orphanage, could hardly help but startle at the sudden appearance of a resident in his office.

Kids were summoned here to be scolded for wrongdoings, never the other way around.

"Hmm, it's Doin. What can I do for you?"

Kang Jun-young beamed a kindly smile at the orphan, now in his final year of middle school, and gestured for him to sit.

Part of it was that the orphanage was sponsored by a church whose teachings he practiced faithfully. But the bigger reason was that this particular resident was the child the director cherished above all others.

The proof? This boy was the only child in the orphanage permitted to join an athletic club, simply because he was good at kicking a ball around. It went without saying.

If one insisted on being precise, it would be more accurate to say he played favorites because the boy was good at football — but that was a matter of ordering, not substance.

In any case, the resident before him spoke with a serious expression.

"There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"A discussion is fine. Go ahead, take your time."

"Even if I go to high school, it'll be hard for me to keep playing football, won't it?"

"Mm."

Kang Jun-young groaned quietly. There was a reason he couldn't give a reassuring answer right away.

Elite sports cost money. Football was no exception, obviously.

Equipment like boots was only the baseline — monthly club fees had to be paid without fail, and there were dorm costs and bus rentals to think about as well. Over three years, it easily ran into the millions of won.

Needless to say, the orphanage could never foot a bill that size. If the middle school football coach hadn't happened to be a brother from the same church, favoritism aside, this boy's football would have ended in elementary school.

So he had been planning to pick his moment soon and gently break it to him that continuing football through high school ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be difficult... and yet.

"It seems you've already caught on."

Despite the weight of the subject, the boy answered without missing a beat. There was an ease to his tone.

"It's not like our orphanage gets a lot in donations. And the football club fees add up."

"Mm..."

"So here's the thing. I was thinking of applying to this."

With that, the boy held out the phone he'd been carrying. On its screen was the Football Association's website, displaying the following:

The post announced that the Football Association would send players to Spanish clubs for a year of study abroad. What caught the eye was the stipulation that the association would cover all costs.

Kang Jun-young looked up from the phone and studied the boy again.

"Word is, the association is showing promising young players to scouts from Spanish clubs, and the ones who impress will be sent to Spain. The program runs for a year, but apparently the term can be extended depending on the club's intentions."

"..."

"And most importantly, as it says right here — the association covers every expense. If I get in, wouldn't that let me keep playing football without being a burden on the orphanage?"

A crisp explanation with a clear purpose.

Kang Jun-young was quietly taken aback. Had the boy always spoken this well?

Just as he was musing that teenagers certainly grew up fast, he opened his mouth carefully. What the boy said sounded reasonable enough — but the world rarely unfolds so conveniently.

"Doin, you know as well as I do — of all the kids who play football, only a rare few ever turn pro."

"I know. Less than one percent."

"Right. And that's the odds even for kids who pour money and time into the game from comfortable circumstances. You, on the other hand, don't have that comfort. I understand how you feel, but honestly, realistically speaking — wouldn't it be wiser from now on to start thinking a little more seriously about your future than about football?"

Every child raised at the orphanage had to leave upon graduating high school.

That was why Kang Jun-young, as its director, could not help but worry.

What if the boy before him kept playing football and never went pro?

Three years from now, all this child would have to show for it was a few million won in an independence settlement. Wouldn't it be better, starting now, to have him focus on his studies and aim for a good university?

He wasn't a dull child by any means. It was a little late, yes, but even now other paths remained open to him.

But the boy spoke with an even, unhurried voice. The resolute look in his eyes said the decision had long since been made.

"Director, I've thought this through carefully before coming to you. I'm grateful that you worry about me — but I have no intention of giving up football."

"..."

"Please. Give me your blessing."

"Hmm..."

With a sigh, Kang Jun-young closed his eyes and turned the matter over in his mind — and in that very moment,

Kang Doin, physical age fifteen (mental age forty), looked down at the director with perfect calm.

There was nothing intimidating about the situation at all.

He already knew that for all this deliberating, the man would give his blessing in the end.

In his previous life — his earlier existence — a similar scene had played out.

Back then, he had asked to draw on his independence settlement early so he could pay the high school football club fees himself.

Even so, money had run short, and every vacation he'd shuttled between construction sites and loading docks.

In any case, compared to that, today's request was far more sensible. At the very least, he wasn't asking to borrow millions of won upfront.

And sure enough, before long, Director Kang Jun-young let out a sigh and nodded.

"...Well, if you feel this strongly, it'd be poor form of me to keep objecting."

"Then I have your permission?"

"You have my permission to apply to this program. But — can you actually get selected? From the looks of it, the competition won't be easy."

Kang Doin grinned and shrugged.

If that smile looked unbearably smug to Kang Jun-young, it was probably just his imagination.

"Don't worry, Director."

Since returning to the past, my fortune and career had gone up in smoke — but not once did I feel anxious about being unable to rebuild them.

Unimpressive as I might look now, I'd spent over twenty years as a professional. Say what you will about the Saudi league being second-rate — it was the strongest league in Asia, and I scored more than seven hundred goals in it.

On top of that, I'd played for the national team and turned in a respectable showing at the World Cup. Never once did I consider myself less competitive than the players in Europe.

In fact, after that World Cup run, offers from sizable European clubs came in constantly.

Of course, none of the transfers ever went through because we couldn't agree on salary... but that's neither here nor there.

Bottom line: as long as all the know-how I'd accumulated still lived in my head, this life too would let me shine as a professional — injury permitting.

For the same reason, I was confident I would be chosen in this study-abroad program.

Provided the scouts evaluating me had their eyes bolted on straight, it was a certainty.

But that was privileged information only I possessed. The middle schooler standing here now was not a player held in particularly high regard.

"You want to apply for the overseas development program run by the Football Association?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hmm..."

The coach's lukewarm reaction said it all.

Right now, I was nothing more than a winger holding down a starting spot at a weak middle school. Quick on my feet, but small, with a weak frame and a losing record in physical duels.

I'd made a age-group national team once by sheer luck — and even then, I'd done nothing but ride the bench.

Such was my current evaluation.

Of course, once I grew into my height and frame in high school and shifted to center forward, that assessment would flip overnight. But the coach had no way of knowing that, and to his eyes my request probably looked like baseless confidence.

Still, nothing to be done. There were far more players dreaming of Spain than the Football Association could simply wave through.

It was pure fortune that I had, however briefly, once been selected for an age-group national team.

"Well, there's no reason not to. You got the director's approval?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right, then. I'll mention it to a contact at the association. When the official notice comes, I'll let you know."

Fortunately, the coach granted my request without much fuss, then waved me off to go train. I gave a polite bow and left the coach's office.

Then and now, a good man. Thinking back on it, there were things about him I didn't like — but the fact remained that he'd taught me football through all of middle school without taking a single won in fees.

Either way, with this, the biggest mountain had been crossed. All that remained was to sharpen my condition for the day of decision.

Whatever else had changed, this grown body had shrunk back down — and I needed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to adapt to this smaller frame, and quickly.

"Hey! Kang Doin! Why isn't he running out here?! You training or not?"

"Sorry, Coach."

"That no-fee punk..."

The moment I stepped out of the building, the coach's irritated scolding drifted over from the pitch.

The cheap artificial turf of the practice field, the coach drunk on his own little authority, the baby-faced middle school teammates.

Only now did the return to the past truly sink in.

"Everyone ready?"

"Yes!"

"Don't half-ass it just because it's practice! Miss your shot or fail to finish in one touch, and it's ten push-ups as your penalty! Understood?"

"Yes!"

One way or another, at the coach's bellow, the players gathered in front of the goal readied themselves for the drill.

The coach stood by the box; we exchanged one-two passes with him and immediately fired off a first-time shot — no stopping the ball. Naturally, the coach chose where each pass went.

Considering that a striker's fundamental duty is to threaten goal from any position, it wasn't an unreasonable drill.

His attitude could stand some work, though.

"Kang Doin! Go!"

Using the crack of the coach's clap as my cue, I passed the ball to him and sprinted forward. Occasionally I felt a strange disconnect in this shrunken body, but striking a ball posed no problem.

Thud—

I passed to the coach head-on and kept running — and the return ball bent toward the left flank of the penalty area. From where I'd been advancing through the center, there was no trickier spot to handle in one touch.

Still, this much was nothing.

"Hup!"

Carrying my sprint speed straight into the pass's path, I swung my left foot without breaking stride.

The goalkeeper, having read that my shooting angle was poor, had evidently decided against rushing out to narrow it — instead he held his ground methodically, resolved ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to block anything aimed at the far post.

In that case, the answer had already been decided.

Boom—!

The ball rocketed off my left instep and, with terrifying pace, tore through the top corner of the near post. Caught off guard by the trajectory, the goalkeeper didn't so much as react.

Hm. Even by my own assessment, it was a genuinely good strike.

"Did you see that shot?"

"Wasn't he supposed to be useless with his left foot?"

"Must've practiced on his own. Guy doesn't even pay fees — the least he could do is have some skill."

Walking back to my spot after the shot, I caught the murmurs of the players watching me.

Half of it was mockery, but it wasn't wrong, so I didn't bother reacting.

What could I do? Being looked down on for having no money and no parents was a time-honored tradition that transcended the ages.

Ah, the good old days in Saudi.