Things More Important Than Money (3)
Somehow, about a month had gone by.
Naturally, I hadn't spent it idling around. I am, after all, a man who utterly despises wasting time.
Play hard when you play, work hard when you work. That's my motto. And over this past month, I had been steadily working toward the future.
Thanks to that effort — if "thanks" is even the right word — I had fully adapted to my shrunken body.
My current height is 168 centimeters, a considerable drop from the 176 I stood at during my playing days. Fortunately, I'll start growing again from next year, so there's nothing to worry about just yet.
Still, if I had the choice, I'd rather end up taller than 176, so I was putting in my own kind of effort.
Sleep well, eat well, stretch regularly.
Compared to other sports, football doesn't put quite as much emphasis on height. Even at 176 — hardly a towering figure — I'd made my living as a professional without any real problems.
That said, it's not as if I never struggled against tall, physical center-backs because of my smaller frame. If I'd been even a little taller, breaking them down would have come that much easier.
It wasn't something I'd asked for, but it was a second chance I'd fought hard to get. Whatever could be gained, I intended to gain.
Anyway.
November had arrived, and the air was turning crisp and cold. And at last, the day of reckoning was only one day away.
"Good, you're all set, then?"
There was no small amount of worry in the headmaster's eyes as he called me into his office.
Like my middle school football coach, the headmaster was a good man. Raising kids was never a job just anyone could do.
"Did you check your transportation? Did you confirm what time you need to be there tomorrow? Did you pack all your gear properly?"
He fired off questions without pause, like a mother sending her child off on their first field trip. Making sure nothing had been forgotten, nothing misunderstood.
For my part, having no mother to speak of, I had no way of knowing whether that was what it was really like.
Still, being worried over by someone wasn't a bad feeling at all. I smiled and told him not to fret.
"I'm just going to Cheonan to kick a ball around. Nothing more."
"Hmm, still, it's your first time making the trip alone, isn't it? If you get lost, call me right away."
"I will."
Because the program was run by the Korea Football Association, the player selection for this study-abroad program would take place at the football center in Cheonan, where the association is headquartered.
The facilities were excellent, and the grounds were vast. National team players trained there whenever they prepared on home soil.
In other words, I had already been there dozens of times. Perhaps even hundreds.
I'd always driven myself before, so taking the bus would be a first — but I wasn't worried about getting lost.
How many years had I eaten at the national team's table, after all?
More than that, my legs were already itching at the thought of playing proper football on proper grass again.
Kids these days probably take that kind of thing for granted.
Sports and money have always been inseparable — no era was ever an exception.
Spectators buy tickets to watch matches, broadcasters purchase broadcasting rights to air them, and fans buy jerseys to cheer for their teams.
At the end of the day, it all comes down to money.
Money, money. Annoying as it may be, in this capitalist society, money is the world's universal language — accepted everywhere, by everyone.
Even the football association's move of its headquarters from Paju to Cheonan came down to the same reason.
Under the original arrangement, Paju City had leased the association its training center free of charge for a fixed period, in exchange for the association covering part of the construction costs. But when the contract expired and renewal negotiations broke down over the numbers, the association went looking for a new nest in Cheonan — or so the story goes.
Well. That's adults' business for you.
At any rate, the association had left Paju behind and settled into its new home in Cheonan.
The Cheonan Football Center — built at a staggering cost of 400 billion won — sprawls across some 470,000 square meters, boasting over ten grass pitches alongside its cutting-edge facilities.
Whether every last won of that 400 billion actually went into the construction, of course, is beyond me to say.
But the facilities themselves really were nothing to complain about.
The meticulously kept green grass, the gleaming buildings — everything was so perfectly maintained that simply looking at it lifted my spirits.
How should I put it? The smell of money wafted off the place in waves. Or maybe it just felt like nostalgia.
For all this place looked unremarkable, I had devoted well over a decade of my life to my country. I was a member of the Century Club, after all — and since this center also served as the national team's training ground, it was, for all intents and purposes, my own backyard.
The food here was good, too.
"Excuse me, young man — can I help you?"
The moment I stepped into the building's lobby, a sturdy-looking association staff member noticed me and approached.
"I'm here for the study-abroad program tryouts."
"Ah, and your name is?"
"Kang Doin."
"One moment, let me see..."
Kang Doin, Kang Doin. He murmured my name as he checked his list, peered at his phone for a good long while, then broke into a warm smile.
"There'll be a brief ceremony in the auditorium on the second floor shortly, and then the showcase will begin. Please check this pamphlet for the detailed schedule."
"Thank you."
Reading through the pamphlet the staff member handed me, I headed for the second-floor auditorium.
From what I could gather, the association officials would give a few short speeches in the auditorium, and then the players would run training sessions and practice matches in front of the Spanish club representatives.
"Whoa."
I'd expected as much, but the auditorium was packed. Roughly thirty players, by my eyeball count.
Some of the faces were familiar to me, too. In the future, they would play alongside me on the national team, or cross paths with me in age-group squads a few times.
That said, I had no intention of going up to greet them.
Why?
Because it wouldn't make me a single won. Not a single one of them would ever out-earn me.
That's why, even back in my national team days, I'd never bothered getting especially close to the other players. The ones who latched onto me all turned out to be after loans, sooner or later.
Wanted to start a business together, wanted me to invest in something. Laughable, when I think back on it now.
In any case, none of the boys here would ever make a truly great name for themselves, so keeping my distance and minding my own path was the smarter play — financially and mentally alike.
"Por qué estás sentado solo?"
I had taken a seat at the very back of the auditorium in case any other players tried to strike up conversation — and now some foreigner had come up to me, speaking in Spanish.
Why am I sitting alone, he wanted to know.
Whatever my forty-year-old insides might say, the outside was a fifteen-year-old middle schooler — and this man had walked straight up and addressed me in Spanish without a shred of consideration. Not even a grain.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Korea, speak Korean.
If this man hadn't been a scout sent by a Spanish club, I'd have been sorely tempted to bite his head off. But considering that he was one of the very people here to evaluate me, I decided I could let it slide. Just this once.
"No tengo amigos."
I didn't feel like explaining the complicated truth, so I answered briefly in clumsy Spanish — no friends, I said.
In Saudi Arabia, there'd been little to do besides spend money, so I'd dabbled in other countries' languages in my spare time.
I could have spoken formally, but he looked to be barely in his thirties, so I opted to play the clueless foreigner with poor Spanish instead.
Really — using honorifics with a kid younger than me? That would be a step too far.
The foreigner, for his part, looked visibly surprised that I'd answered in Spanish at all.
Then why did you ask in Spanish, genius?
"You speak Spanish, huh?"
"Learned a little, ages ago. What's up?"
"Nothing much. You were sitting alone, so I thought I'd say hi. What position do you play?"
Asking about my position right out of the gate — if that didn't scream scout, nothing did.
It wasn't as if I couldn't answer, so I gave it up easily.
"Forward. Center forward."
"Nice. And your age?"
"Fifteen. Which club are you with?"
"Ha — so you knew I was a scout all along."
He grinned and unzipped his padded jacket to show me the bat-shaped club crest embroidered on the chest of his shirt.
Valencia, then.
"Oh, the interpreter's here."
"Shouldn't you be going?"
"Yeah, I suppose I should. Good talking with you. I'll be expecting great things."
With a parting smile, he moved off toward the VIP section along with the interpreter, who had just returned to the auditorium.
Hm. Expecting great things, was it?
I had no idea what level of expectation that man held for a single Korean prospect.
But I was no ordinary prospect.
After the tedious, self-important speeches from the association president and the other dignitaries wrapped up, the players changed and filed out onto the pitch to begin training.
We warmed up with stretching and light jogging, then ran through a handful of basic drills.
It stung my conscience a little, being a scruffy middle-aged man squeezed in among these young, springy teenagers — but a man's got to eat, and sometimes that means growing a thick skin.
Besides, as long as you don't get caught, it isn't a crime. It's not as if anyone could actually prove I was forty.
Let's not forget: conscience doesn't pay the bills.
"Wait, is that Real Madrid?"
"Whoa, no way...! Could we seriously end up at Real?"
"A Valencia scout talked to me earlier."
"Huh? You too?"
Despite the training about to begin in earnest, the players kept sneaking glances toward the edge of the pitch, chattering among themselves.
The reason was simple. The scouts were evaluating them from just outside the training ground.
Word was that three clubs in total had sent scouts: Valencia, Mallorca, and — of all teams — Real Madrid.
The Valencia scout was no doubt that foreigner I'd spoken with earlier.
Honestly, the caliber of the clubs surprised me. I'd expected at least a modest second-division side or two mixed in, but every last one of them was a La Liga team.
And Real Madrid of all clubs, coming all the way to Korea just to look at youth players.
Insane. They certainly hadn't come out of genuine interest in Korean prospects — my guess was the association had spent a serious amount of money to make it happen.
"We're starting the practice match now. If I call your name, put on a vest."
In the meantime, the age-group national team coach in charge of the session checked his list and divided up the teams.
I was assigned to the vest team. Right winger in a 4-3-3. Center forward was where I was comfortable, where I belonged — but this wasn't a stage where I got to choose my position.
What could I do? When the whistle blows, you play.
"Hey."
As I tied my boots and got ready for the match, a dark-skinned boy wearing the same vest came up to me with a bright smile.
I had no memory of his face.
"We're on the same team. Looking forward to it."
"Yeah."
"Oh, and if there's anywhere you want the ball when you're making a run, just tell me right away. I'll do my best to find you."
From the sound of it, he was a midfielder on my team. I kept quietly tying my laces and asked, low.
"Your name?"
"Huh? Oh — Park Min-hyuk. What about—"
"Got it, Min-hyuk."
I knotted my laces tight. I wasn't going to be around him long anyway; there was no need to stretch the conversation.
"If you win the ball, don't hesitate. Just give it to me."
This was my first proper match since coming back.
And since I'd already thrown my conscience out the window, I intended to put on a proper show.