A Forty-Something Hiding His Age (1)

The sound of an alarm blaring in his ears dragged his eyes open.

It was still the small hours of the morning, the sky outside a dark shade of blue. After another exhausting day, fatigue hung heavy over his entire body.

But tired or not, work was work.

He silenced the alarm and brushed his teeth, washed his face, slowly shaking off the haze of sleep. That was exactly when he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. Wondering what it could be, he pulled it out — a message was waiting.

It was Santiago.

He replied a curt "Got it" to Real Madrid's football director, then let out a long sigh.

It had already been over six years since he'd made such a fuss about landing his dream job as a scout. What those years had taught him was that even a dream job was, in the end, still a place where people worked.

Meaning: every day was exhausting, every day was hell, and he wanted to quit.

It didn't even pay particularly well. When he looked at the players raking in more per week than he made in years, a sense of deprivation he couldn't quite shake settled over him.

And yet there was exactly one reason he pulled a dress shirt out of the closet and got dressed anyway.

"...A man's gotta eat."

Muttering something closer to a lament than anything else, he stepped out the front door, started the car in the parking lot, and gripped the wheel.

A few minutes of driving later, listening to the songs topping Spotify's charts, he arrived at a hotel on the outskirts of Madrid. He parked nearby and headed inside. His destination: Room 402.

He rode the elevator up and gave the door a light knock. The rat-a-tat had barely echoed down the hotel corridor before a familiar boy's voice answered.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Toni. Did everyone sleep well?"

The door to Room 402 swung open almost before he'd finished speaking, revealing a black-haired Korean boy.

Though calling him a boy was perhaps no longer accurate. Over these past several months, the boy had changed a great deal — his physical transformation alone made that clear.

Having turned sixteen, the boy had shot up during a rapid growth spurt. The slight frame of 168 centimeters was now nothing but a distant memory.

Perhaps because of it, the baby fat had melted from his face, leaving behind sharply defined features. Antonio had no doubt that the moment the boy debuted with the first team, his looks alone would win him no small share of popularity.

And his social standing?

The boy who had once been an anonymous prospect from an orphanage was now a proud member of Real Madrid — a highly touted young talent expected to one day lead the club's attack.

And the man who had discovered him was none other than Antonio himself.

Swelling quietly with pride at the thought, Antonio asked the boy a question.

"You're up early. Where are the others?"

"Still sleeping. Yesterday's long flight wore everyone out. We were in the air for over fifteen hours, remember?"

"And yet you look remarkably sprightly."

At that, the boy smirked and gave a shrug of his shoulders.

His cryptic reply was a bonus.

"Well, I'm pretty used to long flights."

Antonio ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠attached no particular meaning to the remark. Naturally, he didn't ask questions like, 'How exactly is someone who'd never left the country 'used to' flying?'

Such a remark could wound a sixteen-year-old orphan, and more to the point, while the boy's Spanish was quite good for his age, it was far from flawless.

Case in point: he had never once used the proper honorific forms when speaking to Antonio, a man old enough to be his father.

So this, too, must simply be another slip of the tongue from a boy still shaky in Spanish — or so Antonio reasoned as he stepped into the hotel room.

It was time to work.

"So, why did you choose Real Madrid?"

The question from Toni, hands on the wheel, came rather abruptly.

It was the second morning since arriving in Spain. Sitting in the back seat, gazing out at the streets of Madrid through the window, I answered quietly.

"Why do you ask all of a sudden?"

"Well, it's just... I heard Valencia and Mallorca both offered you contracts too. I found myself wondering why you picked our club anyway."

"..."

"Ah, of course, if it's something you'd rather not talk about, you don't have to."

It wasn't that it was hard to talk about. I was just deciding how to talk about it.

When the showcase hosted by the Korea Football Association had wrapped up, a total of three teams had come after me.

All three hadn't merely wanted me as an exchange student — they wanted to sign me outright. That was thanks to my blood-related father running a taekwondo studio in Spain, which meant I fell outside FIFA's transfer regulations. No club had a reason not to make a play for me.

And the ultimate winner of that contest was Real Madrid.

Why?

Nothing complicated. They simply offered the most money.

Had I been any other youth player, I might have chosen differently. A fair number of young prospects weigh something above money when picking a club.

Specifically: 'Does this team have the conditions to develop me?'

Chances of promotion to the senior squad, the club's vision, training facilities, living arrangements, and so on. The very direction of their priorities differs from veteran players, for whom trophies and weekly wages come first — because they're still at an age when they have to grow. For players whose goal is simply to turn professional, establishing themselves as pros matters more than earning a bit more right now.

So most ordinary young prospects prioritize their playing environment over money.

But I was not an ordinary prospect. I was a prospect with twenty-five years under my belt — with the full experience of a professional career intact, no less.

For someone like me, competition and development meant precious little. My opponents, after all, would be youth players. To me, they were all equally unripe Spanish kids.

And that was why I'd chosen Real Madrid. They were all the same in the end, so I just went wherever the money was biggest.

"Well... it is Real Madrid, after all."

Still, saying the honest version outright might have made me look rather ugly in the eyes of a Spaniard, so that was the answer I gave to Toni's question.

Bland and world-weary as it was, the man asking seemed delighted with it — the rearview mirror showed color rising in Toni's face.

"You really do understand football, Doni. Real Madrid certainly is a magnificent club."

"Of course. Along with Barcelona, they're the most famous club in Spain."

"What's this? They ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can't even be mentioned in the same breath as Barcelona!"

With that, Toni launched into a lecture on just how great Real Madrid was.

How many Champions Leagues and league titles they'd won, what the club was worth, how only the very best players in the world got to wear the white shirt.

I wasn't particularly curious, nor did I want to hear it — but considering everything he'd done for me during the contract negotiations, this much servitude I could endure.

"Um... Do In?"

"What is it you're saying right now, Antonio?"

Unfortunately, however, I was not the only passenger in that car alongside a middle-aged Spaniard.

The Korea Football Association had apparently attached a condition to the negotiations with the Spanish club: three prospects had to be brought over. I'd heard as much from Toni during the contract process, so there was no doubt about it.

In other words, besides me, two more Korean boys were coming to Madrid. Their names were as follows.

Park Min-hyuk, a midfielder with good passing and press resistance. Fifteen years old.

Kim Woo-sung, a towering center-back in the late 180s. Sixteen years old.

The two of them, each with a different position and different strengths, must have had real footballing talent, because Real Madrid had selected them.

They did not, however, appear to have any talent for Spanish.

Out of kindness for the poor mutes sitting there with their mouths clamped shut, unable to follow a word, I graciously tossed out a conversation topic.

"I heard Ronaldo is a better footballer than Messi?"

For the roughly ten minutes it took to reach the training ground, the two Korean boys debated whether Ronaldo or Messi was the greatest player of all time.

Though "debate" was generous — it was a one-sided flame war with a predetermined verdict.

They brandished Ballon d'Or counts, World Cup credentials, fan service during tours to Korea, and insisted that Messi was the greater player, while Toni, who couldn't understand a word of Korean, grew flustered by the two Korean boys' sudden descent into madness and quietly concentrated on driving.

As for me, I leaned against the window, satisfied that no one was talking to me anymore, and finally enjoyed a moment to myself.

Time flowed on, and at last the car rolled to a stop before its destination.

Real Madrid's training complex revealed its overwhelming grandeur before us.

It bears repeating, but Real Madrid is a Spanish club.

Therefore, it uses Spanish. Naturally, Ciudad Real Madrid is Spanish too.

Ciudad means "city."

In other words, "Ciudad Real Madrid" translates to "The City of Real Madrid." Why a mere football club's training ground bears such a name becomes obvious the moment you see it.

Because it is the size of a city.

"Whoa..."

"...It's freaking huge."

Even if I wasn't quite as unrestrained as the two beside me gawking and gasping, I too was inwardly awed by the sheer scale of the place.

Total area of roughly 1.2 million square meters, if I recalled correctly.

The Cheonan national team training ground that had hosted the showcase was just under 500,000 square meters, so this was something like two and a half times larger. The name "city" was hardly wasted on it.

Best of all, the facilities were superb.

Natural grass and artificial turf pitches were divided between the senior and youth teams, and beyond that there were training facilities, medical centers, gyms, and a whole range of amenities.

There was even a stadium for the reserve team's home matches inside the complex. No wonder Toni, self-appointed tour guide, had been puffing up his shoulders.

"Alright, this here is the dormitory. The reserve players use it from time to time, but it's mainly for the youth players."

Having arrived at Real Madrid's training ground, we were being led around the complex under Toni's guidance.

He introduced the dormitory building — clean and sleek in the same style as the rest of the facilities — and explained that this would soon be where we lived.

I liked that the rooms were fairly spacious. I did not like that they were doubles.

Sleeping next to other guys? My orphanage days had been plenty of that, thank you.

So I asked why the rooms were doubles, and Toni answered that it was simply club policy with regard to youth development at the moment.

"I don't know all the details myself, but from what I hear, it's to increase communication between the young players. Living in the same space means more conversation, and more conversation, they figure, means better performances on the pitch."

"Stuff a bunch of teenage boys into cramped rooms and all you'll get is stress."

"I agree with you to an extent, but... what can you do? The higher-ups have decided."

Unable to convert the doubles into singles, he offered me an alternative instead.

"Or, you don't necessarily have to use the dormitory. I can't speak for the other two, but in your case, you have a house here in Madrid, don't you?"

"...That's true."

"Players whose homes are close to the training ground generally don't use the dorms at all. There's no need. Most of the ones staying here came from other regions."

Toni's suggestion was eminently reasonable — and I wanted none of it. Incurring one more debt to my blood-related father was the last thing I wanted.

Because the state had granted him legal custody, he was now, in law as well as blood, my father — but that had only come to pass through a miracle of converging interests between the two of us.

I needed a Spanish visa for the contract, and he wanted to be a father he could hold his head up about in front of his remarried wife and her children.

That was all. I did not need a father to become my guardian. I needed even less an adult who would one day hold up my success as evidence of his own.

So what we had now was plenty.

"I'm fine. I'll just take the double room. How are the rooms assigned?"

"One room will go to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Park and Kim. You'll be sharing with one of the players already here."

"Got it."

"What, aren't you curious why the assignment works out that way?"

"Those two and I are in different situations to begin with."

I was a fully contracted player, whereas the other two were, at the end of the day, exchange students who would return to Korea in a year.

More than anything, I was the only one who could actually hold a proper conversation in Spanish — so if they were going to put a Korean in a room with a Spanish player, I was the only option left.

Simple process of elimination.

"So, who's my roommate?"

"Hmm, why don't we go meet him right now, since we're here? His room is right next door."

After telling the other two players to wait in their room for a moment, Toni led me next door.

"Nico! Could you open the door?"

The knock and Toni's call had barely echoed down the dormitory corridor before the door swung open, revealing a slightly sun-tanned boy named Nicolás.

"Hola! Long time no see, Toni. And who's this next to you?"

"He's joining the team. Kang Do In. If the name's hard to pronounce, feel free to call him Doni."

"Ah! Now that you mention it, the coach told me about that. He said some incredible kid was coming from Korea. Is this him?"

"It is. And from now on, you two will be sharing a room."

"That's good news to hear."

Nicolás Becker broke into a warm, friendly smile and offered me his hand.

"Nice to meet you, amigo! I'm Nicolás Becker — just call me Nico."

I already knew his name was Nicolás Becker. I also knew that most people called him Nico.

He was a fine midfielder — the commander who would one day lead the midfields of Real Madrid and Spain.

And he was also the guy notorious for being a racist with a filthier temper to match.

I knew firsthand. I'd faced him as an opponent.

At twenty-eight — that would have been when Spain and I met in the World Cup round of sixteen.

I had shaken my hips in his homeland's direction as a goal celebration, sneered that the ones he'd bought weren't the referees but the Spanish players, and jabbed at how a man whose skin was clearly African was somehow playing for Spain's national team.

He and I waged a war of nerves through the entire match, hurling insults and trampling each other's dignity — during the game, and long after the final whistle.

A long and bitter feud, indeed.

Of course, it was now a memory that belonged to me alone — one no one else would ever recall.

Which is why I grasped Nicolás's outstretched hand firmly and shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Nico. Let's get along well from here on."

Truly — you never know which way life will turn.