Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Las Palmas
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Heat rises from the grass at the Pepe González training ground on Gran Canaria. The summer sun drains the moisture from the players' bodies. My mouth tastes like acetone, but the sensation of burning through my lifespan doesn't feel all that bad.
Just past the center line.
The ball rolls to a spot about two steps away from my right foot. The midfielder's pass was sloppy. I wonder if he's off his game. His name was Pedro, right?
"Kim!"
Players surge forward calling for the ball. A gap opens between the opponent's defender and midfielder. I trap the ball with the inside of my right foot and turn to face the goal head-on.
The small touches flow smoothly. The coaches would have been pleased.
There's still some distance to the goal, so to connect a shot, I need to push it out once more. I strike the ball long and chase after it.
It's an ambiguous distance—even if the opponent reacts immediately, the first touch is mine.
The opponent's midfielder, who had been shielding the line in front of the defenders, checks the ball's position and hesitates before charging out for a man-mark.
The trap works.
I've played with Kirian Rodríguez before on Las Palmas B. The goatee stands out on his face, and I can predict how far he'll close the space.
Using the inside of my foot, I abruptly change the ball's direction.
The opponent's tackle slices through empty air. I throw my shoulder in from the left for a shoulder barge, and the path ahead opens without much resistance. Kirian Rodríguez pays the price for his hasty challenge, losing his balance.
With the midfielder's marking broken, I can see the panic on the faces of the distant last defenders.
My teammate striker is on the offside line, and the midfielder has drifted wide, so there's no point in passing. Shooting is the only option left.
Both the left and right sides of the goal offer good angles.
The space is so wide open that there's no need to rush. The more crucial the moment, the calmer you have to be. Keeping my composure, I shape my ingrained shooting form.
The ball flies toward the top left corner of the goal.
The defenders stretch their legs toward the shot's trajectory a beat too late. It was always too late. They shouldn't have conceded the shooting space in the first place.
The keeper can't even dive and lets in the goal. Seeing all that training pay off with a goal feels pretty good. Nice.
"All right!!"
"Kim, you're in great shape today?"
"It's only a matter of time before you make the first team. You get better every time I see you."
Players swarm around, patting my head and tossing out comments. I don't reply. I don't like them touching me. We're not close, but people here cross lines so easily.
On top of that, the ones talking to me are the real first-team players without vests. It annoys me when they talk like they're watching a kid show off.
The scrimmage ends 2:3, a first-team win.
My teammate striker and I weren't clicking as usual, and the wingers were rivals from the start, so I hadn't expected to win anyway.
I have to settle for moderate satisfaction knowing both the top-left and bottom-right goals were my handiwork.
This was the best the second team could produce.
After the game, as players began their cool-downs, first assistant coach Laios called me over amid the group.
"Kim, Pecart's out injured for next week's opener. You're on the home opener roster against Huesca. Get ready ahead of time."
"...Got it."
Even hearing I'd make my first first-team squad didn't excite me. It's only been a year since I came to Spain, and in the second team, I'm a mess.
My stats on paper aren't bad, but on the pitch, I'm constantly bickering.
The coaches shake their heads every time, saying they can't give me good reviews with that attitude. They warn I might never make the first team and tell me to make an effort to bond with teammates.
That's an impossible demand.
I came here to play soccer, not to build friendships with people who dislike me. So I do things my way, only what I can do.
I won't comment further on my reputation among the coaches.
So now, putting me on the first-team bench probably means my reserve competitor is just that pathetic.
I shower and pack my bag.
Training ends at 4 p.m., so I need to set up the rice cooker before Dad gets home. On the jog home, red light spreads like paint through the cobblestone paths.
I have no special attachment to UD Las Palmas, but I have to admit the Canary Islands sunsets are something else.
The quirky residence between yellow-painted apartments and houses is where I live. No elevator, which is good exercise.
"Buenas tardes."
I silently raise a hand in return to the lady with the short red hair beaming a smile. I want to ignore her and pass by, but for some reason, I can't with her.
At home, I vacuum the dusty balcony, then prep dinner. Grandma's kimchi, barely cleared through Spanish airport quarantine, awaits Dad.
"Dad's home."
Dad brought more weird fruit. I should have told him not to from the start, but he must think I like it since I eat it. Dad's gruff but oddly sensitive in strange ways.
We don't talk much, so I pull side dishes from the fridge like always. Since the divorce, there's this awkward vibe between us that's hard to pin down.
Fatigue emanates from Dad's back as he checks the rice cooker. On days he brings fruit or ice cream, the house mood sinks too.
On this distant island far from Korea, Dad—who came here on faith in an agent's word—sometimes seems precarious.
Just how it is.
I eat the club-provided meals; Dad eats the banchan from Grandma. An unremarkable evening, routine in the Canary Islands.
I open my eyes to darkness outside. I turn off the alarm and warm up. Sunday, August 18, 2019. Even if it's the bench, it's the start of my pro career.
After a light jog, I try to sound casual telling Dad. My voice trembles a bit. When the coach first told me, I thought I was fine, but I'm pathetic. Definitely not top-shelf talent.
"Dad, I'll eat breakfast separately today."
"Why?"
"Got a match today."
"What match?"
"Playing Huesca, they said I'm on the bench."
Dad, making porridge from Korean scorched rice packs, freezes like he'd been hit with a hammer on the back of the head. His excited tone is like when I scored in a scrimmage.
"La Liga? First-team action?"
"Yeah, but just the bench..."
"Should've told me sooner—I could've gone!"
"It's just the bench. Come later ones."
"No, I need to skip once and see. I can go. I have to."
It's been three months since I last saw Dad smile. He's jumping for joy over bench duty. His subtle excitement leaves a pleasant tension in my chest. I want to play.
* * *
Estadio Gran Canaria.
Tourists occupy most of the island, so crowds don't usually fill the 30,000 seats, but today, the La Liga opener draws a packed house worthy of the name.
Being closer to African Morocco than Spain gives our team its biggest edge. Huesca's players, who flew 2.5 hours, won't show it, but they're not at peak.
I help warm up the starters, then head to the bench as kickoff nears. Next to kids holding La Liga signs, players exchange handshakes. Las Palmas and Huesca players take positions amid the full crowd's roar.
The ref's whistle blows, and Las Palmas striker Castro kicks off.
The crowd sighs as Pedro's long ball sails past Castro out for a throw, then chants "Pedri—" in lead.
Right, Pedri, not Pedro. Despite the failed attack, fans applaud generously. Fair enough for Pedri.
I mixed up the name, but no Las Palmas B prospect is unaware of Pedri's success story. He was Barcelona's pick this summer.
A 16-year-old prodigy.
Back on loan to Las Palmas, Pedri—whom coaches nagged about endlessly—is set to continue the lineage from Manchester City's David Silva.
If I seize my chance someday, could I reach that level? Same '02 birth year, so maybe close.
My overly optimistic vision of the future might have jinxed it—the game, starting even, turns one-sided against us.
Pedri's great, but he can't flip the whole flow alone. Like last year, we're not a Segunda División-dominating side.
It feels like Atletico Madrid players in our kits—the gap is that stark. Cheers turn to grimaces in the stands.
Huesca's No. 21 lofts a diagonal through ball into the box; it grazes central defender Itami's leg by inches.
The infiltrating Huesca striker's first touch is clumsy, but not a miss. The ball slips past the keeper into the left side of the one-on-one. Goal.
Las Palmas players look rattled. Last week's scrimmage poise is gone.
Huesca's attacks keep coming sharp post-goal.
By the 20th minute, bench murmurs say one goal is lucky. Despite my poor Spanish, fans' curses reach me. Mood sours.
"Damn it, how many times are they gonna break through!!"
Like a curse, a bench swear is followed by another goal—a headed redirect off a cross into the right post.
Las Palmas defense collapses fully with the second.
Reviewing our training—high line flowing to midfield press—there's no first-half comeback.
Huesca's midfield toys with the gaps from our dropped center backs, exchanging organic passes endlessly.
It looks like a La Liga highlight on Spanish public TV.