Ruben Junior (2)
First things first, I made it clear that I was not to be addressed with honorifics. I go around speaking casually to coaches old enough to be my father, yet receiving polite speech from a little kid would be nothing short of absurd.
"Si—"
"Kim! Kim! How do you score goals like that?"
"Dribbling! Show us dribbling too!"
Unfortunately, my conversation with Kilian was quickly buried under the barrage of questions from the other children.
It would have been fine to spend some time asking each other questions, but after what happened earlier today, I figured it was best for now to play along with the spirit of the youth event.
Making eye contact with the kid tugging at my collar, I started answering the questions in order.
For goals, shoot where the keeper can't reach. For dribbling, read your opponent's movement and break past them—simple explanations, really.
"But how do you do that?"
"The key is watching the movement of the upper and lower body closely. In my case, I mostly focus on the muscles and joints and—"
The crowd of small round eyes lost interest in a heartbeat. It was abundantly clear that teaching people was not my forte.
Right on cue, before I could even finish my sentence, a fresh pile of questions came pouring in.
The attention span of a young child, truly.
"How did you feel when you lost the final?"
"Are you going to win next year?"
"My dad told me to ask if you're not going to transfer to another team."
"Hmm..."
Every kind of question imaginable came out.
Nicolás and Pedri's groups were so busy minding the cameras and film crew that the kids didn't seem to manage even the simplest questions with them.
Apparently, I alone had drawn the eccentric ones.
My conversation with Kilian resumed during break time, when the children scattered back to their parents' arms.
Thump!
Kilian—little Castro, in other words—walked over to a corner of the training ground's grass and plopped straight down on his rear.
I wondered how anyone could sit so close upon a first meeting, but considering big Castro's personality, it was easy enough to accept.
An extroverted nature doesn't just go anywhere.
"...Where's your dad?"
"At home, playing with my little sister."
"So you came with your mom?"
"Yeah."
When the short exchange fell silent, I stole a sideways glance at the tiny tyke beside me.
Even accounting for the bent-up knees, he was less than half my size.
Apart from minor differences—the eyes, the plump cheeks (and crucially, no tattoo on his forearm)—every inch of his little body was a miniature of Castro.
What topic should I bring up?
...Hmm, I honestly couldn't decide.
Leaning against the sea breeze that curled through my hair, I tried my best to ignore the awkward, burdensome feeling.
If he had something to say, he'd say it himself.
Right on cue, a brusque voice flew in from beside me. There was a sulky edge to it, but the pronunciation shaped by that short little tongue was adorably soft.
"You've been learning soccer from Dad, right?"
"That's right."
"Until when?"
"..."
"I have to be in bed by nine every night, but since Dad comes home late, my playtime's gotten shorter."
"Sorry."
At my sincere apology, his cheeks puffed out even rounder. He had seen right through the subtext: there was nothing either of us could do about it for a while.
It takes a considerable amount of time to build theory onto the body. What could I do?
All I could offer was a heartfelt expression of regret.
"You know what? Dad... talks about you all the time. Nothing but your name, every single day."
"Really?"
"Yeah. If I don't eat my vegetables, he says Kim would've forced them all down anyway. He asks me if I know why Kim is so good at soccer, and says I need to eat properly too if I want to be good."
The sulky face lasted only a moment before Kilian laid his feelings bare. That pouting tone had apparently been all about his disappointment in his father.
I let out a small sigh and fell into deliberation over how to console him. Fortunately, the little tyke was the forgiving sort.
After all, someone with a particular talent for comparing himself to others and putting himself down had been stuck to one side of my life this whole time.
And Castro hadn't done it on purpose, either, so little Castro's troubles became the kind of story I could empathize with to the point of almost laughing out loud (that's what I mean to say).
Of course, I intended to comfort him properly.
If necessary... I'd even throw in a few white lies.
"I run hard all the time, but I'm not actually that good at carrying the ball. And it's not like that's because I don't eat my bell peppers."
"I don't think he meant to emphasize what you can't do. He was probably just telling you how to get better. A healthy body is essential if you want to be good at soccer."
"...But do you really force yourself to eat? Isn't it hard?"
I could feel those round eyes watching the side of my face.
"It's hard. But at the same time, I know it's something I have to endure and push through... something important to me."
"How do you force yourself to eat it?"
After checking where Nicolás and Pedri were positioned, I spouted complete nonsense. I had to meet Kilian at his eye level, which meant accepting the embarrassment that came with it.
"Well, for me, I think about my dad. I'm short, but my dad is even shorter than me. If I don't choke down my food, I won't have the strength to protect him when he gets weak. Something like that?"
"..."
"Of course, my stomach is screaming at me to stop shoveling food in."
"Hee hee."
To the little one who finally cracked a smile, I added another white lie to the pile. It was right around the time they were handing out souvenirs and drinks at the edge of the field.
"Don't worry too much about it. When Castro's with me, he talks about nothing but you."
"Really?"
"Of course. My son runs twice as hard as you and puts in great passes too, he says. Unlike me, he's incredibly sweet, well-behaved, and knows how to flash a handsome smile. I've heard it so many times my ears are bleeding."
"That's right, I'm sweet."
"You certainly look it."
Kilian curled the corners of his mouth up, leading the white lie—at least in part—into the realm of truth. It was a beautiful smile, spread across his slender little face.
"More?"
"...More?"
"Yeah. Got any more stories?"
"..."
I had no material on hand to make up for a lack of imagination.
...You'd have to have heard them in the first place to know.
The little tyke caught my momentary hesitation with uncanny precision, tilting his chin slightly and putting on a sly expression.
It was so uncannily like the face Castro makes when he's pressing me that goosebumps shot up my arms for a second.
"Kilian!"
A perfectly timed voice turned both little Castro's head and mine toward the far end of the training ground. A woman in a white dress was approaching, carrying food.
Kilian's bottom lifted off the grass, and I rose slowly to my feet in step with him.
A clear smile hung on her lips, but her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, making it hard to make out her exact expression or features.
Distinguishing features? Wavy brown hair and slightly prominent cheekbones, maybe.
"Mom was on the phone, that's why I'm late. What were you two doing?"
"I was talking with Kim!"
"Will you introduce him to me too?"
"Yeah. Kim, this is my mom."
Just as I raised my right hand for a light greeting, the woman, who had stepped in close enough to touch, suddenly went for the cheek kiss.
After a light, awkward brush of contact on both cheeks (as you might have guessed, I am not fond of the cheek kiss),
"Nice to meet you. I'm María Hernández. Just María is fine."
"My name is... Kim Gyeong-heon. You can call me Kim."
"Right. Maybe because Ruben talks about you so much, I feel like I've seen you before somehow. Oh, hold on. Sorry, just one more call."
Even to my casual eye, María looked extremely busy.
The clothes, the fabric, the event, this and that and so on.
Kilian, apparently used to his mother like this, turned to me with ease.
"Wanna come over and play at our house?"
"No."
"..."
"...I'll think about it."
It wasn't so much that I disliked the little tyke's offer... it was just that it seemed only right to ask both sides first—a busy mom and a mischievous dad—before answering.
Even as his cheeks puffed up right in front of me, my answer didn't change.
This is what the Orient calls courtesy, kid.
Accept it.
Late afternoon, at the training ground.
I moved past a row of cones lined up on the grass. Before reaching the final cone, I had to react to irregular pass demands coming from either side.
According to Castro's teachings, using the inside of the foot instead of the instep was especially crucial.
Whoosh—
Just as I was using my right instep to keep my dribbling speed up, Pedri's hand went up from the left flank.
Struggling to suppress my habit of sticking out the instep, I put my weight into the inside of my foot and pushed the ball firmly away.
Rolling and rolling, the ball skimmed past its intended destination by more than two and a half steps.
Damn it.
I didn't like the wayward trajectory of my passes.
They'd been dead-on at first, but the more I repeated the drill, the more it felt like the cracks at the bottom were slowly being exposed.
"Let's take a quick break!"
At Castro's shout from the right flank, Pedri strolled leisurely toward the center of the training ground.
With that smile curling the corners of his mouth, he was clearly coming over to mock me.
"So this whole time, you've been passing purely on feel."
"..."
"To think you were human after all."
I had nothing to say.
The Chihuahua was simply stating facts, and he was also the one who'd readily agreed to the extra training (an added session after regular recovery training, which everyone else had found a burden), so I was short on ammunition for a comeback anyway.
"Haha. Don't make that serious face—just keep at it, nice and steady. Shooting and passing are a lot more different than you'd think."
"Yeah."
"Well, if all else fails, you could always just quietly receive my passes."
"..."
Pedri's ego just keeps soaring, heaven help it all.
If I could turn back time, I'd stop myself before I stepped out of my dad's house this morning. The day's luck was truly something else, so I'd tell myself to armor up my feelings before heading out.
Somehow, the equal-aged boy in front of me was more irritating than the scolding I'd gotten from Coach Ríos after word of the morning spread, or the incredulous look from skills coach Momo.
That's right, you're just so talented. Congratulations.
"Stop teasing him. He's doing pretty well, all things considered."
Castro, who'd just wrapped up a brief phone call, came over and began rattling off contradictory statements one after another.
He'd spent the whole training session teasing me—asking whether I'd smeared honey on my instep, or burned the inside of my foot—but it seemed I wasn't the only one who'd sensed something odd. The wicked Chihuahua immediately raised an objection to Castro.
"You said he was a mess just now?"
"You have to be strict during training."
"...You mean strictly teasing?"
"Kim started proper training less than five years ago. Right?"
"..."
It was because Pedri muttered something vicious under his breath.
"..."
"Right. You came up through youth soccer from age eight, so the gap is roughly double. Just wait and see. Passing will improve quickly enough, heh heh."
The pair certainly had a knack for drumming up a lively tune between them. But quick improvement—shouldn't my opinion count for something too?
Improve I would, sure. Just not quickly.
"Hey, little tyke, give us a moment for a private conversation, will you?"
The Chihuahua's grumbling—monster, con artist, insufferable bastard—was converted into muttered soliloquy by a wave of Castro's hand.
In the screen of the phone Castro slid smoothly in front of me, I could see the two little kids sitting cross-legged on the training ground, deep in conversation.
God, I really... am disgustingly small.
"María... ahem, my wife posted this video on social media."
"Yeah. She asked if it was okay."
"Exactly. But just now, my son asked me to buy bell peppers on my way home. This is an impossibility. Ergo, you must have said something absolutely earth-shattering in this video. You understand what I'm getting at, don't you?"
"..."
"María was apparently so seriously shaken that she's ordering me to invite you to our house right away. But before that, I need to know what on earth happened. As a father, this is a grave development I cannot overlook."
I didn't want to look at him with pity, but it happened on its own. If even I could see it plain as day, Castro surely must have noticed it too.
And yet, swept up in curiosity, he seemed entirely indifferent to my expression.
"Come on, don't play hard to get. Just tell me once. How did you do it?"
"..."
"If I experience it now, I can pass it on to you later, no? Kim... Kyeong-heon-ah."
Knowing that it isn't only children who grow—parents grow too—I did feel the urge to point out the problem for his sake.
But if he called me like that one more time, I had no intention of opening my mouth at all.