Harvest Day
Wednesday, April 29, 2020. The eve of Matchday 39.
Uncle Bari hadn’t uttered a single syllable about my botched attempt to slip away and jog to the training ground. To an onlooker, he might have seemed remarkably forgiving, but in truth, he simply knew precisely what kind of treatment weighed on my conscience the most. I despised having my mistakes brushed under the rug. Even more than that, I refused to become the sort of irresponsible, shameless jerk who couldn’t acknowledge his own faults. I would have far preferred a scathing tongue-lashing and a proper corner to reflect in.
“…Are you seriously not going to buy a new one?”
“My car is perfectly fine.”
“The roof flew off.”
“…It’ll be fine once it’s fixed.”
In that regard, Uncle Bari’s decision to rent a replacement vehicle was an exceptionally effective brand of vengeance. It left my chest knotting up with stifling guilt.
Whir—
The white electric car banked into the alley before our apartment building in a smooth, near-silent arc. With what it cost to lease this thing for weeks on end, he could have just bought a decent ride outright.
“Then why don’t you just buy the one we’re sitting in right now?”
“This thing costs an arm and a leg.”
“Renting it isn't any cheaper.”
“Kyung-heon, how many times do I have to tell you? Unless you’re buying me a sports car, stop filling my head with wild ideas.”
From navigating the one-way streets to securing a parking spot in a neighboring alley, all the way up the stairwell toward Dad’s apartment, our debate over buying a car showed no signs of abating. I laid out practical, sensible options I’d researched on my computer, while Uncle Bari batted them aside with derisive snorts and sarcastic quips. Whether it was me draped in well-intentioned persistence or him disguised in modest refusal, neither of us lacked obstinacy. And naturally, neither had the slightest intention of backing down.
“Dad said even if you repair it, it won’t last more than a few months anyway.”
“Rich words coming from a man who dragged a beat-up clunker through Korea for fifteen years.”
“…You just admitted it’s a clunker yourself, didn't you?”
“It’s only a clunker when it belongs to someone else. When it’s mine, you stick ‘cherished’ in front of it.”
“¡Hola~!”
We ran into the woman from across the hall near the fourth-floor landing.
During childish exchanges like this, our mother tongue proved to be an invaluable shield. Petty, embarrassing squabbles that would make anyone cringe could be safely tucked beneath the royal robes of King Sejong.
“Good evening!”
Isidora—or Dora for short—who had gone out of her way to ferry me all the way to the training ground parking lot that morning, dispersed the awkward atmosphere with a radiant smile. Uncle Bari extended his hand with a placid, unflappable expression, as though we hadn't just been barking at each other seconds earlier.
“¡Sí! I was wondering when I’d get the chance to thank you properly. It seems luck is on my side.”
“Afternoons are usually when I catch up on sleep after my shift… but I did see the note you left. You have lovely handwriting, you know.”
Wink. Caught completely off guard by Dora’s playful wink, my chin dipped reflexively and my eyes locked onto the bare wall.
“Haha, is that so?”
“Yes. But shouldn’t Kim head inside and rest? He’s got an important match tomorrow, after all.”
“Right. Kyung-heon, go on in and wash up,” Uncle Bari said in Korean, a firm palm planted against my shoulder blades.
The question of whether he was coming inside too died in my throat as his hand propelled me forward. Then again, I had zero desire to linger around for a neighborly chat anyway. Offering a hasty wave of my hand, I slipped across the threshold and into the apartment.
“If it were up to me, I’d gift you tickets to tomorrow’s game, but I wouldn’t want to disrupt your afternoon rest.”
“The club already took care of tickets for me, actually.”
“Ah, well… do you have a sweet tooth? Being Canadian, I happen to have some decent maple syrup on hand. It’s pretty much the only thing Canada has to boast about, haha.”
Click—
The front door latched shut, reducing the voices in the corridor to muffled murmurs. In that fleeting instant, an odd, inexplicable sensation pulled my head into a sharp tilt. A man who proudly labeled himself a recluse in every facet of life outside of his agency work was offering up maple syrup sent directly by his own mother as a gift?
Even as I kicked off my shoes and turned the thought over in my mind, the strange prickle of unease refused to fade. Did Uncle Bari… fancy the lady next door?
A dry scoff escaped my lips. This was a man who regularly traded precarious banter about remarriage over dinner with my dad. How could someone like him fall for a neighbor he’d met all of twice? Absolutely impossible. …Then what was this bizarre feeling?
“You’re home?”
“…Yes, I'm back.”
“What’s with that look on your face?”
In accordance with Mendel’s laws of inheritance, Dad picked up on my strange mood with terrifying precision.
“Well, it’s just…”
“Did some weird stranger follow you up the stairs?”
“No. It’s nothing.”
Was it bugging me that he hadn’t warned her about the slightly bitter aftertaste unique to authentic maple syrup? …No, that made zero sense either. Hmm.
“What’s gotten into you? Go wash up and come eat. Where’s Bari?”
“He’s talking to the neighbor outside.”
“Is he? I already thanked her yesterday, but… hmm.”
“…”
“…”
Even without a mirror, I had a pretty good idea of what my face looked like. Where the socially inept son showed naked bafflement, the socially stunted father simply let out a mischievous snicker—that was the only real distinction between us. Dad looked like he wanted nothing more than to tease Uncle Bari half to death.
Thursday evening, April 30, 2020. Estadio de Gran Canaria.
“¡ALÉ, ALÉ, ALÓ~!”
“¡ALÉ, ALÉ, ALÓ~!”
With colossal banners fluttering behind the goals, the simple, rhythmic chants amplified the stadium’s deafening roar. Several supporters broke out into spontaneous dances, stoking the festive delirium. They were all holding their breath for the moment our promotion would be sealed. The atmosphere was distinctly unhinged compared to ordinary matchdays, as if everyone had loosened a screw in their heads. In my mind, the easier a match looked on paper, the sharper our focus needed to be.
Of course, I could empathize with their joy to some degree. Having Íñigo Ruiz de Galarreta back from injury and Pedri returning after missing the cup final was undeniably uplifting.
“Kim!”
Cutting through the undercurrent of tension, goalkeeping coach José Yepes called my name the moment our stretches wrapped up. It was our customary pre-match drill to calibrate shooting touch. I lined up along the edge of the box alongside Castro and Pedri. The instructions were concise: aim for the bottom left, the bottom right, and punch a few directly at the keeper’s chest. Moments later, the coach’s hand signaled toward my chest.
Thwack—!
Targeting the lower-left corner, the ball carved a laser-straight trajectory through the air and snapped the back of the net. The leg swing was fundamentally identical, so why couldn't I control my passing range with the same surgical precision as my shooting? The impact off my instep felt crisp, yet deep down, I was thoroughly unsatisfied with my own limitations.
“Yee~!”
They didn’t even seem to care whether the shot had breached the net.
Shortly after, as warm-ups neared their end near the left flank of the box, Pedri—who had been muttering conspiratorially with Castro—suddenly whipped his right boot around and drove a pass straight at me. I braced for another half-baked prank, but the ball arrived at an exquisite tempo and spacing that no real footballer could resist reacting to. Assessing the ball’s velocity and backspin, I pivoted my ankle and cushioned it dead with the inside of my boot. In my current physical condition, killing that kind of momentum was second nature.
“Yee~!!”
“…”
Watching the two of them throw their hands skyward in sync with the crowd’s roar was grating beyond words. They didn't need any fancy adjectives—they were just plain idiots.
Inside the dressing room ahead of kickoff, Pepe Mel stormed in at the head of the coaching staff, sweeping his furious gaze across the players. While it didn't instantly banish the lingering festive haze, it provided just enough bite to snap everyone back into focus. Nobody wanted to see the manager genuinely blow his top.
“Don’t get cocky. Mirandés are sitting seventh. They’re going to scrap with everything they have to claw their way into playoff contention.”
“Understood.”
“Both their flanks pack explosive dribbling ability, so our fullbacks—Ramírez and De la Bella—stay disciplined on defense. Javi, stay fluid and coordinate cover as the phases unfold.”
“¡Sí!”
Naturally, their collective shouts rang out with thunderous conviction. Right then, Pepe’s head snapped toward the corner of the room—settling on the bench beside me, where Nicolás and Pedri were perched shoulder to shoulder. His index and middle fingers jabbed straight at the duo.
“For the forward line, if things don't open up smoothly in the first half, exploit our overlapping fullbacks and stretch them from the wings. Don’t stubbornly funnel every ball through the crowded center. Though of course, the best outcome is for Nicolás and Pedri to dismantle their backline all on your own, isn't that right?”
“Got it.”
“And Kim!”
“…Yes?”
My delayed reaction drew quiet smirks from Aythami and Íñigo sitting across from me. It wasn't my fault; he rarely singled me out with specialized tactical demands before a match.
“I like you proactively connecting play the way you do in training, but never forget they’re going to come at you with sharp elbows.”
“¡Sí.”
“There is nothing more idiotic on this earth than picking up a pointless injury at the tail end of a campaign.”
Snap—!
Snapping his fingers sharply to pull all eyes back to him, the gaffer shifted straight into his closing remarks.
“Let’s write off that defeat against Rayo Vallecano. It’s in the past, and it was away from home anyway. Where’s the fun in sealing things on someone else’s pitch? A pitch invasion is an experience that belongs on our own turf.”
“Haha.”
“So think long and hard about this. You’d better stay sharp and run until your lungs burst. At the official request of the Las Palmas supporters’ federation, the stadium tunnels are being unlocked for the second half. If I were in your boots, I wouldn't want to lose this match.”
“Uh…”
“Of course, if you trust in your sprinting speed, you’re welcome to run for your lives before I throttle you with my bare hands.”
“…”
The sinister grin stretching his lips looked downright macabre, but personally, watching the players swallow hard and stiffen up was immensely satisfying. Even artificial fear was vastly superior to complacency.
“See you at halftime.”
And so the whistle blew. For forty-five minutes, Las Palmas juggled Mirandés like toys. With Íñigo back orchestrating the pitch, his passing lanes were nothing short of sublime art.