Chapter 3
Chapter 3
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: Lucky Summer
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On the dining table lay local papers like Canarias alongside sports newspapers. It was a photo of me clenching my fist after scoring the goal. Dad must have gotten up at dawn to collect them all.
“New Canary Takes Flight”
“aparición de los cometas (Rise of a New Star)”
“Bright Start”
And so on. I hadn’t even secured a regular spot on the first team yet, but the papers were buzzing like they’d unearthed a new starting striker. Castro was out for two weeks with a ligament strain.
Pecart and Castro, the two pillars of the attack line, were both sidelined, but that didn’t make the starting lineup competition any easier. For the next match, the Colombian Juan Narváez would probably start.
Beating out a 24-year-old striker on loan from Real Betis for a starting spot was an impossible demand.
Right after the game ended, the bruises from clashing with the opposing defenders throbbed. My body was a wreck after barely thirty minutes on the pitch.
Just build up your physique, right?
I couldn’t increase my training volume without clearance from the fitness coach. Las Palmas was a professional club in La Liga 2, and Primera División was one of the top leagues in the world. Naturally, they restricted workloads for young players even more.
Unauthorized extra training without reporting it was a straight path to disciplinary action. I didn’t know about other clubs, but that’s how it was at Las Palmas.
I massaged my stiff legs and grabbed a banana from the wooden basket on the table. I should’ve gone for a jog to loosen up before the sun rose, but today that was off the table.
The Canary Islands’ summer felt like Africa’s, probably because they were right next to Morocco. Average temps hit 28 degrees with 60 percent humidity.
Jogging at dawn or night was the only smart option—anything else was just abusing your body like an idiot.
“Kyung-hun, you ready?”
“Yeah.”
I grabbed another banana, picked up my bag, and headed to the front door. To get to the local high school I attended, I needed a ride.
Leaving our beachside home and heading into the city brought us to the school next to the Estadio Gran Canaria. CEIP 7 Palmas. It sounded more like a company name, but it was quiet and perfect for just getting by.
Truth be told, I wasn’t sitting in on regular classes with the local students. It was more like language school.
During the enrollment meeting, the 7 Palmas staff said it was popular with middle-class local kids. The strict, rigid atmosphere suited me perfectly since I didn’t talk much.
We passed through crowds of tourists pouring out in the morning and entered the quieter inner city, where the beige school and dorm buildings came into view.
Dad hummed some old tune I couldn’t place, whistling through his nose. He looked in high spirits.
That put me in a good mood too. It felt like I’d finally done my part for once. Like I’d shed one layer of the helplessness from my parents’ divorce.
“Be careful, and good luck today.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
Thanks to the school running dorms, the main gate was always empty.
When we first arrived on Gran Canaria, the club had asked the school to let me commute from home instead of staying in the dorms, citing eligibility rules.
So, I was the only student commuting to this school.
I said goodbye to Dad, then greeted the security guard I always saw. He spotted me, broke into a wide grin, and rushed out from the guard booth.
“Canarias de Corea!”
“Yes?”
“I saw the football match yesterday.”
Hmm, Canary from Korea. What a terrible nickname. He handed me a pen and paper with his wrinkled hands, asking for an autograph. I wrote my name in Korean and gave it back—he lit up.
I checked my schedule, grabbed books from my locker, and headed to the classroom. My speaking skills were awful, but to understand the coach’s tactics, I needed to sharpen my listening even more.
Geography class dragged on with the teacher lecturing about regional premium wines. It’d end with the usual line about Canary Islands wine being the best. Same old routine.
In the cafeteria, students chowed down on mystery dishes with sausage and octopus. For dietary management, I stuck to the protein shake, bread, salad, and banana I’d brought from home.
After eating, I skipped afternoon classes and walked to the training ground.
The streets in the afternoon were deserted. Spain’s siesta culture meant the roads to the training ground were always empty.
The beaches crawled with tourists, but near the stadium, it was all locals from Gran Canaria.
I entered the training facilities and changed. I didn’t know when I’d get sent back down, but for now, I was on the first-team training roster.
As I changed, Ramírez Benito walked into the locker room.
We exchanged a quick nod, and I headed out first to warm up. With the game just yesterday, the afternoon session was recovery training.
After two days of rest, my body felt markedly better.
On Wednesday’s team tactics meeting, the analyst warned the players it’d be a tough one. We had an away game at Málaga on Saturday.
“Málaga, under coach Sánchez, bases their 4-2-3-1 on possession play.”
The analyst bantered back and forth with the players nonstop.
I caught half of it, glazing over the rest like I understood. Stuff about Adrián’s shooting angles and Santos Renata’s dribbling habits.
“Coach is going with a tailored 4-1-4-1. Defensive midfielder in front of the back four, and the wide mids need to join the central battles. Take control in midfield and cut off Málaga’s attack line from Santos to Adrián.”
The projector flipped to the next slide.
“Make their mediapunta suffocate. That’s the key to this game—how well we smash their midfield. Nothing else.”
Unfortunately, we failed to execute.
* * *
2019. 8. 25.
La Rosaleda, Málaga’s home ground.
We were getting battered nonstop. Was the early season supposed to be this brutal?
Flying down to southern Spain might’ve messed with the squad’s conditioning—that could be the culprit. Everyone felt heavy.
We even threw in central midfielder Iñigo as right winger, but we were still losing the midfield battle.
“Drop back!”
Losing control in the middle, the defenders dropped their line on signal from center-back Aitami.
Two years ago, they couldn’t even pay player wages properly, but Málaga’s guys on the pitch were flying today.
“Damn it!”
“So close! Let’s go again!”
We’d already had three shots from around the penalty area.
Possession? Best case 6:4, more like 7:3. The coaches on the bench huddled constantly, but no clear fix.
We had to rely on Pedri’s genius.
Málaga’s central striker Adrián took a forward pass and got the better of center-back Aitami in a duel, shaping for a shot in the box.
“Oh no—!”
Martínez’s fingertips diverted it wide of the right post.
The 21-year-old keeper flung his arms at the defense that let the chance happen, venting. Fiery guy. I’d have just quietly set up for the corner.
Next corner, a Málaga blue jersey popped up in the box. Number unclear.
Martínez punched the header heading left post out for another corner.
“Shit!”
“Fucking hell!”
Before the Málaga fans’ groans faded, Mantovani booted it long toward their half.
Looked like a clearance, but every boot was tactical. The diagonal looper dropped right by Pedri, waiting at the spot.
Pedri cushioned it softly, creating space from the pressing midfielder. His eyes flicked to the opposite flank.
“Pedri!”
Colombian striker Juan Narváez surged past the halfway line.
It evaded Málaga’s wing-back and center-back, curling with backspin into space in front of Juan. Pedri’s pass made five defenders look foolish.
Like he was showing why he belonged at Barcelona—pure showcase.
Cheers and gasps erupted from our bench.
Juan took a long first touch, using that South American spring to shake off the chasing defender halfway. Prime one-on-one chance.
“It’s coming!”
“Juan!!”
In the stadium’s hush, a few Las Palmas away fans roared.
Perfect finish through the keeper’s legs. Even with the game not going our way, individual brilliance gave us the opener.
* * *
The first half ended without conceding.
Back in the locker room, the coach announced tactical tweaks. Amid it, Pedri sulked after getting chewed out for a late yellow—coach’s warning.
Second half was end-to-end.
I was warming up on the sideline and didn’t see it all clearly, but we were holding off Málaga’s attacks by a whisker.
Aitami and Mantovani defending without cards was encouraging—the coach’s shouts and claps reached me even over there.
But at the 80th minute, disaster from the right penalty line. Wing-back Curbelo Dellafe’s tackle—ref whistled without hesitation. Penalty.
The home crowd’s roar shook the earth.
Pepe the coach’s face flushed red protesting, but no reversal. VAR refs confirmed the foul.
Adrián rolled the ball into the spot, stroking his goatee.
“Yeaaah!”
“Uwaaaah!”
It tricked Martínez—net rippled left side. Equalizer.
No idea what he was thinking, but with under ten minutes left, Pepe called me on again. Same as last week.
No tactical instructions emphasized.
Felt random, like I was being tested as some lucky charm to snatch victory.
Subbing in two games straight.
Weird vibe, but I approached the linesman to prepare. Central mid Remos, gassed since the first half, made way for Javi Castellano.
Couldn’t recall his age exactly, but Javi Castellano was old.
From a week training with the first team, I pegged him as the scary disciplinarian. But subbing on with me, he urged me to run free.
Never talked to him, but seemed like a good guy.
Of course, me coming on didn’t spark miracles.
Difference from last week: This was La Rosaleda, Málaga’s fortress. They dominated, shaking Las Palmas relentlessly.
Sipú to Santos, Santos linking with Adrián drifting wide for a 2-1 and cross.
Málaga’s attack was stunningly slick.
Santos spotted our left wing-back De la Bella off-balance and fed a ground pass to Juani front of goal.
Juani unleashed without pause, aiming for the winner.
“Yes!!”
“Marti, great! Nice one!”
Bouncing into the left net, Martínez somehow clawed it away. Aitami and Mantovani slapped his head in wild praise.
Glad that wasn’t me.
Málaga didn’t sulk. Acted like another was imminent—and it probably was.
Next corner cleared off the line by De la Bella’s header.
Sub Javi Castellano battled a Málaga mid for the loose ball front of box. Elbows and hips in grim dialogue.
If that’d been me, I’d have three new bruises minimum.
Javi won it and pinged it to the usual spot. Pedri waiting.
Pedri didn’t trap—instead, cushioned it with his foot, redirecting aerial direct to the front.
It sailed over defenders’ heads.
I sprinted onto the space the pass spotted, dropping it right at my feet. Halfway line plus ten steps—nobody in front.
Pure awe at Pedri’s talent welled up inside.
Sure, Málaga’s greed for more goals left the half empty. But the pass quality was undeniable.
This summer felt weirdly lucky.
“Oooh—!”
I charged toward Málaga’s goal near the box. Their fans’ jeers cracked me up. They’d cry or laugh at my finish.
A lofted chip—the keeper rushed out, pawing at thin air. The ball sailed just out of reach.
Trajectory looked solid.