You See as Much as You Know (2)
Third minute of the first half.
The ball swung in from the left flank toward the central area landed squarely on Íñigo's right foot.
Right now, the only players who could join the attack were Pedri and me.
The left side had dropped deep into a full defensive posture to guard against Valencia's buildup, and going through Ramírez on the right wing would mean arriving too late, dragging down the rhythm of the attack.
Rather than risk a rash pass, Íñigo pushed forward with two or three touches of the ball, carrying it up to the center circle's arc.
It was a choice made possible because Valencia's central midfielder had been marking Pedri's runs into the second line.
"Parejo! You take him!"
Reading the marking signals among the Valencia players, I shifted my position from the front line back into the second.
Pedri had moved left, so I needed to move right and open up a passing lane for Íñigo.
Good.
Íñigo's pass came into view. I killed the ball's spin with the inside of my foot while turning my body to face the goal squarely.
A moment for a few quick calculations.
With Pedri occupied checking the passing lane under pressure, the far left was off the table.
Hmm. Giving it back to Íñigo would work, but he hadn't fully shaken off the opposing midfielder.
If I carried it up myself... I'd likely run out of options other than dribbling before I even reached the front line.
I'd have to advance slowly and keep an eye on Íñigo and Pedri's positions.
"Kim!"
In a flash, Íñigo called my name with a voice full of conviction. Instinctively, I slipped a through pass into the space two steps in front of him.
He was someone who had earned at least that much trust — the bare minimum of credentials.
Thwack—
A hair's breadth decided the contest.
As Íñigo wedged his shoulder into the Valencia player's path, the opponent's only available action was a helpless concession.
Of course, if it had been a decisive chance, the defender would have gone in with a low tackle. But it was far too early in the match to gamble on a card.
The play carried on.
I drifted toward the edge of the penalty box. The gap between the left back and the center back looked inviting, if only just.
Moving on the diagonal and reacting to the pass would be better than receiving in a straight line through the middle.
Besides, Valencia's left back was preoccupied with Ramírez, the right winger drifting toward him — another good sign.
He couldn't stick to me.
But for all the mental gymnastics I'd put myself through, the ball went rolling leisurely toward Pedri instead. Typical — it seemed destined to arrive half a beat too late.
I quickly eased off my pace and adjusted my timing for the run. Less than three steps away, the center back's fierce gaze bore down on me.
While checking Pedri's situation out of the corner of my eye, I flipped briskly through the report in my head.
The report, the report, the report. When faced with man-marking, Pedri either escaped the pressure with individual skill or attempted some bizarre pass.
Then, in an instant, Pedri folded the ball to the opposite side without a moment's hesitation. Sure enough, he shed the defender's press with ease.
Flash— an instinct sparked through my head... but no miraculous fortune followed. I was usually the one receiving passes, not delivering them.
Still, I had experiences worth referencing — the moments we'd shared on the pitch so far, and what little had come out of our brief one-on-one training sessions.
Pedri was good at escaping pressure, but he didn't enjoy the act of escaping itself. What he actually preferred was passing the ball off spitefully right before he got isolated and cut off.
Three and a half steps remained before Valencia's right back would close in on Pedri.
By extension, that was exactly how much time I'd been given.
Relaxed, but not slow. One small step straight ahead, then a longer stride to scuff the line of the penalty box.
Before I knew it, the opposing right back was one and a half steps from reaching Pedri.
I poured explosive vitality into the muscle fibers running from my hips down through my thighs and calves. Lowering my center of gravity and widening my elbow drive, I built up speed.
At the same time, the muscles of the defender standing directly in front of me swelled too. Rooted in place like a wall, he sank his hips and lowered his stance to secure his base.
Whichever way I chose, I could feel his determination to follow.
Thud—
Just then, the sound of a struck ball cut clean through the noise of the stadium.
I poured every ounce of strength into my muscles, focusing everything on hitting top speed. From here on out, there was no point in half-measures or subtle feints.
The target was to the right — the deep pocket of the box.
Before I could even plant two steps, the defender grabbed straight onto my uniform. With such a direct run, it would have been stranger if he hadn't.
But the joy of my prediction landing true outweighed even the pinch of his forearm.
Pedri.
The Barcelona-bred Chihuahua, true to form, had aimed for the far side rather than the near one.
The ball came sliding low across the grass.
Its trajectory was so exquisite that even as it cut across the penalty box, the goalkeeper couldn't bring himself to come out and claim it.
I slid my body toward where the ball would pass.
Three and a half steps in front of me.
It wasn't physically impossible to take a touch, but the hand gripping my uniform promised to make things very difficult.
Tap—
With a weight-shifted motion, the defender's arm peeled away with ease.
Riding the momentum of the slide, I bent the ball's trajectory more than a hundred degrees as I struck. There had been spin on it, so generously speaking, it would fly into the goal at ninety.
Even factoring in an up-and-down margin of error like a survey poll, it was going to spear the top right corner all the same.
The goalkeeper, one knee covering the bottom right of the goal, flapped his hand uselessly.
"Eyee—!"
"Aaagh—!!"
Leaving behind the crowd's unified roar, I rubbed my thigh. The flesh stung pretty badly from the scrape.
Grass clung in a thick smear across the back of my shorts.
Before long, came the sound of something sliding to a stop behind me, and Pedri closed in, ruffling my hair into a mess.
"Ugh, aaah—!"
"That was the best—!!"
"Haha, I know—!"
"Yeeeesss—!!"
And then he kept bellowing cheers straight at the stands... a truly incomprehensible, one-of-a-kind human being.
"Kim!! Well done!"
"Let's get one more before the half!"
"Yeah."
Soon Íñigo, Ramírez, and the rest of the Las Palmas players drifted into the box one by one to offer their congratulations.
Frankly, I'd earned them.
I was scoring in the first half against top-flight Primera División sides, every single match. And today's goal had come off movement I'd learned from Castro, no less.
Granted, a ridiculous stroke of luck had played its part — but sometimes the simple fact of having scored becomes the foundation for real progress.
Stack them up like this, one by one, and bit by bit, I'd only get better.
"On the Canary Islands there lives a prince from Korea~"
"A prince crowned in gold who brings them glory—!!"
"¡Qué guay—!!"
On my way back to the center circle after waving a few times to the stands, Pedri sidled up beside me and murmured into a hand cupped over his mouth.
He'd been sulking and refusing to speak to me just a while ago — recording an assist must have put him in a wonderful mood.
"Hmm. I'll set you up for a hat trick before the half's over."
"......"
"You saw that pass, right? I'm in rare form today."
Halftime. The Las Palmas locker room.
The first half had ended one-nil, a back-and-forth exchange of thrusts and retreats settled in Las Palmas's favor.
It wasn't that Pedri's passing had been a mess, or that my movement had fallen below standard, that kept us from adding more goals.
Valencia had simply reined themselves in well.
Under their reorganized shape, they showed a completely different face.
After conceding, they stopped giving up counters altogether, and even when through passes slipped past them, they defended the danger zones with their lives.
Of the roughly ten through balls we attempted, they snuffed out all but one or two — and once we got near the box, five or six men had entrenched themselves in that cramped space.
They'd narrowed the gaps between defenders and committed only limited numbers forward, playing to the strengths of a flat 4-4-2.
Honestly, after running up against such a disciplined low block, even the second half — when the restriction on my knee would lift — felt like something to worry about.
In the worst case, we might just end up repeating the first half's pattern of drawing fouls and nothing more.
"That dirty son of a bitch is disgustingly good, isn't he?"
"Who?"
"Rodrigo. Number 19 — you know, the lone striker drifting left."
"Ah, that damn bastard. He's scary good. Earlier he curled back outside, dodged the marking, and stuck it right on target. Absolutely insane."
"What are we supposed to do with him?"
In one corner of the locker room, the defenders were holding a summit on Valencia's striker — lingering grievances against Rodrigo Moreno, who had rattled the Las Palmas back line for the entire first half.
Thankfully his finishing had been poor enough that we kept a clean sheet; otherwise the score could easily have read 1–3 by now.
He wasn't especially tall or bulky, apparently, but his movement and link-up play were maddeningly sharp.
Clunk—
Soon the locker room door opened and the coaching staff filed in to take their places.
Despite leading the match, neither the players nor the coaches wore good expressions. Everyone was aware of how narrowly we'd survived each crisis.
Clap clap— Pepe clapped his palms together and drew the players' attention.
"Everyone, pull out a mirror and take a good look at your faces. You all look absolutely miserable."
The players grimaced wryly, even as they showed a flicker of anticipation for whatever tactical measures the coaching staff had prepared. Without them, the second half would be a genuine disaster.
Just then, Castro broke away from the coaching staff and came over to me, tablet and a sheaf of papers in hand.
"Hey."
"......"
"I already ran it by Pepe. Let's have a chat."
"...About what?"
"What do you think? The same subject we've been going over. Ah — by the way, that goal today was nice."
Without thinking, I accepted the tablet he held out over my knees. At a glance, it seemed to be a collection of highlights from the first half.
"You made this yourself?"
"Am I insane? I'm not even a proper coach yet. Flores sent it over."
"Flores did?"
"The generosity of a gambler. Say thank you later if you want — but time's short, so let's get straight to it."
Castro began flipping through the footage rapidly, firing off question after question without pause. Why had I made this run? What had I been reading in the footage?
Criticism and praise were so jumbled together that I couldn't tell whether he was saying I'd done well or poorly.
"If you had to grade yourself, how many points would you give?"
"Hmm, sixty... five?"
"Sixty-five?"
"...Sixty-two?"
"No — what's with that three-point swing?"
Castro snorted, a wry smile cracking across his face, then fired off another question.
"Then what about Pedri?"
"Huh?"
"How many points would you give Pedri?"
"Why would I grade Pedri?"
"You wanted a certain pass, didn't you? Was every single one his fault for not delivering it?"
That wasn't it.
Before we were professionals, we were all just people — mistakes could be reduced, but never eliminated.
Still, come on. Isn't it a little strange to interrogate me over why he passed when I was the one who failed to receive it?
It felt too much like blaming someone else.
When I laid out my defense, Castro told me to pick just one thing, then. Name a single instance, and that would be enough.
The thing was, I didn't want to name even that one.
"Pedri!"
"Yeah?"
"Come over here."
Before I could change my mind, Castro had already called Pedri over and sat him down beside me.
Was I not, like the other players in the locker room, supposed to be listening to the head coach's tactical briefing?
"Kim has something to say to you. It'll be quick. I'll cover the tactical instructions separately."
"Okay. What is it?"
I delayed my answer with deep hesitation, deferred it, put it on hold. I hated the idea of speaking as though I were making excuses, or worse, tearing down a teammate.
Not once in my life had I ever done that deliberately.
Castro studied my face for a long moment, then spoke to Pedri in my stead.
"Seems Kim finds it too awkward to say it to your face. Look here. That pass you slipped out to the flank in the 22nd minute."
"Yeah."
"He says it was waaay below your usual standard."
The back of Pedri's ear twitched.
Hmm. The pass on the tablet from the 22nd minute was... honestly, kind of a mess, to be fair.