Chapter 7
Chapter 7
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: One Step Back
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The high from the media attention after the Santander match didn't last long.
The day after the game, during recovery training, a sharp pain shot up from just below my left ankle, like I'd been pricked by a needle.
Since it was only recovery training, I didn't push myself to run and explained the situation to the coaching staff. The team doctor rushed over right away. His expression as he examined my ankle was far from normal.
The medical staff drove me to Gran Canaria University Hospital—a place I'd only ever passed by car. It was my first time actually going inside for treatment.
Inside the hospital, I waited for the MRI results. I'd had issues with a bone fragment in my ankle before signing, so I was worried.
My dad arrived after getting the call, his face tense as he talked back and forth with the doctor in the exam room. I couldn't make out the details, but I clearly heard the Spanish word "operación."
Surgery meant at least two months out. No player who's gone under the knife has ever come back faster. It was physically impossible.
Surgery out of nowhere—weren't there any other options? Dad came out of the exam room with a grim look. My heart sank.
"Kyung-hun, I think we should go ahead with the surgery. I talked to the doctor, and he said the bone fragment broke again from the impact, causing ongoing pain. He wants to do it as soon as possible before it gets infected and pus starts coming out."
"Do I really have to?"
"It's disappointing now, but yeah. The doctor was shocked. He asked how you've been playing like this."
Las Palmas's youngest goalscorer record, the team's top scorer—none of it mattered if I couldn't play.
Two months for surgery, two more to regain match fitness. Coming back to the first team this year was impossible.
I wanted to act like it was fine, but I was angry. Things had been going so well. I was doing so well.
A fire seemed to ignite in my solar plexus, bubbling up hot. If I'd known, I would've stomped on that Santander midfielder's ankle after his tackle. It felt too unfair to end like this.
Juan Naranco came over after talking with the team doctor, Bolanos.
"Kim, that's a shame."
"......"
"Let's aim to return within three months. You're part of the first team now, and there'll be plenty more chances ahead."
"I didn't want it to end like this."
"I know. Coach Pepe and I feel the same. But this won't end your soccer career. Just watch."
Before I could even sink into despair, surgery was scheduled two days later.
October 4th. Two months had passed since they removed the bone fragment and scraped out the problematic areas. Rehab was going smoothly.
I'd stuck strictly to what the doctor prescribed, devoting myself solely to rehab. But no one who's never done it could understand how much deep patience it demands.
"One more set."
"...Sí."
After finishing the exercise of pulling and releasing the rubber band using my ankle strength, I checked Las Palmas updates on my phone.
I'd heard bits from players who visited my hospital room now and then—guys who weren't even that busy—but today was the first time I'd properly looked it up myself.
0-0 draw away at Tenerife.
0-3 home loss to Almería.
1-0 home win against Huesca, and so on.
Yesterday's 2-0 away win against Ponferradina was a huge achievement for Las Palmas, who struggled on the road.
It seemed the return of strikers Castro and Pekhart from injury was fueling the team's upward momentum.
Three wins, one draw, two losses since I left. Not bad at all.
Tied on 19 points with leaders Cádiz. The team wasn't collapsing or losing momentum anytime soon. Honestly, part of me hoped they would crumble a bit without me.
They could call me selfish, but I couldn't help wanting the coaches to remember the moments I delivered victories.
With the doctor's clearance to start light exercise after rehab ended, I left the hospital. At home, next to Dad preparing dinner, soccer articles I'd clipped were pasted on the kitchen wall.
'Fresh Start'
'Canary Islands' New Prince'
'A Great Step Toward Promotion'
There must've been articles about my injury too, but Dad had only collected ones from my three dazzling games, decorating the wall with them. It made one corner of my heart feel uneasy.
"Eat the cabbage first. Sauce is here."
"Yes. Thank you."
The strong sea wind rattled the balcony door, distorting the Korean announcer's voice on the satellite TV.
Ever since we came to the Canary Islands, Dad had insisted on learning the local language and only watched regional news channels. But while I was hospitalized, he'd installed satellite TV.
"How's the leg?"
"No pain at all, so they said to start steady walking exercises tomorrow."
"Then you might return sooner than expected."
"He said it might not even take a full month, but we'll see."
"Dip the cabbage in this sauce. Uncle Bari taught me. Mojo sauce. You've had it at restaurants a few times, right? Compare it."
The TV sound pierced through by the tapping—tap-tap—on the window, growing louder. It'd been a while since it rained.
"Rain after so long."
"Yeah."
Dad tried to open the window but got hit by raindrops carried in by the wind and quickly latched it shut. It was honestly a little funny. With an awkward laugh, he returned to the table and ate.
"Islands like this have crazy winds."
"Yeah, different from Korea."
"No, Korea's islands get strong winds too."
After dishes, I checked my school stuff for tomorrow. In my room, under the yellow fluorescent light, I gathered homework and notes.
Anything I missed? Sitting alone at my desk in the isolated room, raindrops fell in steady rhythm through the window cracks.
Tears suddenly welled up out of nowhere.
It was some emotion between the lingering anger at the tackling player and self-pity, slow and quiet.
Only when alone did the injustice and anxiety rise from deep inside.
Seventeen in Korean age, sixteen in Spain. I felt like an unfinished boat with a broken engine adrift in the vast ocean. Good thing the rain hid my sobs.
I'd been doing so well until now.
The coach calling every day to check on rehab progress, Las Palmas fans asking for autographs at the hospital. I had to accept that being expected to deliver scared me.
* * *
October 25th. Gran Canaria University Hospital Rehab Center.
"Pull it all the way left again. How's that?"
"Fine."
"Rate the pain on a scale of one to ten. One is mildest, ten is worst."
"No pain at all."
"Good. The surgical site's healed well with muscle and flesh filling in. It's probably better than before surgery."
Back at the hospital, the doctor declared my official return to team training, saying he'd informed team doctor Bolanos.
Two months and three weeks later, I could finally step back onto the grass pitch.
Las Palmas had gone 2-1-0 in the last three weeks. Good to string two wins together, but they'd fallen to second after a 2-0 loss to promotion rivals Cádiz.
Showing well in the second team and getting back on the pro stage—that was my first goal.
With the team performing, the path to first team would be tougher. Tomorrow, it starts again.
"¡Dios mío...!"
"¿Ha comido algo?"
"Nah, nothing like that."
Second-team center-back Forte Jesús asked with a serious face if I'd eaten something funny. Cheeky guy. Thinks I doped up or something? It was a bit suspicious, though.
For someone back from injury, soccer felt too easy. In a 40-minute practice match, halves and all, I'd already scored three goals before 15 minutes were up.
My left ankle moved smoother than before, just as the doctor said—no pain.
It wasn't just the ankle. Competing with defenders, keeping my balance was easier. Ball touch, short bursts of speed—everything.
Muscle mass had dipped slightly in measurements, but my body felt light as a feather.
No anxiety, the pitch looked huge.
Compared to first-team experience, second-team intrasquads were boringly easy. The opposing defenders without vests flailed without proper positioning.
I trapped an incoming diagonal aerial ball with my left foot, dropping it right in front.
No special training, but I could use my left like my right. Maybe even better.
With my left free, options in games multiplied.
Players who remembered my old self couldn't keep up after one touch—three at most—letting me go.
Tony Segura warily tracked my movement, trying to defend carefully, but a shoulder fake threw off his balance, opening space.
Even with two center-backs ahead, the pressure felt shallow.
Without hesitation, I shot for the left post. Goalkeeper Domínguez Aleandro dove late—too late.
He couldn't react to the mistimed left-footed shot and let in the goal. That made four.