A Bizarre Negotiation
The next morning.
The clatter of dishes roused me awake, slow and sluggish. My arms and legs hung heavy as water-soaked cotton, plain evidence of how little sleep I'd gotten. The news of the sudden transfer offer hadn't granted me a single moment to gather myself.
I buried my face deep into the pillow. It was one of those mornings where, if the bed had been made of acorn jelly, I'd have burrowed straight inside and hidden away. Just ten more minutes like this. That was all I wanted.
"Kim Kyeong-heon, come and eat!"
"...Coming!"
Had time slipped by faster than I'd thought, or had I simply slept in from the start? I prodded the phone's screen awake, and 8:05 glowed back at me. Even with that confirmation of my oversleeping, I didn't get up right away.
Thirty-two missed calls. Even writing off the twenty or so international ones, the remaining twelve had all come from club officials over the course of last night. A tightness of unknown origin pressed into the spaces between my ribs. Whichever way I decided — accept or refuse — an uncomfortable situation seemed certain to follow.
"Kyeong-heon!"
"Yeah, I'm up!"
I flung the blanket into the corner of the bed, wiggled my toes through a long stretch, and pushed open the door — where a plastic tub had already found its way onto the table.
So much for my turn on side-dish duty.
"It's not like you played a match over the weekend. Why are you up so late? Did you not sleep properly yesterday?"
"Just a little tired, is all."
Once the crispy rice and a plate of fruit had been set out as well, Dad lifted his spoon and gave the signal with a clink. It meant the meal could officially begin.
"Don't take what I said yesterday to heart."
Without so much as a few spoonfuls of the rice, Dad picked up last night's conversation right where it had left off. Playing it cool, I started gnawing at the edge of a piece of cabbage. Truthfully, I could infer the rest from the opening lines alone — with my body achy and my mind still half-asleep, it was a subject I wanted to flee from.
"Yesterday, Uncle Barry gave me a ride home, and on the way we talked some more. He said there was a lot to weigh from every angle, and that he'd wait patiently until you'd made your decision."
"...Okay."
"Now that you've actually met their representative, things could still go wrong if anyone acts carelessly, you know. You'll have to find out whether the team truly needs you, too."
"Of course."
"I just... get the feeling I spoke too rashly, that's all."
"You didn't."
Too late for that. Dad's words may have had a point, but acting as though none of it touched me now was impossible — last night, I'd caught a glimpse of the joy that welled up from his heart.
"And the more important the matter, the more right it is for the person involved to decide it themselves."
So that none of what I felt would show, I nodded along a few times. And in that very instant, Dad's gaze flicked across my face and moved on. The yoke of genetics was a sorrowful thing indeed. Even amid all this, the two of us were reading each other's every move, our brains overheating in our separate ways.
Wednesday, February 12, 2020 — Hotel Cristina, Las Palmas.
Uncle Barry and I arrived at the five-star hotel tucked inside the port of Las Palmas. We could simply have met at home, but according to Uncle Barry, the man absolutely had to be 'received properly' — and this clueless soul could only nod and go along.
Before long we rode the elevator up to the second floor, where white walls and a solid-wood table came into view. With a potted plant sitting at the table's center, the room had been arranged with quite a tasteful air of luxury. I gave the reservation name — 'Éric Abidal' — and followed the staff inside.
A neatly dressed middle-aged man rose from his seat with a smile. Dark-skinned and without a single strand of hair on his head, yet the cut of that suit suited him remarkably well.
"Welcome. I'm truly glad we could meet today."
"Yeah. Hello."
After we shook hands, he drew a slip of paper from inside his jacket and held it out.
There was something striking about the man's formal bearing. Or perhaps it was the position printed on the card that made him look so dignified.
Once Uncle Barry had exchanged brief greetings with him as well, I settled into the seat across from Abidal. Just how many trials had I weathered to earn this chair. I promptly forgot why I'd come to the hotel at all and let my mind drift back over the past day and a half.
If not Spain's nationwide papers, then at the very least the regional press of the Canary Islands had been in an uproar.
"Filthy thieves! Vile scoundrels!"
The security guard at 7 Palmas had kept up a relentless stream of insults aimed at Barcelona right through this very morning.
"I'm telling you, just go ask them real quick."
"'Real quick'? What's that even supposed to mean? And if people are curious, they should ask for themselves — why me?"
"Because you've got... a leg on each side, that's why!"
At the training ground, the players had done nothing but badger the innocent Chihuahua.
The man, oblivious to how far I'd drifted, murmured honeyed words about how deeply impressed he'd been by everything I'd done so far.
"Barcelona is a team recognized all over the world. Built on a cutting-edge system, a place where the very best players come together."
"......"
"I believe you have what it takes to become one of Barcelona's own. Is there any player of ours you happen to admire? If you're all right with it, I can even arrange a phone call."
Did I look like some starstruck kid with a celebrity crush? And what on earth was I supposed to do with hearing someone's voice? It would never happen, of course, but had I truly needed it... I'd have asked Pedri.
"I'm fine."
"Haha, I see. Not much interest, then. I suppose I'll have to tempt you with something else?"
I might have to retract my earlier assessment that Abidal was a formal man. That wink of his felt flippant to an extraordinary degree. Clearly, a man's dignity came entirely from his job title.
"Hmm, Camp Nou holds over ninety-nine thousand. Have you ever played in a stadium of that size?"
"No."
Gran Canaria topped thirty thousand seats as well. Well, sixty thousand more seats meant more money in the coffers, I supposed.
"When you see the stands washed in three colors, your heart will pound. The roar is on an entirely different scale."
I hadn't touched a coloring book since entering elementary school, yet for some reason the age bracket of these temptations kept sliding downward. Then again, Las Palmas did put yellow and blue to use as well. I simply couldn't agree on the matter of the roar, though. Las Palmas fans were people who knew how to leap in place and shake their backsides with abandon. That was a different genre of entertainment altogether.
"And what about the medical staff? Barcelona doesn't just keep team physicians — we own extensive research assets in sports medicine as well."
"...May I ask just one thing?"
"Haha, ask a few dozen if you like."
"Then why couldn't you prevent Dembélé's injury?"
"...Ahem. Dembélé failed to follow his physician's advice. He got greedy about returning to the pitch quickly. An unfortunate lapse. But thanks to it, here I am, able to have this conversation with you, no?"
So this Dembélé fellow was the one who'd slipped up? Physical coach Juan Naranjo would never have stood by and let that happen. The muscle-bound middle-aged coach might wring your neck until you could barely breathe, but one way or another, your body was ending up in front of a hospital.
...And I was not a man who fed on other people's misfortunes. What grated on me was hearing it framed as though a fellow professional's injury — a player under his own club's banner, no less — were a stepping stone.
Of course, I knew I shouldn't be looking at things through such a crooked lens. It wasn't merely discourteous to my host; it would betray the hopes Dad and Uncle Barry had placed in me. And yet Abidal was... the spitting image of a young Miguel! Did people of this stripe really climb all the way to club ownership? A galling reality.
"Bruschetta topped with avocado and tomato."
Perhaps he'd ordered ahead — a waiter approached and laid lavish slices of bread on the table. Bru-whatever-it-was — as far as I could tell, it was fruit piled onto pieces of baguette.
While the appetizer disappeared, Abidal changed the subject to playing time. He could give me plenty of opportunities, he said.
"Appearances fall under the head coach's domain, so I can't promise anything outright — but it's true that Barcelona is short on attacking options. Your competition? Ansu Fati, at most?"
"Who's that?"
"A player who came up through La Masia, Barcelona's youth academy. He's your age, Kim. I expect the two of you will be rivals, and good friends."
Decided by whose say-so?
"He's a center forward?"
"That's right. Though with the first team he mostly plays on the left. He hasn't fully grown into his body yet."
"...Then I could play out wide too, I suppose?"
"You'd be able to play centrally. In exchange, your opportunities would be limited."
"......"
"What we hope for is for you to claim a starting spot step by step. You've been remarkable so far, but La Liga is a different world."
"My player is talking about a guaranteed playing-time clause."
Uncle Barry cut abruptly into the conversation. For the first time since the talks began, Abidal's expression hardened. Unable to hide his discomfort, he pressed on. At long last, a moment of rest had been granted to me.
"As I said before — a player's minutes are the head coach's domain."
"Then all that talk about how much he'd play was nothing more than your personal opinion. Unless, of course, your coach isn't nearly as desperate for him as you claim."
Once again, a single line from Uncle Barry outclassed my whole barrage of graceless questions by a mile. At the sharp jab, Abidal managed a smile that looked distinctly displeased.
"Coming from any other club, I might have believed you. But you're Barcelona. And frankly, I doubt my player is the only one you're making this offer to."
With each fresh volley, imaginary sparks crackled through the air.
"At Barcelona, everyone competes fiercely."
"I'm not asking that he play every match. Under the regulations he can't even be registered for the UEFA Champions League, so the matches remaining through May — Copa del Rey included — amount to a mere fifteen or so. And you're telling me you can't guarantee him steady league appearances?"
"......"
"Let's be blunt. Couldn't you use him half-heartedly for a while, then simply bring in a replacement during the summer transfer window? Because it's Barcelona. We're suspicious precisely because you have the money to pull something like that off."
"Do you have any idea what we went through to raise the funds to bring Kim in? If you think it was easy—"
Until the waiter set down the main course, nothing but deep silence hung over the table.
"...Very well. I'll discuss that part with the head coach again."
"Good. Shall we move on to the matter of wages?"
"Haha, my, my. I'll end up with indigestion at this rate."
With a small round of laughter, a brief ceasefire was signed into effect.
Even with Uncle Barry holding the upper hand in patches, I couldn't bring myself to be glad. Abidal had a point — it felt like a crust of baguette lodged in my throat. Sharp, uncomfortable, adversarial. By grown-up standards, a 'good experience' apparently meant a road paved with hardship and adversity.
This was not something I could go through twice.
No wonder the peace had felt like it was dragging on.
The moment dessert arrived, the two of them were at it again. The trouble had begun over a clause in the contract: Las Palmas was covering my taxes. Uncle Barry wanted Barcelona to do the same, and Abidal declared his refusal without a flicker of hesitation.
"That's an offer I cannot accept. Setting the size of the wages aside, making up the full gross amount is exceedingly rare. It goes against our internal rules as well."
The sums flying back and forth didn't register as real money at all. Of course, it was obvious the figures being mentioned had grown larger than before.
It seemed a reasonable compromise was there for the taking, but Uncle showed no intention of giving ground easily. For all his earlier reassurances that nothing would be signed on the spot, the way he bore down on the man made it look like he'd have the moving trucks unloaded by nightfall.
"Twenty-two thousand."
Dark complexion or not, the man's emotions weren't hard to read. I couldn't say exactly how far gone he was, but Abidal had plainly blown his top.
I was busy pretending to scrape the last of the strawberry sherbet from its dish. I was grateful for the determination to get me paid handsomely... but I truly wished they'd stop already.
"Look, we have standards of our own. You can't just throw numbers around and call it done. The scale may differ, but honestly, Las Palmas and Barcelona aren't so very different. You arrive at results through rational discussion."
"Mm."
"And if Kim misses his chance to come to Barcelona because of this, what do you plan to do about the resentment then?"
My head snapped up.
Who was supposed to be resenting whom, exactly?