A Cozy Nest (2)
At the tail end of a long, long week, I found myself confronting the subjectivity of my own existence.
How contradictory was that?
The worries and anxieties that had been gnawing at me had turned out to be nothing more than a flimsy obstacle that couldn't survive two days.
Right.
Maybe it took a swing of the pendulum this wild to truly feel, skin-deep, what it meant to be happy.
The sight of thirty thousand people in the stadium straining to get a look at me — the yellow armband hanging off my sleeve that they eyed with disbelief, and then, one by one, the cries of pure despair they let out — all of it was lovely.
"Waaaah-!"
"Aaaaah-!"
"Nooooo-!!"
And yet at the same time, I reminded myself of the responsibility that trailed behind the fans' expectations.
Money — easy to give, hard to earn.
Around the time I was seven, Dad — having blown our family's fortune on stocks — would wag his beer bottle at me and pass down that wisdom of his.
To receive a single peanut, apparently, you had to sell at least ten.
Whoosh-
I drew in a breath and let my lungs swell wide.
Don't get carried away.
I erased Pepe's instruction — just take it easy out there — from my head.
The referee declared the restart before the commotion in the stands had even settled.
Aythami, with the ball at his feet, began lifting the line from the back.
Las Palmas lined up in a 4-4-2.
Pedri, who had started as the attacking midfielder, naturally dropped into the middle of the park, forming a compact two-man midfield with Íñigo. Juan Narváez, starting on the left wing for the first time in a while, and Ramírez on the right took up positions supporting Castro and me.
♪ There is a prince in Canaria who came from Korea~
"Ledes! Mid… cut it out!"
♪ He will bring glory to Canaria—
"Eskashi!"
♪ A prince crowned with a golden crown!!
Once both of Las Palmas's fullbacks joined the attack, Numancia found themselves boxed into their own half.
I took up a position slightly deeper than Castro, trying to shoulder the attacking midfielder's duties as well.
"Bela!"
Then Pedri called for the ball from De la Bella, the left back.
The spot was just shy of the second line of pressure, a central area tilted slightly toward the left flank. He let the ball run between his legs and shed the opposing central striker in one motion.
Suddenly, Numancia's center-back started barking at his teammates.
"Squeeze into the middle!!"
Setting up in a 4-2-3-1 and then telling everyone to compress centrally?
The man with his head wrapped in knots was panicking as if his midfield line had been shattered to pieces. Well, it meant Las Palmas held the psychological upper hand by exactly that much.
Without delay, I pulled up my mental file on Pedri.
Pedri liked passes played into a teammate's left foot, and in tight spaces he had a habitual tendency toward one-twos.
So the smart play was to position a Numancia defender on my right and receive. I dropped one more block from the front line.
Clamp-
Before long, a long forearm seized the back of my jersey. It was the price you paid for claiming priority in positioning.
The spot to receive was a step and a half behind the front line, in the central area with the penalty box in view.
I shoved the opponent's chest away with my right shoulder and allotted most of my resources to my neck and thighs. The thighs needed to secure enough output to hold out for a moment; the neck had to scan the opponents.
I needed to read the pressure situation from Numancia's midfielders and the movement of the center-back who had dropped all the way into the box.
Soon, the moment I finished preparing, Pedri's pass arrived. The ball, rolling with a deliberate spin, met precisely the arch of my left foot.
Thud-!
The pressure was no joke, but it was well within the range I'd anticipated.
Holding my balance with my center of gravity lowered, I finally checked Pedri's run.
I read his level shoulders and locked eyes. I might have been terrible at reading minds, but I never missed a clue in body language.
It was a signal to go straight ahead.
Flick — like flipping a projector slide, countless options streamed through my head.
Between a pass and a dribble, what outcome was I setting up for?
Even among passes, I could play one straight into a shot, or mix in one more link-up. I could use either winger, Narváez or Ramírez, or Castro, who had drifted slightly toward the flank.
Thud-
Before my thoughts could settle, my foot made the decision on its own.
I'd put in endless effort, theory, and thought to become good at football… but in the end, you can't rebel against instinct.
And so the ball rolled into the space in front of Pedri, right in front of the box.
Castro at the point of the attack was already wrestling one center-back into a stalemate — doing his utmost to carve out even a sliver more of a shooting angle.
I, too, stepped into the box so as not to miss the possibility of that instant.
Numancia's defensive midfielder clung to my right arm, but it wasn't so disruptive that I'd have to abandon the run.
But the insane little Chihuahua betrayed everyone's expectations.
The ball, struck off its base… came flying back at me.
Why didn't he just shoot?
It wasn't simply that things hadn't gone as planned and left me puzzled. The quality of the pass whipping in at knee height was flat-out terrible.
Damn it.
The ball's projected trajectory matched exactly where I stood.
A few seconds from now, by the time the ball reached my spot, I'd barely manage to get a heel to it.
I hadn't lost possession outright — but the fact that I'd be allowed only a single touch did not sit well with me.
If you're going to give it to me anyway, give it to me comfortably, and there'd be nothing to complain about.
"Ngh!"
Just then, the defensive midfielder glued to my right shoulder reacted to Pedri's pass and put the brakes on my movement.
Buried in the urge to shake him off, I made a decision with my heart ahead of my head — even though I knew full well he'd miss the window on pure momentum.
As a bonus, the grip on my jersey loosened, and I reaped a tidy little profit.
I soon shelved the stray thoughts and focused on the situation at hand. The moment of my first touch was approaching.
I checked the ball's spin and direction and lifted my left foot.
Drag it back with my heel and send it curling far around toward the front right. So it had to be controlled with a sweep rather than a pop.
The very idea of letting the ball leave my body felt deeply, enormously unsettling… but there was nothing for it.
Tick-
The instant I felt the ball's texture meet my boot, I knocked it behind my right calf.
Next, I shook off the defensive midfielder's arm, and once I'd finished spinning back around toward goal, everything within my power was done.
If I'd executed it properly, the ball would spring out in front of me on its own.
But standing there blankly waiting was unprofessional, foolish behavior. Every wasted second was another second gifted to the last defender.
I moved straight to the next step.
Right foot stepping small, left foot planted wide. The moment the ball came through, I'd be set to roll straight into the shot.
"Retri!!"
The instant the La Liga ball entered my field of vision, the roar of Numancia's goalkeeper announced the completion of the sequence.
The last defender, sensing the danger, frantically stretched out a leg — but I was already checking my shooting angle and swinging my foot.
The narrow gap between the two center-backs was no problem at all.
The penalty box was, by definition, a place that symbolized the importance of distance.
There was no need to aim for the corner of the goal.
Boom-!
The ball blazed over the goalkeeper's shoulder.
"EYEE-!!!"
"You're the best! You're— damn it, you absolute maniac—!"
In the 12th minute of the second half, an unsuitable hymn rang out across Estadio Gran Canaria.
Was I supposed to do something in return?
Having never deliberately planned an encore celebration, I simply walked slowly toward the stands and waved a few times.
Whoosh-
Suddenly, from the stands behind the goal — barely three meters away — jerseys and scarves came flying nonstop.
"Please don't throw things!"
"Throw more! Throw it all—!!"
Despite the stewards' pleas for restraint, some of the crowd finally completed their yellow carpet.
Hm.
Honestly, my first thought wasn't being moved — it was a practical worry.
Are they going to be able to pick all that back up?
…It'd be a shame to just throw it away.
"Great job!!"
"You little punk. Scoring the second you come on? That's just unfair!"
"Got lucky."
My useless worries were buried under a burdensome avalanche of congratulations.
Castro and Pedri had sprinted over first, ruffling my hair into a mess.
"You score thirty-plus goals on luck? Share some of that luck with me, will you?"
"You're the best! Thanks to you, I've got an assist!"
"……"
A moment later, Ramírez, Íñigo, Aythami and the rest came running over and piled on the flattery. Something about the captain, this and that — nothing but remarks best ignored outright.
"Aigoo, congratulations!"
"…Yeah. Thanks."
I was trying to quietly soak in nothing but the crowd's cheering, but I couldn't pretend not to hear Valeles's congratulations.
He'd crossed the entire pitch to get there.
Matchday 28 of La Liga ended 4-0.
Numancia, having half given up on the game, curled into their shell entirely, and Las Palmas didn't push themselves too hard either.
"Skipper, how was the handshake with the Numancia boys?"
"…Shut up."
I had no idea what was so funny, but Curbelo and Aythami kept snickering and giving me grief even after full time. In my heart of hearts I wanted to hand back the armband on the spot, but Coach Ríos wouldn't let me take it off until after the interview.
"Kim, ready?"
"Yeah."
The moment I stepped into the bright floodlights and past the transparent advertising boards, the crowd that had stayed behind roared all over again.
Seriously, I wondered if it was time to start worrying about their throats.
"Kim, Kim, Kim. What a beautiful night."
"Hello."
The interviewer in a casual gray suit opened with an exaggerated flourish.
"I've never seen Las Palmas fans go this insane. You scored twice again today, but I suspect it's a different fact that everyone here is dying to know."
"Yeah."
"Haha, could you tell us yourself? Officially?"
Everyone clearly suspected the answer already, and watching them fall into suspense was quite — funny.
"Yes. I've decided to stay at Las Palmas."
Before the interviewer could even respond, a shower of applause poured down — pure applause, with no cheering mixed in.
By this point in a match there should have been gaps in the stands, and maybe it was because the packed-full sight was still so unfamiliar to me.
Somehow, I felt like a little kid being praised by the grown-ups.
How should I put it… it was like some kind of school recital.
The players, the coaching staff, the crowd — all of them had eyes only for my face.