Heaven and Earth (1)

Friday, March 6, 2020. Near the Estadio de Gran Canaria.

It was the day of the Copa del Rey semifinal second leg. I was sitting aboard the UD Las Palmas team ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bus as we wound our way toward the stadium.

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall."

A voice drifted back from between the seats ahead of me, emerging from one of two prominent pairs of cheekbones poking over the headrests. I immediately snapped my gaze out the window toward the passing traffic on the roadside. That honeyed, teasing cadence tickling my ears was without question a trap carefully laid to unravel my composure.

"Who is the craziest of them all?"

Right on cue, Dani Castellano ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rustled his newspaper, effortlessly picking up Aythami Artiles's cue.

"None other than a certain player from the Canary Islands who took a shot right at his own club owner—one named Kim."

"Surely you jest. The credibility of such a tale is most dubious. A mere player daring to lay a finger on the club owner?"

"I am a mirror that speaks only the truth, my lord. Place your absolute faith in my words."

"Very well. What did this Kim have to say?"

I inwardly groaned. I should have squeezed myself into the seats among the players I barely knew rather than sitting in the back.

"He lavished immense praise upon the owner. He detailed for the press, point by point, precisely how the owner persuaded him when he had made up his mind to transfer."

"Is that not a splendid thing?"

"On the surface, perhaps. Yet peering closer reveals a vastly different reality. For did not the owner brazenly proclaim, 'Let us make a run for the top-flight championship'?"

"Oh dear, heavens above! That is far beyond mere rashness!"

"And that is hardly all. He continued with remarks such as: 'He assured me he will respect my wishes regarding future transfers,' 'While I appreciate his consideration, I haven't given the slightest thought to the summer window,' and 'I was deeply moved by the owner's fiery passion and tireless devotion.'"

Their mocking theatrics echoed through the bus interior. I glanced around nervously, checking the reactions of the coaching staff and the other players. The only reason anyone tolerated this nonsense was because the instigators were respected club veterans; normally, who on earth would welcome someone shattering the squad's focus right before such a monumental fixture?

"And how did the reporters take it?"

"Master."

"What is it? Don't tell me... there is more?"

"Indeed. At the very end of the interview, Kim uttered a bald-faced lie that shall echo through eternity, claiming: 'He promised to break ground on a state-of-the-art training facility before the year is out.'"

"A high-tech training center? I heard whispers that would take until late next year at the earliest!"

"Where Kim managed to scrounge up that rumor remains a mystery even to me... though thanks to his bold proclamation, Coach Juan Naranjo's mouth has been split from ear to ear in an uncontrollable grin."

To my absolute dismay, muffled snickers rippled through the bus. What stung even worse than the laughter itself was the fact that everyone was holding their breath trying to stifle it. Not that I could deny committing an act of pure madness, of course. I really, truly should have kept my mouth shut about that training facility.

"Dani, Aythami. That's enough teasing."

A belated call for restraint finally drifted back from the front of the bus, courtesy of Coach Juan Naranjo. It would have been far more convincing if he had bothered to wipe that massive grin off his face instead of just adopting a flat, deadpan tone.

The two comedic actors in front of me seamlessly dropped their roles, reverting back to their usual foolish selves as if they had never staged a scene at all.

"Snow White has already taken the prince's side, I see."

"Well, he did secure a brand-new training facility as his dowry. Just look at the pure euphoria radiating from his back. Even his trapezius muscles are smiling!"

"Hmm... that's getting a bit scary. Let's keep quiet as mice now."

At long last, the intolerable duo sank beneath the headrests, vanishing from my line of sight. As soon as a shred of peace returned, I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs to capacity, intending to settle my scattered nerves with a heavy exhale.

Tap, tap.

Give me a break.

Unable to restrain himself for even a moment, a hand reached from the seat behind me and poked the back of my neck. It seemed the universe refused to grant me even a second of quiet reflection. Turning my head slightly, a mop of unruly, curly hair peeked over my shoulder.

Naturally. Who else could it be but Pedri?

"I haven't even said a single word yet," Pedri complained. "Glares that could kill are a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"...Just say what you need to say. What is it?"

"Take a look at this. Do you have any idea how upside down the fan forums are ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠over this training ground groundbreaking?"

"......."

"They're already collecting petition signatures to pressure the board. Since you basically gave them the marching orders, they're dead set on forcing construction to start before the year ends."

The Chihuahua shoved his smartphone directly into my face, wearing a thoroughly wicked smirk. A brief glance at the rectangular screen revealed an endless avalanche of wild punctuation marks and exclamation points. It seemed getting thoroughly chewed out by Pepe Mel—who had driven the words 'lies' and 'responsibility' into my skull at least a hundred times—had not been enough to pay the full price for my reckless mouth.

Seeing Miguel sweat under pressure was undoubtedly satisfying... but beyond that, I had no idea what would come of it.

Well, what would happen, would happen.

Amid sporadic cheers echoing down from the arriving crowd, we wrapped up our pre-match warm-ups and gathered inside the locker room. The players named to the starting lineup were putting the finishing touches on their taping. Right on cue, the coaching staff clapped their hands sharply, commanding the dressing room's attention.

"I don't want to place unnecessary pressure on your shoulders," Pepe began, his voice dropping to a measured, resonant tone. "However, there are days when you must look pressure directly in the eye."

He paused deliberately, letting the silence command our undivided focus. We stared into the manager's face like hungry pigeons waiting for grain.

"Sevilla, Valencia, and even Real Sociedad in the previous leg. Our strength has consistently been our offensive firepower. The presence of monstrous attacking talent helped compensate for tactical imperfections. But why, then, did we suffer defeat in that first leg?"

"......."

"Yeah... well, the defensive organization was lacking, to be honest," Aythami offered.

"Thank you for that answer, Aythami. Though let's replace 'lacking' with 'not quite there yet.' Compared to top-flight standards, we're simply 'not there yet.' That is why we've committed to a 4-4-2, drill after drill, pouring immense focus into maintaining our spacing and structural discipline."

"Mm."

"And from where I stand, you've improved drastically. All that is left now is to walk onto that pitch and kick their teeth in."

Just as I was beginning to marvel at his uncharacteristically gentle bedside manner, he snapped right back into familiar form by demanding we kick some backside. Not a single player smiled; the squad remained stoic and composed, waiting for his final words.

"Move as one unified organism. But when it comes to defensive duels, don't yield an inch to anyone—even if it's your own teammate going for the ball. As for the tactical details... I trust every single one of you knows his job."

"Yes, boss."

"I have nothing more to add. Win or lose, whatever the outcome may be... make sure you walk off that pitch having shown every ounce of the blood and sweat you poured into getting here."

Whether Pepe's speech stirred inspiration in every heart present, I could not say, but it undeniably struck a chord deep within me. The foolish banter from the bus evaporated completely, shoved to the furthest corners of my mind by the solemn weight of the occasion.

"Let's go."

"¡Vamos, Las Palmas!"

Our unified roar battered the locker room walls, temporarily drowning out the thunder of the stands outside. It was time to push myself past every limit to avenge our 3-2 defeat from the first leg.

Moments before kickoff, the two squads lined up in single file across the pristine turf. Once the ceremonial handshakes were concluded, the referee's whistle would unleash the battle. The stands before us were packed to the absolute brim, without an empty seat in sight. Somewhere hidden among that vast sea of faces, my father and Uncle Bari would be watching.

As we moved down the line exchanging handshakes, a few Real Sociedad players let out exaggerated snickers. Considering the sidelong glances they kept darting at my face, it wasn't hard to deduce that they were mocking the fans' newest terrace chant.

Whatever. It didn't bother me. It wasn't as if I was fond of that absurd chant anyway.

With the formalities concluded, both teams quickly fanned out to occupy their designated territory. Near the center circle, my eyes briefly locked with Rubén Castro's.

"Let's keep it simple."

"Got it."

A moment later, the referee blew his whistle, and with Las Palmas taking the kickoff, the first half was officially underway.

For the opening ten minutes, Las Palmas seized firm command of the match's tempo, largely thanks to the sharp tactical foresight of our chief analyst, Flores. Real Sociedad's 4-1-4-1 setup, right down to their subtle positional triggers, unfolded exactly as he had predicted.

"Íñigo!"

Answering Alberto de la Bella's shout, Íñigo Ruiz de Galarreta swung the ball out from central midfield toward the left flank. In a defensive phase, that patch ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of grass would have belonged to our left winger, Pedri. Instead, De la Bella had pushed aggressively past the halfway line, deep into opposition territory. During our attacking phases, Las Palmas left only two center-backs anchoring the rear, and because De la Bella took responsibility for maintaining width on the left, Pedri was free to tuck inside from the wing to overload the middle.

"Kim!"

Suddenly, Pedri flashed me an urgent, sharp glare. Realizing my tactical blunder, I scrambled desperately to drop into the second line. While Castro occupied the center-backs' attention, I should have coordinated my run into the central pocket alongside Pedri... but I was a beat too late.

The moment Real Sociedad's defensive midfielder recognized the breakdown and clamped onto Pedri without hesitation, De la Bella abandoned the progressive pass and recycled possession backward.

Dammit.

It didn't matter if you executed ninety-nine plays to perfection; a single miscue was always enough to leave a bitter, grating taste in your mouth. Castro flashed an encouraging gesture from near the penalty box, but to my self-critical ears, it felt like an indictment. How many hours of extra training had we put in? Between developing chemistry with Pedri and walking through tailored tactical explanations designed specifically for me, when I considered the sheer time Castro had invested in my development, feeling ashamed of such a rudimentary lapse was only proper.

Yet on a football pitch, there is no luxury to drown in self-reproach.

From deep in our half, Aythami sprayed the ball out to the right flank, and players from both sides shifted dynamically with the change in attacking direction. Right-back Eric Curbelo fed central midfielder Javi Castellano, who in turn slid the ball sequentially into the path of Cristian Ramírez as he surged deep down the right touchline.

I couldn't afford another mistake. I summoned every drop of tactical knowledge crammed into my head. Castro had warned me that trying to compute complex multivariable sequences during live play was premature, but wasn't it human nature for latent instincts to awaken under the sheer duress of desperation?

All right. Let's break it down.

Enough.

That was as far as my brain could take it.

...Castro was completely right.

I wasn't a tactical grandmaster. I was just a sorrowful predator born to hunt entirely on instinct.