Chapter 9
Chapter 9
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: Canary Prince (1)
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The players and I step onto the pitch, trampling the grass as the second half kicks off.
At the tunnel entrance leading out to the stadium, the fans greet us with thunderous applause and cheers. We're behind, but our condition couldn't be any sharper.
The sun dips low, casting a faint glow of sunset across the far side of the stadium.
A cloudless sky with unusually low humidity for Gran Canaria. Perfect weather for running all over the place. Fuenlabrada kicks off the second half.
“Do whatever you want!”
Head coach Ríos had instructed us not to press high up the pitch.
With Pekhart subbed off due to a minor injury—along with Castro and Iñigo coming on for Kirian Rodríguez—we had no subs left and needed to conserve energy.
To build up for an onslaught starting at the 70th minute, Las Palmas dropped our defensive line deep.
Ríos's tactic, prepared in the locker room, worked perfectly from the outset. Fuenlabrada's forwards looked thoroughly rattled by our sunken defense.
Our fullbacks, Mikel and Antonio, stayed back beyond the halfway line without joining the attack, just as Ríos had ordered. As a result, their striker Liera couldn't get near the penalty area and lost possession to Srnić's covering run.
Srnić fires a crisp ground pass that lands right at Castro's feet just past the center line.
“Castro! Ball!”
Everyone on the team acknowledges Castro's elite ball retention skills.
He shrugs off pressure from the opposing center-back glued to his back, twists his head, and makes eye contact. I sprint toward him along the right touchline to receive the pass, battling their fullback.
I slap away the hand grabbing at my jersey and shove my shoulder in front of his to hold my ground.
I can hear the fullback's ragged breathing just past my ear. Not too far, but not too close either. Just the right distance to claim the upper hand.
Every scrap of info from the coach—like the fact that Fuenlabrada's left-back Antonio is left-footed—has to be used.
I subtly shift my position a hair to his right, creating an angle where he can't lunge straight in.
The moment I receive the pass from Castro, I tap it gently past Antonio's leg as he tries to recover, feinting him out, then burst toward the sideline.
The pitch feels massive. Their center-back scrambles to cover the gap Antonio left, but he's too slow on the reaction and the speed. The right flank is wide open.
As I drive the ball down the right wing, it suddenly feels easy. Unlike previous games, there's no pressure from their defenders at all. Is it just peak condition?
Or maybe Sedlis had been playing in too cushy a position. Or, just maybe—with a tiny sliver of possibility—I've actually gotten better.
“The Prince of the Canaries! Show us more!”
“Good job! Destroy them!”
“Smash it!”
Even the crowd's roars, which I hadn't noticed before, ring clear now. It's not a lack of focus—it's composure. Their center-back, with the captain's armband on his bicep, gives up trying to occupy the space when I don't give him tackling room and backs off bit by bit. I cut diagonally inside. I can feel him wary of me.
Feels good.
The space their center-back vacated meets the edge of the penalty area line. Do I veer left along the line to create a shooting angle from the middle, or fake and run the ball all the way down the right edge of the box?
Castro needs time to break into the box. Srnić is following centrally, but he's too far away.
Head toward a shooting angle? Hate the risk of losing it. Their defender probably expects me to cut inside anyway.
Ah, indecisive fool. My biggest flaw as a footballer is failing to make clear choices.
So I just let it flow.
A nudge with my instep sends the ball rolling gently forward. One touch fades my advantage. If the defender's left foot comes, go left; right foot, go right.
A random thought hits: the Go games I played with Grandpa as a kid have something in common with soccer.
When the frustrated opponent steps into the trap you've already set, you've half-won the numbers game.
That's exactly the spot we're in.
The instant I see Fuenlabrada's center-back's left thigh and torso twitch, I rake the ball back with the sole of my left foot to regain control. A defender who commits to the challenge doesn't let go, even if it's the wrong choice.
His left foot plants in the turf instead of on the ball, and I slip out to his right—past his planted foot.
No flashy tricks needed.
Powering past him with my lead foot, the path ahead opens up wide. Castro has already reached the edge of the box. The center-back marking him spots the shooting lane and rushes me instead, leaving Castro wide open.
“Eyeee-!”
“Gol! Gol! Gol!”
Castro meets my nudged pass and unleashes a ferocious shot. Fuenlabrada's keeper reads the direction toward the left post but can't match the blistering pace.
“Gracias, Kim!”
“Yeah. Nice one.”
51st minute of the second half. 1-2. Castro grabs the ball for the restart, and we exchange a quick fist bump.
Las Palmas fans, ignited by this spark of hope, unleash wild screams of joy. Plenty shake and dance to the tune blasting from the stadium speakers.
Before the restart, Itami relays the bench's instructions with some praise.
“Kim, great pass. Ríos says keep feeding you the ball.”
“Good choice. Give it to me.”
“Make the equalizer too. You're on fire.”
No time to reply—the whistle blows, and Fuenlabrada attacks. Itami hustles back to position.
Fuenlabrada acts like our goal came from their fair play, ramping up the roughness and recklessness, as if that's the only way to stop us scoring.
Tweet—the ref's whistle again. The culprit is number 16, Bayeho, already booked in the first half.
Fuenlabrada's elbow-happy tadpole prince protests his second yellow like elbows don't exist on him, but the ref isn't having it.
Satisfying punk.
But first things first: check on Kirian Rodríguez, struck by Bayeho's elbow.
More precisely, see if the guy has the mental fortitude to keep playing.
Blood streams from above his eye where it hit his forehead.
“You good? It's nothing.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
The team doc raises three fingers toward the bench from afar, and Ríos exhales in visible relief.
57th minute of the second half. Now it's an 11-v-10 battle. Fuenlabrada subs their forwards Liera and Enteca for defensive players. A blatant defensive lock-in.
63rd minute. Kirian Rodríguez, who reclaimed possession in the stadium from a midfield opponent's poor touch after we'd lost it, regains control.
The ball goes from attacking midfielder Vieira to right wing-back Álvaro. Next in the flow: me.
Fuenlabrada's fullback, winger, and central midfielder press as one, but I've already taken up position. Receiving spot: right edge of the halfway line.
I take it and pivot to face forward, waiting for the charge. In that split second, I can predict how the wing-back and central midfielder will move.
No need to worry about the winger charging from behind. The right path for the ball is blocked by the touchline, so just assume he can't follow back there.
“Damn it!”
I whip the ball with spin, floating it over the Fuenlabrada players. Problem is, my body can't follow the same path.
If I go that way, it'll be like getting mauled by hyenas—jersey shredded.
That's when you just step off the line and run. Balls can't go there, but people can. I turn the three chargers into fools and drive forward.
The right space gapes open once more.
Before their defense can reset, I take half a breath and surge in at full throttle again. Penetrating deep to the penalty area flank, I see fans behind the goal rising tensely from their seats.
Castro and Vieira lurk inside the box.
I want to cross, but the Fuenlabrada center-back from before hounds the space with fierce marking.
So instead, take it a step deeper right. Not a nudge—more of a caress. By the time both feet plant, the ball will be skirting the line.
Just like before.
Caress—nudge. Right foot pushes it a step along the line, second step with left instep curls it 90 degrees toward the keeper.
I endure the heavy load on my right foot to keep my body from drifting behind the goal line. I stray just off the line, but not enough to lose possession.
Castro and Vieira surge toward the keeper to receive.
“Mark him! 21!”
The keeper's left shoulder, guarding a potential cross, stands out. Greed for goal. Using my strained right foot right now is too much.
Is shooting with my left foot—barely trained yet—smart?
In the end, I did what I wanted. Just like coach Pepe said.
“Eyeee--!”
“Aye-!”
If you've ever struck a ball, you know those moments when you sense the outcome before it even leaves your foot. When you've botched it big-time, or smashed it beyond your usual limits.
The fans bellow and chant along in waves.
“There’s a prince in the Canaries~ The prince came from Korea!”
“He’ll bring honor to Canaria~ Prince of the golden crown!!”
Eh, don't sing weird songs...