Trimming the Wings
Sunday, March 29, 2020. UD Las Palmas Training Ground, Medical Center.
I gasped for air on the treadmill, my breath ragged and hot. My lungs burned all the way up to my throat, and a sharp, stabbing ache flared beneath my ribs. It wasn't pain worth making a fuss over, but the fact that my breathing rhythm was unraveling grated on my nerves.
"Hmm."
Dr. Bolaños stroked his chin with an index finger, letting out an ominous huff through his nose.
Just as it felt like a slab of stone had been dropped into the pit of my lungs, a beep sounded, and the treadmill gradually decelerated. I was too busy trying to catch my breath to ask any questions. Even the lightweight monitoring sensors taped across my bare chest felt like lead weights. Was my body really deteriorating as the season wore on, just as he had warned?
"Don't talk back. Just listen."
"..."
"Aerobic base, joint condition, muscle recovery rate, and so on. It's true that everything is charting a downward curve, but thankfully, it's still fluctuating within our projected parameters. Considering this is your very first professional season, one could say it isn't terrible. But by that same token, I can hardly call it good. As the chief medical officer of Las Palmas... my recommendation is that you sit out the next league match as well."
"..."
"Glare all you want, it won't change anything. Don't you want to play in the Copa del Rey final?"
My already sour temper turned completely inside out. Apparently, my body wasn't just lacking in raw strength; its durability was wretched to match.
"I told you to listen to me from the start. Running straight to Pepe and whining to him isn't going to miraculously fix your physical condition."
"...I didn't whine."
"Oh, really? Then who begged for this fitness test?"
Dr. Bolaños kept sneering, his mouth twisting like a flounder's, but I quietly peeled the electrodes off my chest without retorting. I understood all too well how annoyed he must be, having been dragged in on his rare weekend off, so even if he gave me a swift kick in the rear, I was ready to let it slide.
What I couldn't let slide, however, was the monitor beside the treadmill. The graph of my current condition crossed against the baseline from the beginning of the season. About two weeks remained until the Copa del Rey final. Even setting aside the bye week, if I couldn't play in the upcoming Matchday 37 away fixture against Real Oviedo, I would be heading into the final having rested two full weeks straight.
Smack!
A rough, dry palm struck my back, jolting me out of my brooding. I turned my head to find Dr. Bolaños scowling from beneath his shock of white hair.
"Do you carry the weight of the entire world on your shoulders? Pepe has a plan. Football isn't a one-man show. The other players are there to—"
"...?"
"Ahem. Well, you do shoulder an awful lot of it, but still... You need rest. Instead of stewing over things you can't control, go take a walk around your neighborhood."
"...Too many tourists."
Bolaños grumbled something under his breath about how I'd developed a knack for talking back lately, then swatted my back once more.
"Then go home and stay holed up inside. I'll email the diagnostic data through Juan Naranjo."
"Okay. Thanks."
My quiet words of thanks were promptly swallowed by the blare of his ringing phone. As I pulled a short-sleeved shirt over my head, Dr. Bolaños groaned and let out a succession of heavy sighs into the receiver. Not good. Even though I was ready to leave, I lingered in silence, waiting for him to finish the call.
"...What did they say?"
"His attending physician says he needs at least three weeks to recover."
"Then..."
"He's out of the final."
Dr. Bolaños left no room for hope. Like all doctors, he approached what seemed possible with extreme caution, while ruthlessly cutting down impossible dreams. The loss of a central pillar in our midfield. For Las Palmas, it was an outright disaster.
Same day, 4:53 PM.
My mind was a tangled mess. It wasn't just the worry over how the coaching staff would fill Íñigo's vacant spot. To be completely honest... sitting in the passenger seat of a car driven by Nicolás Varela felt stifling. Hard as it was to believe, I was heading down toward eastern Gran Canaria—straight to Pedri's house—with a teammate I wasn't even particularly close to.
"...Haven't had dinner yet, right?"
"Nope."
"..."
An excruciatingly awkward silence settled over the car. Nicolás kept rubbing his sweaty palms against the steering wheel. Having to drive a foul-tempered kid around was probably nerve-racking enough for him. Then again, it wasn't as if I'd volunteered for this trip either. As it happened, Aythami, egged on by Mantovani, had plotted this whole scheme with Pedri.
'I'm not a fan of talking real estate either.'
And once I factored in Uncle Bari's position as well, somehow... this bizarre picture had materialized before I knew it.
"Did you get plenty of rest this morning?"
"No. Had my fitness checked at the medical center."
"Today? Hmm, how'd it turn out?"
"A mess, apparently."
"...Ah, man."
Ever since I'd flung a heap of unfiltered bile at Aythami and Castro three weeks ago, I had kept my mouth firmly shut whenever more than two people gathered. Yet trapped here with just the two of us, staying completely silent felt impossible, while trying to hold a conversation felt utterly exhausting. Just look at how heavily Nicolás's brows hung over his tanned face. Beneath his styled, brushed-up hair and every tightening pore, I was certain he was unleashing a relentless barrage of Argentine profanities in his head.
By the time I counted about twenty palm trees lining the coastal road, I feigned nonchalance and broke the silence with a topic about Las Palmas. It was a subject chosen after considerable deliberation—one where I couldn't possibly mess up.
"I overheard Bolaños on the phone today. Íñigo's injury is worse than they thought. He's probably out for about three weeks."
"What?!"
Before I could even register his surprisingly dramatic reaction, Nicolás blurted out something bewildering.
"Ah, damn it, that's a huge problem! Missing two starting spots is insane!"
"...Why two spots?"
"Pedri can't play either."
For a second, I genuinely wondered if we were en route to a hospital visit. But just yesterday, Pedri had been bouncing around in perfect health, teasing me about whether I was going to do any press interviews.
"Is he injured?"
"No, not that. Our final opponent is Barcelona, remember? Under his loan clause, he isn't allowed to play against his parent club."
"..."
"...You didn't know?"
How on earth would I know? That deranged Chihuahua spent all his energy winding me up and never mentioned a single word about it. Idiot!
The car came to a stop near Playa de Jinámar. We followed an alley leading inland, driving straight for about three minutes. Nestled among apartment blocks that looked more sickly beige than true yellow stood a standalone house with an enclosed yard.
"Let's head in. The others are already here."
"Yeah."
Passing the exterior wall, I spotted a yard filled with stubby palm trees and knee-high shrubs. The front door swung open with a click, and an elderly woman—a grandmother, rather—stepped out, letting out a cheerful gasp.
"Nicolás!"
"Candela! How've you been?"
The grandmother, who stood a good handbreadth taller than Nicolás (who was only slightly taller than me), instantly pressed her cheek against his in a warm greeting. Please, spare me from that.
"I told you to come by more often!"
"Haha, but I came by just last week!"
"I mean more often than that, silly boy!"
"All right, all right. And over here... well, I'm sure you can tell who this is at a glance?"
The remarkably tall grandmother turned and looked down at me. A soft smile played around the wrinkles of her mouth, keeping her presence from feeling completely overwhelming. Her slender, elongated facial features and the loose curls framing her head bore undeniable genetic testimony to Pedri's heritage. This woman was the very matriarch of the Pedri bloodline.
"Hello! I'm Candela González. You can just call me Candela."
"Hello... nice to meet you."
"Oh, no need to introduce yourself! And speak comfortably, dear. I heard your Spanish isn't quite fluent yet."
"..."
"Pedri talks about you so much that I've always wondered what kind of boy you were. I'm so glad I finally get to meet you."
For starters, I was deeply relieved that I was spared the cheek-kissing. Yet at the same time, several questions sprang to mind. Why hadn't Pedri inherited his grandmother's height? Where was the dear grandson who couldn't even play in the final hiding? And why did she keep gently rubbing my back? Questions that could never cross my lips swirled quietly in my head.
"Come on inside. Everyone's been waiting just for the two of you."
"Is that so?"
Candela ushered me toward the beige front door. Had my body grown so weak that I couldn't even slip free of an old grandmother's grip? It was a strange, humbling sensation.
"Kim, do you like potatoes and tomatoes? Pedri told me you're from Korea. I hope the food suits your palate."
"I like them, ma'am."
"..."
"...I like them."
Unable to endure her expectant gaze any longer, I dropped the formal honorifics and mumbled casually.
"That's a relief! Though to be fair, everything I cook turns out delicious anyway. Hoho, getting old just makes you worry over nothing."
A seasoned smile spread across Candela's lips, and she rattled on with warm chatter. Just then, above the thumping clatter on the staircase, Pedri's voice rang out.
"Grandma~!"
"What is it?!"
"Can I have some fries? I'm starving!"
"Your friend is here! Wait a little longer before you eat!!"
Her booming voice rattled the entire house, and the scurrying footsteps midway down the stairs abruptly lost all momentum. Once the veins popping along her neck subsided, Pedri's grandmother turned back and gestured toward the interior of the house with a knowing wink.
Dinner around the table with five grown men turned out far better than I'd expected. Pedri had tried to bring up the past, whining that standing up his grandmother's suckling pig once was quite enough when I'd broken our earlier dinner promise. However, once Aythami chimed in with detailed testimony about the Chihuahua's petty retaliations, Candela's palm came crashing down mercilessly across the vengeful creature's back. Even remembering it now brought an unending sense of satisfaction. It had been thoroughly enjoyable.
And after dinner, up on the second floor...
With each player staking out a corner of the sofa, I found myself cornered in the middle of a decision-making process I couldn't comprehend in the slightest. Up on the massive TV screen in front of the couch, the club crests of UD Las Palmas and FC Barcelona were displayed side by side.
"All right... Losers have to perform a talent show on the next away trip. No takebacks, got it?"
"Obviously."
"Kim, let bygones be bygones. We have to unite our strength right now. If there's anything you don't know, ask right away. Quick!"
"..."
"Do you remember the buttons? 'X' is a ground pass when attacking, and player containment when defending. Circle is a lobbed pass and a sliding tackle—"
Aythami, Mantovani, and Nicolás dove into a heated debate over Las Palmas's tactical formation, while I listened to Pedri explain the controller buttons... Wait a second. I had never once agreed to participate in any talent show.
"You all know what this is! A noble crusade to punish the traitors! Mercy is reserved strictly for our own teammates! We've already given them more than enough handicaps! Show no mercy!"
And on top of that, I had never wanted to play as Barcelona in the first place.
"Crush them!"
"¡Vamos, Las Palmas!"
Still, there was no point wasting breath cursing the impassioned idiots. The Chihuahua, who couldn't even play in the actual final, was gripping my ear and whispering frantically.
"Just stick to the pass button. I'll handle everything else."
"Hey—"
"Kim! Even if you lose today, it'll only be your first talent show—wait, no, you wouldn't do it anyway. Whatever! If I lose this bet, it'll be my second talent show! Pull yourself together!"
I felt utterly pathetic just sitting here listening to this nonsense with a straight face.
"...Get a grip on yourself."
"..."
"If by some miracle we lose... you'd better be prepared for the consequences, got it?"
What on earth was he on about?