The Decisive Gambit
The referee checked his wristwatch and blew for the end of the first half. The instant the shrill whistle registered, twenty-two pairs of boots ground to a halt across the pitch.
The scoreboard still held firm at 2–2.
While the forwards on both sides chewed on bitter regret, the defenders wore their relief openly, thankful not to have conceded another. A vicious cycle had played out dozens of times: a Barcelona wave broke harmlessly against the backline, and Las Palmas immediately unleashed a blistering counter.
The crowd might have relished the relentless, end-to-end chaos and cheered their lungs out, but from where I stood… it had been an utterly dizzying forty-five minutes.
"Kim, how are your legs?"
"Still holding up."
Near the tunnel entrance, physical coach Juan Naranjo fell in beside me, matching my stride. A trace of concern shadowed his eyes as he looked down at my thighs and calves.
"Let's get you on the massage table first."
"Got it."
A few moments later, inside the dressing room.
While isotonic drinks and bananas passed between exhausted hands, the physiotherapist claimed full rights over my legs, aggressively kneading out the tight muscle fibers. Perhaps because the initial rush of adrenaline was finally ebbing, the dull ache flaring from the deep muscle tissue grated on my nerves.
Clack—
The sharp latch of the door turning drew every player's gaze. Led by the round-bellied Pepe Mel, the Las Palmas coaching staff stepped briskly into the room.
The manager clapped his hands twice to seize our attention, a tight, measured smile tugging at his lips before he spoke.
"Good. Not bad at all. I know the mental fatigue is heavy, but—"
"Kim."
"Yeah?"
Assistant coach Roberto Ríos dropped onto one knee right in front of my massage bench. His complexion was dark, his hardened gaze broadcasting that whatever he had to say wasn't going to be pleasant.
He told me before kickoff that I could play however I wanted today, so what is it now?
After a brief hesitation, he led with a sly compliment.
"Your first half was exceptional. Far beyond what we asked of you. Still, the number of dribbles you took has me a bit worried."
"…Was it too many?"
"Yeah. Seven times in the first half alone."
I pointed the physio toward a particularly knotted spot on my hamstring and turned the gears in my head, calculating what lay ahead. Could I afford to dial it back in the second half? Doubtful.
"If I hadn't pushed the issue like that, we would have surrendered the initiative in seconds."
"Kim, I'm not reproaching you after the fact. I'm just laying out the reality of where we stand. And even if there's blame to be assigned, it rests entirely on the staff. Our tactical levers were limited, but even so… we let that entire burden fall squarely on your shoulders."
"…Right."
"The real problem is the second half. If we slow down our transition speed to preserve the forwards' legs, the odds of handing match control over to them skyrocket. When you weigh the overall quality gap and squad depth, Las Palmas will only be pushed further into a corner the deeper this match goes."
"So what's the plan?"
Ríos exhaled a long, heavy breath, his tone stiffening with grim resolve.
"We're making our decisive push right at the start of the second half."
"…Do we really have to?"
"We have no choice. They already know you're the focal point of our entire offense. You think Barcelona's manager cranked the tempo up like that just to give the spectators a show?"
"Mm."
"Ten to one, they'll come out with the exact same rhythm. So even if it runs us ragged, we have to seize the lead first and throw a wrench straight into their game plan."
I nodded in acceptance and immediately moved on to the specifics. Right or wrong, I had no desire to bicker over the staff's tactical call.
"Are we altering the formation?"
"The overarching framework stays intact, just fine-tuning the details. The movements of both wingbacks and Nicolás's positioning. And Dani Castellano will take Kirian Rodríguez's place in the midfield."
"Meaning you're pushing Nicolás up into attacking midfield?"
"Exactly."
As Ríos straightened his numb knees and rose to his feet, Pepe's thunderous tactical barking echoed across the room, rattling the lockers.
"You can get stuck in harder! Are we going to play scared and pull out of challenges just because it's a cup final? Mantovani, not you! And the backline, same principle. Aythami!"
"Sí."
"Don't let them drop you into the penalty box! If you panic and retreat there, you've got nowhere left to fall back. It paralyses the entire midfield line. Remember, our setup is already plenty defensive as it is!"
"Understood."
"Curbelo and De la Bella, widen your operating radius. The priority is lateral movement that opens up pockets of space for Kim. Nicolás! You… just keep doing what you've been doing."
"Got it!"
"All right, ten minutes—no more, no less. Keep firmly in mind that we have to bleed maximum reward out of those opening ten minutes!"
I glanced over at the squad roaring back in unison. Half their faces were flushed with fiery adrenaline; the other half were set in stone-cold concentration.
"…So around what minute am I coming off?"
At my unprompted question, Roberto Ríos delivered a flat, dismissive reply, subtly laced with a smirk and a quiet snort.
"Subbed off? Barring an injury, you're playing the full ninety. Just produce a result by any means necessary. Once you do, we'll immediately shift back to a deep counter-attacking block, and you can manage your dribble count from there."
Las Palmas's tactical gamble paid off about three-quarters of the way. With a ferocious high press unleashed from the whistle and both fullbacks bombing forward, Barcelona's flanks were blown wide open.
Fifty-third minute. Out on the far right flank, wingback Eric Curbelo received a piercing forward pass from Nicolás. With a solid thud, our third cross of the second half whipped into the danger zone, but…
"Ugh—!"
The center-back's hip bone slammed directly into Castro's ribs, eliciting nothing more than an agonized gasp as the ball cleared.
As anyone might have guessed, the remaining one-quarter of the plan had completely overlooked our striker's diminutive height.
Fortunately, substitute Dani Castellano fought to recover the loose ball, steadying the offensive momentum alongside Nicolás in the second line.
"Nicolás!!"
With Barcelona's defensive line reeling in disarray, Curbelo aggressively demanded another through ball down the right channel.
Spotting Curbelo's run, Nicolás drove a low ball with his instep, and the rapid, skittering pass… came straight to my feet.
Right on the edge of the penalty box, near the right corner.
Unchallenged, I pivoted toward the goal. The harsh lessons of the first half seemed to make the opposition hesitant to close me down recklessly.
In the meantime, Barcelona's defense scrambled back into their narrow diagonal block, compressing toward the center.
Just as they had late in the first half, they wanted to herd me wide to the right and rely on their goalkeeper's shot-stopping—manufacturing what they considered a 'manageable crisis.'
However, unlike the end of the first half, I had several extra options at my disposal: right fullback Curbelo, central striker Castro, and Nicolás Varela lurking nearby.
Let's see how long they could hold that congested central wall.
Turf kicked up to my right, signaling a desperate sliding challenge from a tracking central midfielder.
Yet from that distance, it was merely adventurous; I dragged the top of the ball with the sole of my boot and evaded the lunge without breaking a sweat.
Simultaneously, the defensive midfielder partially screening my left began taking measured strides forward.
Diagonally, roughly two and a half paces out.
Flash— A sudden, electrifying conviction that this very moment was the match's turning point dialed my focus to a razor's edge.
First, bundle the defensive midfielder and left-back Jordi Alba into a single unit. Assuming I broke past both, center-back Clément Lenglet would be forced to step out and bar my path.
That would naturally leave only the far center-back and the right-back guarding the interior of the box. Even if only Castro and Nicolás crashed the net, it would instantly become a three-on-three contest.
The moment the calculations fell into place, I locked onto my initial point of entry.
Jordi Alba wouldn't bite easily, so factoring only the defensive midfielder's closing speed, I pinpointed the optimal seam.
Cutting diagonally from the corner of the box straight through the heart looked treacherous, but it offered the highest reward. Lowering my head, I charged directly at the seam of their staggered diagonal line.
Two strides to breach the corner of the box.
One stride to feign a burst to the outside past Jordi Alba.
Half a stride tucking my left shoulder inward to bait the defensive midfielder into committing.
In a split second, the left-back's shoulders turned outward away from the box, while the defensive midfielder realized their recovery lines were tangling and subtly hesitated.
In the blink of an eye, my courage was put to the test.
Damn it.
One deep breath, clenching my molars tight… dropping my center of gravity to the absolute limit—I drove my shoulder straight into the narrow gap between both men.
WHAM—!!!
Taking the full brunt of the defensive midfielder's weight multiplied by his forward momentum, my locked jaw shuddered violently from the impact.
Good lord.
I thought I had thrown myself in with plenty of savagery, but a mongoose headbutting a rhinoceros… if anyone ever witnesses that happening, please, do the mongoose a favor and pull it away.
For the first time in ages, I scrambled on all fours like a dog just to maintain ownership of the ball.
"Hey!!"
"¡Oye—! That's a foul!"
Shouts claiming an infringement erupted around me, but whether the referee blew his whistle… hell if I knew. I had zero mental bandwidth left to listen for a whistle.
Over ninety percent of my balance had completely disintegrated.
Catching the blur of a defender closing in, I marshaled the remaining ten percent of my body control to poke the match ball forward with the tip of my boot.
By sheer stroke of providence, Nicolás charging into the center of the box had flashed across my peripheral vision.
A heartbeat later, a resounding crack was swallowed whole by an explosive roar from the stands. Truth be told, I didn't even see how the ball went in.
"E-YEE!!"
While Barcelona's players swarmed the match official in furious protest, the Argentine parrot swooped in and began violently pecking at the crown of my head.
"……."
"We're leading!! We're actually in front!!"
Groaning, I shoved him off, taking a moment of dead-serious reflection to wonder whether both my shoulders had just been permanently fused into my torso.
…The more I replayed the collision in my head, the more miraculous it felt that I had walked away without snapping a bone.
Glory, glory! Behold the radiant prince bearing the golden crown of Las Palmas—!
The eyes of tomorrow beat within your heart!
The Las Palmas supporters bounced furiously on their feet, transforming the Estadio de La Cartuja into a rolling, ecstatic sea of canary yellow.
"You crazy bastard! What a ball!!"
"Haha, you wicked little devil!"
"…Get off me!"
Struggling against half a dozen hands mercilessly ruffling my hair, I caught sight of Pepe Mel beyond his bouncing belly, shadowboxing the Seville air with relentless fury.
Kim~ Kim! Sworn in blue and yellow, in flesh and soul—!
We dream of the golden prince who carries the immortal banner!!
At the very least, the opening ten minutes of the second half had unfolded exactly according to Las Palmas's design.