The Jesus Cost-Performance Theory

The rumor that Luis Garcia was about to become a dad spread like wildfire across Madrid in no time flat. And it got extremely detailed—word even got out that the pregnant one was none other than Coach Valverde's second daughter.

With Luis Garcia's permission, the players who'd heard the gossip spread by me and Luka Savic went up to him one by one to offer their congratulations.

"Hey! Luis, congrats!"

"Amigo! You joining the married man's club after Jesus now?"

Luis Garcia took their cheers with a reaction that was totally different from his usual self. It was like he'd gone back to that strict, solemn, dead-serious captain mode from his Barcelona days.

"Jesus, sorry, but I can't afford to pick up any more cards from now on. Gotta hustle and save up money for my kid that's on the way."

Luis Garcia, who'd been running wild with me on all sorts of antics until now, suddenly snapping back to his old self like that... it left a bitter taste in one corner of my heart. Like I'd spent all that time diligently staining a white sheet black, only for someone to wash it spotless.

Well, that was just in my head, of course. Out loud, I nodded in agreement with his stance.

Just as this good news was buzzing around Real Madrid, round 28 of the league kicked off against Las Palmas at the Santiago Bernabeu.

I could see the Las Palmas players in their yellow kits warming up.

Starting in this match myself, I took it slow stretching out. Time passed, the ref's whistle blew, and the game was on.

From the opening whistle, Luis Garcia showed everyone what a formula buff really meant. Diving straight into what I call his rabid dog mode, he tied up Las Palmas' midfielders with insane work rate, like today was his last day on earth.

Luis Garcia read their passing lane, intercepted, and fired the ball to Jesus Gonzalez breaking forward.

Jesus Gonzalez shook off the right back with his quick feet, spotted my position, whipped in a left-footed cross. I gave the opposing center back a light Yeosu-ta to the ribs—enough to keep him out of the challenge—and jumped casually for a header. Goal.

With the early strike, the home fans who'd packed the Santiago Bernabeu erupted in cheers. I bolted straight to the corner flag, puffed out my chest proudly, and stared them down.

What? You say my cost-performance is trash? Say it again!

Full time. Real Madrid 5 : 0 UD Las Palmas

Three days before Jesus scored and celebrated against Las Palmas.

About 60 years since scientific and tech advances linked the world so tight we started calling it a global village. The heated debate from Korea about Jesus' playing time got translated and hit Spain in a flash.

"Puta! What? They say we gotta sell Jesus? Say it again, you bastard."

"No, when did I say sell him? I said he's getting overpaid for what ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he does!"

"Now that I think about it, I kinda get Laporta. He should've asked the socios instead of pulling that shady crap…."

"Don't even mention that disgusting prick, you bastard."

"Yeah… I agree on that. Laporta crossed the line."

Three diehard Madridistas rewatching Real Madrid's 15th Champions League triumph in a pub—deep in heated debate—flipped their stance the second they saw Jesus roar after his extension-winning bicycle kick.

"Puta Madre!! That's him! That bitch Patricia! How dare she bench our god in the reserves!?"

"If not for Laporta and Patricia, we could've aimed for a three-peat this season!"

When the game ended in victory and Jesus lifted the big ears, even after two years, they sang and cheered like it was yesterday's final.

"Madrid, Madrid, Madrid ¡Hala Madrid!"

"Puta Madre! Jesus! He gifted mighty Madrid its 15th trophy! And then what?!"

"He's an icon of the era!! Kick him out, and we'll get lumped in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with those dumb, stinky Barcelona losers?!"

But unlike these guys who got their fix from the same old games every day, the idea that Jesus was overpaid seemed pretty reasonable to your average Madridista. Fans who never liked him much anyway used this chance to stir up negative buzz to boot him out.

It didn't take long for that online hate to reach the man himself, Jesus.

"After everything I've done for Real Madrid! Straight-up unhappy! No club as black-hearted as Real Madrid, tsk… Guess I gotta lay low for a bit?"

He'd won the mind games against the coach with fan backing. But against the fans? His regressor's instincts screamed defeat.

"Only way I beat the fans in a mind game is transferring…."

He didn't wanna leave his honey pot of a club that showered him endlessly, so he vowed to play as plain old Jesus, not Jejus, for the time being.

"Tsk…. Stay sealed!"

As Jesus grabbed his right arm and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sealed Jejus away in a corner of the yard, Yohan came toddling out with a soccer ball looking for Dad—and burst into frightened tears at the shout.

"Waaah! Daa-! Daaaddy yelled at Yohan!:"

With Jesus reborn as plain Jesus, stand-in coach Felipe's face lit up—finally free from Jejus card-watch duty.

The league rolled on. Real Madrid kept stacking wins.

Real Madrid fans loved watching Jesus run himself ragged every game without picking up cards.

At some point, fans started getting sick of Jesus' suddenly tame games.

"Hmm…. Jesus has been so well-behaved lately, games feel kinda boring now?"

"Yeah… Used to be that tense thrill of wondering when he'd get sent off."

"I liked when he provoked the opponents. Felt so damn satisfying."

"Especially against dumb Barcelona—peak stuff."

"What if next season he's even respecting Barcelona?"

"Puta! One of my life's joys is about to vanish?"

Overhearing Madridistas on the street, Jesus nodded slowly to himself. You guys are already hooked on Jejus' devilish charm. No escaping that easy, huh?

That's when one Madridista tapped a Korean-looking exchange student.

"But why'd Jesus change all of a sudden? Lee, you know anything?"

The guy called Lee gave an awkward smile and shook his head. "Huh? Nah…. No clue?"