Jesus and Patience - 2
After reconciling with Barcelona last season, Jesus approached the upcoming El Clasico with a calm heart.
'At least it'll be better than last season, right?'
He wasn't naive enough to think the Barcelona crowd wouldn't shower him with boos. His head wasn't some flower field where such childish thoughts bloomed. But looking at his surroundings, it was a reasonably logical assumption. Right next to him was the traitor Luis Garcia. And there was Sergio Pepe, who beat up Barcelona forwards whenever he got the chance, sidelining them with injuries.
'Sergio Pepe or Luis Garcia will take the heat instead of me, yeah? That's what friends are for—using 'em as shields.'
So Jesus figured the boos aimed at him would get redirected toward Sergio Pepe or Luis Garcia.
Right.
Jesus had underestimated the DNA etched into Real Madrid and Barcelona rivalry. Just as 5,000 years of history had ingrained Korean DNA to loathe the Chinese, the fans' DNA compelled them to spew venom at the sight of the opponent's ace in their uniform.
El Clasico match day. Barcelona's home ground, Camp Nou. The moment Jesus stepped into this hellhole for away teams, a massive wave of boos crashed down. Contrary to his expectations, every single jeer meant for Sergio Pepe or Luis Garcia was laser-focused on him.
"Boooooooo! Living the good life as a white boy now, huh, Jesus you bastard?!"
"Your FM loyalty stat's a 2, that's plenty! Dumbass!"
"Capital's slave with no honor, loyalty, or patience—Jesus!!!"
They weren't cursing him as a traitor anymore. They just hated seeing a Madrid player. And when that player was the ace? Jackpot.
That was why Jesus got the worst of it.
The usual ironclad mentality Jesus would've laughed it off with a big kekeke, flipping them off like it was nothing. But right now, he was as fragile as a nicotine addict in withdrawal, body and mind weakened.
"Booooo! What're you staring at, rookie punk?!"
"Pubes grown on that little dick yet?!"
"Go suck mommy's tit some more, you baby!"
His sealed right arm—Jesus—itched to flip off the Barcelona crowd. "Hold it! Gotta hold it! You can do this, Jesus!!!" The last shreds of rationality barely suppressed it, averting disaster. But who knew when the seal would break.
It was a powder keg ready to blow when Manuel Francisco Dos Santos—the transfer from Real Sociedad to FC Barcelona, now their ace—approached.
"Let's have a good game."
"...Yeah."
Manuel Francisco Dos Santos, who'd already banged in 22 goals this season, awakening his talent, burned with rivalry toward Jesus.
Jesus nodded, eyeing Manuel's blazing gaze.
'Hmm... Definitely talented, like I thought. No wonder I broke his legs in past loops.'
The old Jesus would've shattered Manuel's legs without hesitation to secure Korea's World Cup win. But with relaxed conditions and Yohan's birth, he'd become merciful. 'At this point, am I basically a gentleman of the pitch?'
As Jesus fancied himself a 19th-century British gent, the ref's whistle blew. Barcelona kicked off.
[The monumental 300th El Clasico between Real Madrid and Barcelona kicks off at Barcelona's home, Camp Nou.]
[Yes, as the historic 300th, neither team can afford to back down. Pre-match trash talk between the coaches was heated, right?]
[Indeed. Both showed iron wills to win. Who'll come out on top? And the ace showdown between Real Madrid's Jesus and Barcelona's Manuel Francisco Dos Santos is a must-watch.]
[Ref's whistle! Barcelona kicks off. Real Madrid in 4-3-3, Barcelona brings 3-3-3-1.]
[Barcelona's 3-3-3-1 is the pinnacle of Johan Cruyff's Cruyffism total soccer theory. Invented during Cruyff's Ajax days, used by Barca legends Pep Guardiola and Xavi Hernandez. Super aggressive with clear strengths—and weaknesses. High stamina drain, vulnerable to runs behind. Gotta watch fast attackers, but against Real Madrid? Solid choice.]
[Right. Iker Bravo on the left is way slower than his prime. Roberto Fabian on the right ain't quick either. Jesus too.]
[Yeah, less about stopping Madrid's spear, more like counter-fire.]
[Sergio Fabregas joining the build-up. La Masia blue-blood youth, shone last season, got the #8 this year.]
[Shows Barca's expectations. Oh—and right as I say that, Sergio Pepe fouls in the box. Prime free-kick spot for Barca! Manuel Francisco Dos Santos steps up.]
[Manuel's free-kick... He strikes! GOOOAL! Manuel Francisco Dos Santos scores the opener in the 300th El Clasico!]
[Unreachable trajectory for Ter Stegen. Keeper's face falls. Early goal spells trouble for Real Madrid.]
[Manuel Francisco Dos Santos! After scoring, he... grins at Jesus! Provocation?!]
[Barca crowd goes wild for the taunt! Jesus smirks in disbelief! Game's getting spicy!]
30th minute of the first half.
Real Madrid, stung by the early goal, knew momentum had swung to Barcelona. As they shifted from defense to attack after ages—
"Puta!!!"
Luis Garcia lost the ball to Barcelona's ferocious press.
Sergio Fabregas snatched it from Luis and fed Manuel. Manuel linked with the striker up top in a 2v1, slicing through Madrid's backline.
"What the fuck are you doing, you bastards!"
As Madrid's defenders fixated on Manuel, Sergio Fabregas sprinted into the box. Manuel cut back, and Fabregas one-timed it home for the finish.
The Camp Nou faithful—those culés—roared for Barca's future stars' teamwork.
"Tenim un nom que el sap tothom (Everyone knows that name)"
"Barça, Barça, Barça!"
Real Madrid players' faces darkened. Coach Valverde huddled grimly with his assistant. I let out a small sigh and grabbed the self-loathing Luis Garcia by his poodle hair.
"Hey, you Barcelona plant or what?"
"Puta! What bullshit, you prick."
"Why'd you lose the ball there, idiot!"
Classic leadership—cheering up a moping teammate. FM gonna bump my leadership stat for this?
People or beasts, you gotta grab 'em by the throat like rats to unleash their true potential. End of first half regulation, into stoppage. Post-mistake, Luis Garcia awakened as a rabid dog, charging like a beast to win balls.
"Puta! Take it, you prick!"
Luis, heaving, passed to me. I took it and bolted forward.
Iker Bravo signaled into space behind defense. I faked to him, duped the midfielder, and drove on.
Goal loomed large. I wound up my right foot—but felt a tug on my jersey from behind. I whipped my hand back to shake it off. That split-second delay let Barca defenders swarm, blocking the shot.
Attack fizzling? Then—
"Ball!! Gimme!! You prick!!!"
Rabid-dog Luis sprinted madly on my left. Instinct kicked in—I threaded through the defender's legs. The ball zipped perfectly to Luis.
Luis checked the keeper, hesitated... then chipped it precisely beyond his reach. Goal!
Luis charged the corner flag, roaring at the jeering Barca fans.
"Vamos!!! Fuck off!! I'm Luis Garcia!!!"