Jesus Descends -2

I slowly turned to look at Youngbeom. His face was filled with rage, but he never unleashed it on his teammates to the end. Youngbeom was too kind-hearted to be a goalkeeper. The kid had such a good personality—too gentle, always brushing things off with a vague "what's good is good."

I shook my head at the sight. That was the problem. Why would a good personality be a problem? Of course it was. A goalkeeper's temper has to show on the pitch.

You have to treat your own mistakes as the defense's failures. You need that built-in hypocrisy of thinking, "I only conceded because you idiots were out of position." That's how you grow into a world-class keeper.

And you have to hurl pad-lips at brain-dead defenders as naturally as breathing. Letting things slide nicely isn't good. Show that fire—only then do these dumb European barbarians shape up.

Even now, if you look closely at the goal sequence, it happened because the defense reacted sluggishly to Youngbeom's calls. I, a rotten old striker past his prime, slipped right into the gap they created and scored easily.

What if ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that situation had been our team keeper, Ter Stegen? No, wait—Ter Stegen? Hell, if it was Ter Neuer.

Sergio Pepe lost his head and reacted a beat late to Mallorca's striker Diego Silva, nearly conceding. Ter Neuer exploded in fury.

"Puta Madre! You fucking bastard, who taught you to defend like that?!"

Of course, Ter Neuer wasn't some asshole in personality. This was only on the pitch. Off it, he's just one of those friendly, prankish German smartasses.

Anyway, for this match, I planned to awaken the beast inside Youngbeom.

20th minute of the first half.

Jesus received the ball from Luis Garcia near the penalty box. Mallorca players rushed to press, but Jesus split them like the Red Sea, breaking into the box.

Then came Jesus' half-beat-quick shot.

"Jesus shot!"

Despite the weakly named technique, the ball rocketed precisely into the corner of the net. Yoo Youngbeom barely punched it away. Real Madrid got a corner kick, and he lay on the pitch for a moment, catching his breath.

"Fuck. This is brutal."

A rough curse slipped out unbidden. Facing Real Madrid in the first leg was nothing compared to this. If you asked what made it so tough when the squad and tactics hadn't changed, Youngbeom would say this: it wasn't the endless barrage of shots or teammates losing the ball in under a minute.

"Jesus corner kick ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second ball smash!" "Jesus hectopascal kick!" "Jesus fakes a shot, fakes a pass, hesitates like maybe passing, then cutback fake—boom!"

Yeah. It was all that devil's mouth. Jesus' trap.

After calling it a cutback, Jesus suddenly unleashed a shot.

"Heeeng! Fooled ya! It was a shot all along!"

Thwack!

He stretched his arms and blocked the sneaky shot. Gnashing his teeth, he'd kept Real Madrid at bay so far—the score was still 1-0, that early goal from the defense's slow response stinging like hell.

And despite saving every shot after that first goal, Youngbeom felt intimidated by Jesus, whose morale was somehow rising.

"Yoo Youngbeom! Get up! You're Joseon's pride! Get up! You have to get up!"

Luka Savic's pass landed perfectly at my feet. Unlike the me-first Luis Garcia, it was a pass that considered the receiver.

If Yohan decided to become a soccer player—and a midfielder at that—I'd tell him to be like Luka Savic, not Luis Garcia.

Anyway, as I took Luka Savic's ball, I caught the tense expression on Mallorca's defender Felix. I knew this guy well. Not sure exactly when, but we'd been teammates briefly.

Last match, his thick hair threw me off, but now I recognized him. 'Hair's thinned out a lot since then.'

Sending him a pitying look, I quickly recalled his info. Macho culture devotee, loves the sticky feel of Korean swears—calls everyone ""—but at home, he's a family man playing dolls with his daughter.

Doesn't swear in front of her, either. Anyway, I nutmegged between his legs, broke through—but he yanked me down from behind.

The ref's whistle blew. Free kick. Luis Garcia loitered, itching to take it, so I shooed him off. "Piss off, it's mine."

Luis eyed the ball ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with regret, but I booted him without mercy. Train dogs right from the start. Like when I teased Partasu about dog soup—lay down the law hard once, and it's smooth sailing. And after 200+ years, I've learned: some people are dogs, but some dogs are practically human. Look at Partasu—that's no dog, half person.

Beep!

Ref blew the whistle, signaling to kick. I took a slow run-up, then smashed it with the outside of my instep—a trivela (outside-front) that arced beautifully like Roberto Carlos' UFO free kick, shaking the net.

The home fans at Santiago Bernabeu rose in awe, chanting my praise.

"Madrid! Madrid! Hala Madrid!"

As the net rippled, I sprinted to the corner flag and roared. Finishing the celebration, I turned—and there was Youngbeom, unleashing his fury on his teammates.

I nodded at the sight. Youngbeom, you grew already.

With a satisfied smile, I slowly looked up at the sky. Clear blue. A thought struck me: someday, if I break this regression ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠curse and meet the transcendent being pulling the strings... I'd have to say this.