One Scrimmage Was Enough

When the interview conducted at the Spanish airport made its way back to Korea, the Korean public granted me something called a Lifetime Hate-Proof Pass.

The "hate-proof pass" — a guarantee against getting flamed — was supposedly a kind of talisman promising that no matter what mistake I made, no one would ever drag my name through the mud.

Its efficacy, like any talisman's, was exactly zero. In other words: useless.

They called it a lifetime pass, but in truth it wasn't even good for a single use. It was pure decoration.

Not that it would ever happen, but suppose I failed to score on a decisive chance? The Korean public would come sprinting in from every direction to bury me alive.

Anyway.

The club actively supported our family's settlement in Valencia. They found us a neighborhood not far from the training ground with a sizable Korean community — and, as you'd expect where Korean families lived, the security was excellent.

"Woooow! There's even a yard!"

"Eun-bi, be careful! You'll hurt yourself if you fall!"

"Okay!"

Naturally, the housing prices matched, but thanks to a bank the club introduced us to, we secured a loan at a favorable rate.

"...Guess I'd better work hard from now on."

Drawing on his career as a camera director back in Korea, my father founded a production company in Valencia, Spain. Here, too, the club lent an enthusiastic hand, so putting down roots wasn't much of a problem.

The very first client to bring work to my father's company was Cristiano Ronaldo. Apparently he was planning to film a documentary about himself in the near future.

And Ronaldo didn't stop with my father — he sent me an unexpected offer as well.

"...He's filming his own documentary, and he wants to cast me as young Ronaldo?"

"That's what he says."

"We're not even the same ethnicity, Dad."

"Ronaldo says that doesn't matter."

...If that doesn't matter, then what on earth does?

When I stared at my father, utterly baffled, he just shrugged with a wry smile.

...Fair enough. It's not like we can understand the man either.

This was the same man who doubled my weekly allowance the moment he heard my name would be mentioned alongside Messi's.

He clearly possessed a mental landscape that no sane person — myself included — could hope to comprehend.

Best not to look too closely.

In any case, my father landed not only Ronaldo's documentary but also a standing outsourcing contract for Valencia's official content.

Even after the documentary shoot wrapped, we'd have steady income.

And the subject my father would be filming for Valencia was, of all people, me.

Presumably because Cristiano Ronaldo had "battled an entire continent" to sign me, an image of me as a continental-scale genius had taken root. As a result, the expectations of the Valencia CF fanbase were said to be sky-high.

The club's stated goal was to film footage of me from my youth days onward, allowing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fans to build a bond with me as I grew.

Yeah... it's all a pretext, of course.

In reality, it was a convenient workaround to secure our family's Spanish immigration visas with minimal fuss.

It was the kind of arrangement FIFA could have reasonably objected to, but apparently because Cristiano Ronaldo was busy feuding with an entire continent, nobody flagged it.

They're ignoring it because even they don't want to get tangled up with Ronaldo.

Anyway.

Though I'd signed my youth contract with Valencia, the administrative processing was expected to take considerable time.

I planned to spend that period focusing on fundamentals and physical conditioning.

Two weeks passed.

Every procedure for joining the club was finally complete.

And at last, the day I would join the Valencia youth team arrived.

The next day, I headed to Ciudad Deportiva de Paterna — Valencia CF's training complex.

A sprawling 180,000 square meters packed with training facilities and a full recovery center. Every player belonging to Valencia CF trained here.

The first team and the Juvenil squads trained in the mornings, while the younger age groups trained in the afternoons due to school.

One thing I gathered from visiting the place: Cristiano Ronaldo was actually a fairly beloved owner among Valencia fans.

He took a genuine interest in running the club and invested in it quite aggressively.

Granted, there were grumblings about him forcing strange contract clauses on his players, but...

Compared to former owner Peter Lim, Cristiano Ronaldo was an absolute angel.

Seeing him actively invest in the club's facilities, no one could deny he was a good owner. Valencia's results had improved considerably since he took over, too.

The club hadn't lifted a trophy under him yet, but dragging a squad that had been teetering on the brink of relegation thanks to Peter Lim's catastrophic management all the way up to mid-table was, by any measure, a commendable achievement.

Then again.

Why do I feel like I can already guess exactly what those "strange contract clauses" are...?

I'd have been willing to bet everything I owned that they were "something related to Messi."

One look at the clauses inserted into my own youth contract with Valencia made it impossible not to.

Well, even without my insider knowledge, anyone who'd followed the public statements of Valencia's current squad could probably put two and two together.

"Next! In you come!"

"Hola."

Either way, today was scheduled for my medical.

Beyond screening for existing injuries, a growth-plate examination could estimate how tall my body would eventually become — so Valencia's youth players came here for a thorough examination at least once every six months.

"Oh là là!"

As the medical proceeded, Valencia's medical team broke into exclamations of admiration.

My cardiopulmonary endurance and overall athletic metrics had all registered at the very top of the scale.

All of it was the fruit of proper nutrition and training that hadn't skipped a single day.

Then came the growth-plate results: a projected final height of 183 to 185 centimeters.

Short for a striker, but by my standards, just right.

The taller you grow, the more your agility suffers — and given my style of play, being excessively tall would have worked against me.

"What a relief. We'll need to keep monitoring him since he's still growing, but... factoring in his frame, I don't think he'll lose much agility at this height."

The medical staffer who'd measured me let out a sigh of relief as well.

And with the medical complete —

"Jae-rim! Training pitch is over here! Follow me!"

I moved to the training ground to take part in my first proper session.

Spain's youth system was divided into six stages.

From the bottom up: Prebenjamín, Benjamín, Alevín, Infantil, Cadete, and Juvenil.

At youth level, a single year of age could mean a dramatic difference in physique, so the categories were finely split by age bracket to foster the young players' development and prevent injuries.

That said, you weren't automatically confined to your age bracket.

If a prospect's ability was overwhelmingly superior, he could fast-track — skip up a bracket.

Anyway.

Born in October, I hadn't yet had my birthday, so I was still twelve. By age alone, Infantil B was the correct placement.

But thanks to what I'd shown on that broadcast four years ago, I was cleared to fast-track straight into the Cadetes.

Apparently the club's brass had judged that this much was sufficient.

...Isn't the club underestimating me a bit too much?

For an ordinary prospect, skipping into the Cadetes would have been honor enough. Unfortunately, I was not an ordinary prospect.

Frankly, it stung a little to feel so undervalued.

"We're playing a scrimmage now, everyone. Play carefully, and nobody get hurt."

The coach saying this while glancing pointedly in my direction rubbed me the wrong way, too.

A short while later, the scrimmage kicked off, and the Cadete players threw their vastly superior physiques at the game.

With gaps of up to three years, a physical mismatch was inevitable — every one of them stood at least a full head taller than me.

That's not how you play shoulder-to-shoulder, kids.

But unfortunately for them, physique alone wasn't going to stop me.

I used the shove of a midfielder pressing at my back as a springboard, accelerating off his own momentum.

Slipping a nutmeg between the legs of the defender blocking my path, I glided past him, then in the penalty box calmly sold the goalkeeper a fake, broke his balance, and slotted the ball home at the far side.

"The talent is undeniable. Now I see why the higher-ups decided to fast-track him."

Up to that point, the coaches had been wearing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠expressions of hmm, not bad, kid.

Then — a second goal.

They seemed to realize something had gone wrong, because they went silent.

"Please, take him out of here. He doesn't belong in this group. No — he CANNOT belong in this group!"

The moment the third goal went in, the director of youth football was on the phone, his face drained white, his voice urgent.

"Stop! Stop it! Good work, everyone!"

And when the fourth goal crossed the line, the scrimmage was called off entirely.

The coach approached me wearing an expression scrambled from a dozen conflicting emotions.

"...Jae-rim, no need to come here tomorrow. Just report to the Juvenil."

"Can I finish today's session first?"

"Do as you like... I'm going to be rather busy for a while, it seems."

In a single scrimmage, I had obliterated the Cadetes and fast-tracked all the way to Juvenil B.

Word had it that a few of the youth players who'd faced me that day were so shell-shocked they considered quitting football altogether, and the Valencia Cadete A coaches and staff sweated buckets talking them down.

The legendary anecdote was reported through Valencia's local press, and because fan expectations for the genius boy who'd just joined the club were already sky-high, the reaction was red hot.

And the news that I had fast-tracked to the Juvenil in a single day reached Korea in an instant.

It was inflammatory enough all on its own — no spin required.

And around that time —

Talk of a youth national team call-up had begun to creep quietly into the conversation.