The Proxy Celebration
Once again, back in Korea, Valencia's match was being broadcast live.
Complaints poured from the mouths of the Korean fans watching the match.
But no matter how much they grumbled, these fans simply couldn't turn the game off.
Because nobody knew when Joo Jae-rim might step onto the pitch.
The Korean fans despaired the moment Valencia conceded the opening goal. They'd assumed Joo Jae-rim's substitution was now off the table.
But Manager Julián Cortés Navarro's choice blew past the Korean fans' expectations. With Valencia trailing, he'd sent Joo Jae-rim to warm up.
"Joo Jae-rim is beginning his warm-up!"
The moment Jae-rim started stretching on the touchline, the broadcast crew's energy skyrocketed in an instant.
"Joo Jae-rim is coming into the match!"
And from the moment he stepped on, Jae-rim began turning the game on its head.
"A shot from Luis Pereira! But what a colossal save by the goalkeeper!"
"The ball's still live! And bursting onto the scene is—!"
"GOOOOOOOOAL! Joo Jae-rim's second league goal! The equalizer comes the instant he steps onto the pitch!! Valencia's savior is none other than this man, Joo Jae-rim!!"
The commentary team, in the middle of showering Jae-rim with praise, had no choice but to fall silent. Because the broadcast feed had abruptly cut to Cristiano Ronaldo.
What is this? Some new form of racism?
Just as the commentators were about to voice their confusion at the bizarre camera cut—
— SIUUUUUUUUU─!
Cristiano's celebration unfolded across the screen.
"Cristiano *choking noise*, Ronaldo *choking noise*, is performing—"
The caster sneaked a glance at his co-commentator. The man was clearly in the full grip of a laughter fit, wheezing and cackling uncontrollably. At the co-commentator's frantic hand gestures begging for help, the caster desperately pressed on.
"Yes, that's right! Cristiano Ronaldo is performing a proxy celebration in honor of Joo Jae-rim's goal!"
But once a laughter fit had broken out, the co-commentator showed no intention of returning to Earth.
"That's just how happy the Valencia owner is, everyone!"
The caster simply spewed whatever words came out. He had to fill dead air with something, after all.
Fortunately, the reactions of the fans watching the broadcast weren't half as bad as he feared.
The fans seemed just as stunned by the wholly unexpected turn of events.
— SIUUUUUU─!
I stared, baffled, at the "SIUUU" that had suddenly rippled through Mestalla.
"...Huh?"
I was the one who'd scored, so why on earth was that cry ringing out?
But a moment later, Ronaldo's grinning face flashed across the jumbotron, and I grasped the situation instantly.
Is he really that starved for things to do?
I shot him a brief look of pure pity, then tuned it out entirely. Whether the club owner wanted to act like a lunatic was none of my business.
I walked back toward the halfway line and waited for play to resume. That was when the "winger whose name I didn't know" shuffled up to me with an awkward expression and began singing my praises.
"...Nice pass. And, uh, nice goal."
I just nodded wordlessly. It felt a bit strange to be praised for a "good touch" when he'd failed to put away the pass I'd practically spoon-fed him.
Still, the kid hovered around me afterward like a puppy that desperately needed to go outside, and finally worked up the nerve to apologize.
"...And I'm sorry. About before."
The moment he apologized, I could feel the expectant eyes around us fixate on the scene.
What. What am I supposed to do about that?
Was I supposed to hug it out with him and make up?
I'm not some kindergartner.
Doing my best to ignore the stares, I changed the subject.
"...So. What's your name, anyway?"
"...! Luis. Luis Pereira!"
Apparently, that alone had been more than enough for this guy.
He's subbing Jaerimi in? Here?
Rafael Silva had his reservations about the substitution. As much as he liked Joo Jae-rim as a player, a question mark hung over whether bringing him on actually helped the team in the current situation.
Of course, skill-wise he's the best we've got, but...
The problem was that Valencia was currently split down the middle into a pro-Jae-rim faction and an anti-Jae-rim faction. Bringing on Jae-rim—the very cause of that divide—in a moment like this could easily backfire.
And what if, in this match, Jae-rim deliberately froze the other players out? The relationship would become irretrievable.
Damn it, their faces are already souring.
Sure enough, he could see several players on the pitch stiffening up. Rafael Silva let out a sigh.
Expecting professional maturity from Jaerimi might be asking too much.
No matter how grown-up Jae-rim acted, he was still only fourteen.
And yet, as if the past faction squabbling meant nothing to him at all, Jae-rim slid a pass to Luis Pereira. On Pereira's face, shame began to bloom—the shame of a man realizing he was less professional than a fourteen-year-old boy.
And then, moments later.
— SIUUUUUU─!
Ronaldo's celebration roared across the stadium over Jae-rim's goal, and in that instant, Rafael Silva understood.
It's over.
This war was finished.
Before long, Luis Pereira delivered his apology, and Jae-rim accepted it.
"...So. What's your name, anyway?"
"...! Luis. Luis Pereira!"
It was nothing—just a light gesture, asking a man his name. But sometimes, one small gesture like that is all it takes to make a team whole.
"...Luis Pereira. Luis Pereira. Ugh, damn, what a stupidly hard name."
At the sight of Jae-rim struggling to memorize Luis Pereira's name, the Valencia players found themselves, without meaning to, wearing soft dad-smiles.
After my goal, the flow of the match tilted entirely toward Valencia. As if venting all the punishment they'd absorbed throughout the first half, Valencia hammered away at Real Sociedad with full force.
Real Sociedad's bench grew chaotic. The substitution had come a little late, but they clearly intended to force a change, even now. The moment the ball rolled out over the touchline, Real Sociedad made their move.
The man came onto the pitch and walked straight over to me. Apparently, the Real Sociedad manager had assigned him to man-mark me.
"Hey there, squirt."
He tried to bait me, but I gave him nothing.
...Just one of them?
His pride was already wounded enough. Honestly, the Real Sociedad manager seemed to be taking me far too lightly.
"Jaerimi!!"
Toward the ball Luis-whatever had laid off for me, I sprinted at full throttle.
"Puta Madre!"
My designated shadow threw his body into me, trying to disrupt the shot, but a light feint of the shoulders sent him tumbling away in an instant.
I glanced up to check the goalkeeper's position, then swung my right foot. The corner of the penalty box made the shooting angle awkward, but that was fine. What the opposing team had not anticipated was me pulling the trigger from here.
THWANG─
The curling strike from the corner of the box traced a gorgeous arc—
FWOOMPH─
—and shook Real Sociedad's net once again.
With the go-ahead goal in, the match tilted completely. While Valencia's players pressed forward with aggressive purpose, I simply strolled around the field.
As a minor, I currently wore a whole jangling set of shackles. No headers, no reckless dribbling—every action with even a hint of injury risk was strictly forbidden. Not banned by the club, mind you. This was my own personal policy. For a promising youngster in the middle of his growth spurt, nothing was more catastrophic than getting hurt.
One glance at Ansu Fati—once handed Messi's number 10 at Barcelona, and once the toast of every culer in Catalonia—was enough to confirm that fact.
Well... though the no-reckless-dribbling rule does feel a bit excessive.
The header ban, though, was non-negotiable. There was actual research linking headers to degenerative brain disease, and heading training was already restricted for young prospects. Honestly, in my past lives I never paid it much mind—but lately, watching Ronaldo up close had me thinking twice.
What am I supposed to do if I get old and start acting like Chris?
And right at that moment, a cross came flying toward me.
"Jaerimi!"
It was a genuinely quality cross—all I had to do was time my run and redirect it home with my forehead.
Who crossed that?
Well, it didn't really matter. A goal was a goal. But the instant I moved to head it, my body revolted.
Traumatic association, huh...
Cristiano Ronaldo's antics had begun auto-playing in my head. In the end, I abandoned the header and went for a bicycle kick instead.
Fwoomph.
It felt like I'd made a simple goal absurdly difficult, but...
Well... I scored it, so it counts, doesn't it?
Not long after completing the hat-trick, the referee's whistle brought the match to an end.
"Fine play out there."
I received the match ball—awarded to every player who scores a hat-trick—from the referee.
"Jaerimi!!"
As I clapped toward the stands in gratitude and headed for the tunnel, I spotted a little boy in the crowd holding up his jersey, begging for it signed.
I handed the boy the match ball along with my shirt.
"Y-you're giving me this too?"
"Keep it. I can always score another one next time."
It would've been a pain to lug it home anyway.
"Jaerimi!"
Just as I finished training and was heading home, Luis Pereira came running up and started chattering away about this and that. All I'd done was say his name once, and I'd apparently gained myself a follower.
...What is this?
It was a novel feeling. Now that I'd stopped chasing pure efficiency in my quest to become the greatest, all sorts of unexpected things were happening. In Europe, my image as a footballing genius destined to surpass Lionel Messi had taken root. Cristiano Ronaldo's fans weren't hostile toward me. Neither were Lionel Messi's.
That might just be because I'm still young, though...
Well. Judging by everything so far, this life was flowing better than any of my previous ones.
Why isn't anyone clocking out? Why is everyone standing in line?
Up ahead, a member of the marketing team was holding up a phone camera, questioning the players one by one. From what I overheard in the queue, they were filming content for the official Valencia YouTube channel.
"Jaerimi! No cutting in line!"
"No, I'm literally just trying to go home."
"Boooo! Get to the back of the line!"
Since it wasn't mandatory, I tried to ignore them and walk past, but the surrounding players seized me and shoved me to the back of the queue. After a long, long wait, my turn finally came.
"Jaerimi, who is the greatest player of all time, in your opinion?"
Easy. It's me.
But faced with the staff member's eminently simple question, I found myself unable to answer. Because directly behind the questioner, I could see Cristiano Ronaldo winking at me with desperate, frantic intensity.
...Is that a death wink?