At Least Messi
Before the league's thirty-fifth round match against Deportivo Alavés, a pre-match press conference was underway.
Manager Julián Cortés Navarro listened to the reporters' questions and thought to himself.
Journalists were nothing but hyenas.
Like hyenas circling a beast's rotting meat, they were forever sniffing out the most sensational topics they could find.
Actually, no. That's probably an insult to the hyenas.
He apologized to hyenas everywhere in his head, then asked the reporter to repeat himself.
"Sorry, would you mind saying that again?"
It had absolutely nothing to do with the next match, so he could have simply ignored the question — but judging by the look in the man's eyes, he would clearly keep hounding them until he got an answer.
That vibe says Barcelona press.
The reporter had hidden the distinctive cadence of the Catalan region, but a manager's gut instinct was telling him, loud and clear, exactly where this man came from.
"Looking at the numbers and the performances Jae-rim is putting out right now, saying that kind of thing is utterly stupid. Anyone with two working eyes can recognize the brilliant talent Jae-rim possesses. And the way I see it, his talent doesn't fall one inch below Messi. If anything, shouldn't we be calling him At Least Messi?"
Julián Cortés Navarro smiled.
Watching the reporter's face twist with fury in real time, he knew his instinct had been right — the man was from Barcelona.
"Jae-rim, forget what that idiot said."
He had lost count of how many times he'd received the same consolation over the course of a single day.
"I don't care."
I answered Marcos Alvarez with a small sigh.
Apparently a panelist's remarks had thrown the internet into a full-blown argument, but honestly, I wasn't all that bothered.
That panelist is a Barcelona fan, anyway.
As I said before, in Barcelona, Lionel Messi was a religion.
In that region, only one player in history had ever been rated as someone who would surpass Lionel Messi.
It was back in the days when Messi's status wasn't yet as overwhelming as it was now.
A Spaniard born in Rinyola, in the heart of Catalonia — Bojan Krkić.
It all started when a Barcelona youth scout wrote 'At Least Messi' on Bojan Krkić's evaluation report, and from then on, that nickname clung to him wherever he went.
Whether they had truly assessed him as talent capable of surpassing Messi, no one could say for sure.
Everyone managing youth players was human, after all, and personal feelings inevitably seeped into their judgment.
It would only have been natural to feel more affection for a homegrown 'star' born in Catalonia than for Lionel Messi, an 'Argentine'.
And besides, Messi's status wasn't the invincible colossus it is now back then.
After Lionel Messi's standing rose to its current heights, not a single youth player had received a comparable evaluation.
Lamine Yamal, too, had been called Messi's successor — but never someone who would surpass him.
And Messi's stock has only gone up since he retired, for that matter.
Likewise, opinions on my own talent varied from region to region.
In Valencia, they called me 'At Least Messi'.
In Catalonia, home of Barcelona, they knocked me down a peg as below Messi.
Castile, where Real Madrid sat, at least viewed me with something approaching neutrality.
Valencia's claim was right and Barcelona's claim was right, so they simply placed my talent on the same plane as Lionel Messi's.
There's clearly a big difference in speaker size, though.
Until Real Madrid weighed in, public opinion was heavily skewed toward Barcelona.
But this was an unavoidable situation.
It had been less than two months since my professional debut.
Dragging Lionel Messi himself down from his 'inviolable, sacred domain' was already a more than sufficient result.
In past cycles, I couldn't pry him off that pedestal until after I'd won a Ballon d'Or.
Considering my usual pace, this was overwhelmingly fast.
Anyway, journalists and YouTubers had thrown plenty of questions my way since that day, and I hadn't answered a single one about the subject.
Showing it once is more effective than saying it a hundred times — I knew that better than anyone.
And it's about time this bait went stale, anyway.
Long experience had taught me something.
This, above all, was a topic that wouldn't last.
······Can't somebody confiscate this bastard's phone?
······If only it were anyone other than Cristiano Ronaldo.
Recently, everything seemed to have grown a little more sensitive.
It wasn't just because of Ronaldo, forever tossing logs onto the fire the moment public opinion tried to settle down.
Though that's part of it······.
Until now, I had always walked the most rational path in pursuit of becoming the greatest player.
Because I believed it produced the best outcome.
No — to be precise, because I believed it was the road that led to the best outcome.
Was it because I'd lived for far too long, making nothing but emotionless, rational decisions?
Moving in an irrational direction like this felt utterly foreign to me.
And the feelings born from that strangeness were unfamiliar too.
There was also the frustration of not knowing what outcome today's choice would bring.
And then······ there was the fear, rising up on top of it all, that I might once again lose someone precious.
Even if I failed the mission and regressed, my father and mother would still be there, unchanged.
But my little sister, Joo Eunbi, would not.
Somehow, a wave of gloom came over me out of nowhere.
······Regression depression again, huh.
My emotions kept swinging back and forth.
I suppose I might need a session with a psychiatrist before too long.
Meanwhile, at that very moment, Joo Sang-hyun and Han Hyomin were having a serious conversation.
They were worried about the recent change in their son's behavior.
Ever since the change, Joo Jae-rim would come home from training, and apart from mealtimes, he never once set foot out of his room. He always wore a grave expression, as if something weighed heavily on his mind.
"Hyomin-ah, I think something's up with Jae-rimie······."
"Yeah. Puberty, you think?"
The couple arrived at the same conclusion simultaneously.
"So even our Jae-rimie gets puberty, huh."
"Right? He's such a quiet boy, I figured he'd skip it altogether."
"Honestly, we haven't exactly done our duty as parents these past years, so let's give Jae-rimie a bit more attention for a while."
"Yes, let's. He's been so well-behaved that it's felt like we just left him to raise himself."
The couple resolved to pour attention and love into Joo Jae-rim for the time being —
so that he could make it safely through puberty.
"Jae-rim-ah, have some more meat."
"I'm fine, thank you."
"You have to eat well to grow big."
"······I'm already bigger than you, Dad."
"······"
"Oppa, you can have mine too, then."
I handed the green pepper over to my sister and sank into thought.
"Hing, I don't want peppers."
······What is this?
Lately the atmosphere at home had felt somehow different.
The mood wasn't bad by any stretch, so it felt awkward to just come out and ask what was going on.
Not that I have time to worry about the family vibe right now.
What mattered now was Round 36 — an away match against Barcelona.
Even before kickoff, Barcelona was already acting as though they'd won the match.
Unfortunately for them, I had a fondness for flipping the table at other people's parties.
I requested a starting spot to the club — on the condition that it was for the Barcelona match and nothing else — and after a round of meetings, the club and the manager accepted my proposal.
"Jae-rimi, let's show those morons that you're a player with more talent than Messi."
That wasn't why I'd asked to start, but I couldn't be bothered to correct the misunderstanding.
I should dribble more actively against Barcelona, too.
There was no special reason — it was simply that ever since I'd stopped dribbling recently, the fans had started showing signs of unease.
For me, it was simply a precaution against injury — but to the fans, it may well have looked different.
Clearing up the doubt at least once is probably the better move.
I could have addressed it in an interview, explained that I'd held back on dribbling to avoid injury.
But people had a deep tendency to distrust anything they hadn't seen with their own eyes.
Since the talk wasn't going to stop anyway, showing my full strength against a worthy opponent was the best way to settle it.
And Barcelona, of all opponents, was hardly beneath my effort.
Hardly a side unworthy of being taken completely seriously.
Barcelona center-back Marco Arce listened to the Barcelona anthem ringing through Camp Nou and thought to himself.
Don't underestimate Valencia? What a joke.
This was a match against Valencia, a club so clearly a weight class below Barcelona.
Marco Arce didn't even entertain the possibility of a Barcelona defeat.
As far as he was concerned, today's match against Valencia was nothing more than an appetizer for the festival to come.
Rafael Silva, was it?
Of course, Valencia had their share of dangerous, quality players.
Rafael Silva, perpetually linked with Real Madrid — Barcelona's eternal rivals.
Well, that one's decent enough. But the rest of them are nothing special, aren't they?
Barcelona's vice-captain, Pau Cubarsi, had included Joo Jae-rim's name on that list, but the vast majority of Barcelona players did not agree.
Old man, honestly. Must be his age — all that worrying.
Sure, Joo Jae-rim's performances since his professional debut had been sensational.
Even so, he was still a green, unripe kid.
Pathetic, really — a grown defense that couldn't handle one Asian brat.
Watching them gush over him in interviews because they couldn't stop a single rookie, it seemed Real Sociedad's quality had fallen off a cliff too.
Marco Arce turned his head to the side.
He saw Joo Jae-rim strolling across the field with a blank, indifferent expression.
Come to think of it, the brat is a bit cheeky, isn't he.
Even at La Masia, where the greatest young footballers in the world gathered, not one player had ever dared to declare he would surpass Lionel Messi.
Who does he think he is, surpassing Messi?
Looking at Joo Jae-rim's insolent face, Marco Arce resolved to teach him the bitter taste of professional football while he had the chance.
"Jae-rimi!"
Right on cue, Rafael Silva's pass arced toward Joo Jae-rim —
and Marco Arce sprinted at him.
The instant he saw Joo Jae-rim take control of the ball, Marco Arce smiled at the corner of his mouth and dove in for the tackle.
Got it.
It was a tackle attempted at the perfect moment, and Marco Arce was certain he'd won the ball.
But Joo Jae-rim's reaction was one step faster.
Rolling the ball from his right foot to his left, Joo Jae-rim glided lightly past the challenge.
Tch. Quick little punk.
Marco Arce dropped his stance at once, bracing for the dribble.
Jae-rim looked like he was driving left, and Arce reacted accordingly.
But at the very moment Marco Arce committed, Joo Jae-rim snapped the ball back the other way, cutting hard in the opposite direction.
Arce tried to lunge after the escaping boy, to chase down the dribble —
and realized his body was no longer obeying him.
······Wait, what?
His body was tilting, slowly, toward the grass.
And a moment later.
Riiiip—
The sound of the ball shaking the back of the net reached his ears.
"Boooooooo—!!"
What met his eyes was Joo Jae-rim, walking over with that same blank expression, unhurried, through the jeers of a hundred thousand Barcelona fans — looking down at him.