An Uncommon Rookie (1)
After burying that spectacular long-range strike and leaving a proper first impression on the Mad Green Boys, I immediately sprinted toward the opposite side of the pitch.
It wasn't for any grand reason. I simply had something to say to the man whose pass had started the whole move—Senior Sang-yong.
"Senior Sang-yong. What are you doing over here?"
"Huh? Oh! Yi-an, that goal just now was insane. Well done, well done… But why'd you come all the way over here? You're not doing a celebration?"
"Come on, your pass was the starting point. That's why I came. Anyway, hurry over there and at least greet the fans. Right now's the best timing, don't you think?"
"Ah—no, I mean, it wasn't even an assist, just the build-up. Greeting them for that feels a bit… Wouldn't it be better after the match?"
"Hey. If it wasn't just any build-up—if it was a meaningful one—it's fine, right?"
A key pass. The kind of contribution that never shows up as an official stat like a goal or an assist, yet still carries weight you can't ignore. The players who carved their names into football history still get talked about today partly because they kept producing those decisive starting passes.
"Go on and say hello. Look how happy the fans already are."
"…All right. Never thought a junior would clear the path for me. Thanks."
After a brief hesitation, Senior Sang-yong scrambled over and bowed deeply to the supporters. The fans answered the unexpected apology with cheers and applause. With that, some of the anger over the messes he'd caused ought to cool off a little.
Time to head back?
I was about to turn my gaze toward the cluster of teammates when a low rumble rose behind me.
"Hm?"
[Ee…eeyaaaaah!]
"What the—? Aren't those Daegu fans? Why are they staring at me with their mouths wide open, screaming like that?"
The distance and the layered stadium noise made the words hard to catch, but they were definitely waving their arms and shouting something.
What is this? Are they actually cheering for me?
Cheering for the opposing team was absurd on paper, but it happened now and then. Their own veteran had pulled something shameless against a young player, so the Daegu fans probably felt a little guilty. Then that same kid had gotten back up and slammed home the dagger, so maybe they were looking at him kindly after all.
Mm. That's Daegu fans for you. Full of common sense.
Fans like that deserved a nice present. I had been about to return to the Jeonbuk supporters; instead I planted my feet again and accelerated.
"What the hell? Hey! Yi-an! What are you doing?! No—don't do that! Yong-ho hyung is going to kill me! Don't you dare, you bastard!"
Our keeper, Senior Tae-young, rushed out to intercept me, but peeling past a single player without the ball was nothing a bit of body feinting couldn't handle.
I was now the closest player to the Daegu supporters. Feeling that fact with my whole body, I slid the rest of the way on a long, deliberate slide and came to a stop right in front of Grazie.
[You son of a bitch! Who the hell do you think you are coming over here?!]
[No to bribery! No to bribery! No to bribery! No to bribery!]
[Happy now that you bought your way in and shoved our Eun-chan out, you Maebuk bastard?!]
…Did I mishear that? I thought they were cheering. Turns out it was pure dual-track cursing.
Under the endless barrage of abuse I stood there with both arms spread wide, looking faintly sheepish. I might have miscalculated just a little.
The match ended 2–0 to Jeonbuk on the strength of my long-range goal. The away win kept our momentum alive, and because it was the first time since my debut that I had been dragged into a physical scrap with another player, Manager Sun Ki-baek decided to give me a full day's rest.
"Aigoo… What are we going to do with our son… Let me see. You're not badly hurt, are you?"
"Come on, Mom. It was just a ball to the face. It's nothing."
"I watched the match too—are you still going to lie? That wasn't an accident. He threw it on purpose!"
"Okay, okay… By the way, Mother? Can we take this stuff off my face now? The burning and stinging is worse than the actual injury."
"What?"
"Nothing. It's great. Mm… Where'd you buy this cream? I should get one for myself."
Of course, "resting comfortably at home" during that break was never going to happen. The moment I returned from the clubhouse the previous night, my mother had started fussing over my face; the next day, the second I got home from school, she began slathering me in some strange cream. That was why I was stuck lying on the living-room floor, listening to my parents talk.
"Yi-an. How can you just lie there after taking a ball to the face? Even if you take after me, at a moment like that you're supposed to charge in. Look at your mother. Her temper's so fiery that the slightest word and her eyes go wild."
"…Excuse me? Are you roasting me in front of our son right now?"
"I'm just stating plain facts—why are you getting worked up again? See, Yi-an? Look at your mother's eyes spinning."
"This man, seriously? Want me to show you what happens when my eyes spin?"
"Uh, parents? Could you stop fighting now so I can wash this cream off and go to my room…?"
"What? Yi-an. Your mother put this on you with love and care, and now you don't need it?"
"No, no. It smells nice. The stinging and the heat in my eyes is really… something."
My parents launched into their usual bickering, traded a few more barbs, then my mother dragged my father into the master bedroom—apparently the start of round two. Looking at them, it was still amazing how a relationship built on merciless mutual roasting had lasted this long. Or maybe that was exactly why it worked. Constant teasing was better than a marriage that had gone completely silent.
Still… Baek Yi-an's parents are good people. Seeing them makes me miss Mom and Dad.
In my previous life—when I was still Kang Yun-ho—my parents had both died in a traffic accident the day I transferred to Juventus. They had come all the way to Incheon Airport to see their son off as he left for Italy as a successful footballer; on the way home a drowsy truck driver in the opposite lane had crushed them.
When I moved to Italy I already felt like a black-haired foreigner standing alone in the middle of someone else's country… and then I really was alone.
After the possession I had wanted, more than once, to go find them—but meeting them in a world where Kang Yun-ho no longer existed would never be easy. I might never see them again. I decided not to dwell on it. I had clawed my way through the hardest stretch of my life and come close enough to touch the Ballon d'Or podium—the highest individual honor a footballer can reach. If I let myself sink back into that grief, I might waste the chance I had fought so hard to earn.
"Aaagh! I'm sorry! I said I'm sorry, honey!"
"What was that? My temper's twisted so my eyes spin? This man can't keep his mouth shut even in front of our son!"
"Ow! That hit bone! That's the spot I injured back when I was still playing!"
"I aimed for it, you idiot!"
"Mm… same old racket."
I was lying there comfortably, treating the scream-laced noise as background music, when the phone resting on my stomach vibrated.
My surgical counterattack must have rattled her, because A-yoon immediately flooded the chat with an endless barrage of messages. The usual "leave chat" trick she used like a herbivore didn't work this time, so she was clearly trying to bury our previous exchange under pure spam. It was extremely cheeky, but since it was my girlfriend's little slip I decided to let it slide.
The match hadn't ended cleanly; both sides had been wound up. The second the whistle blew, everyone had headed straight for the locker rooms without so much as a handshake. When there was a dispute, the two clubs usually arranged a proper apology meeting in the tunnel or locker-room area afterward. Our front office hadn't said a word, so it was safe to assume Daegu never offered one. Or maybe they still considered me the aggressor and expected me to apologize first.
Anyway—why was she even asking about an apology?
Checking the article A-yoon sent, I had to admit it was surprising. Kang Sang-yong—who had once gone clubbing and tried to stare down a young manager—had turned into a team-first player who stood in front of the fans and owned his mistakes. And Han Yong-ho, the Confucian hierarchy stickler, was now praising me without stopping for breath. A few days ago neither of those things would have seemed possible.
Still, I could roughly guess why they had changed. In my previous life I had seen the same scene over and over: overcome the contempt and racism abroad with pure ability, and scorn flipped into respect. They had probably watched how much influence I carried in matches and felt their hearts shift.
Mm-hmm. All because I'm good. That's what it is.
Do non-squad players still train? Well, we do position-specific work, but the ones left off the list usually finish earlier than the starters and substitutes. Why was she even asking me that? It wasn't like I was being left out of the match.
I thought it was a brilliant excuse, but maybe saying I was colorblind for green and sky blue was overdoing it?
I had been sure it would land. Unfortunately, it looked like it hadn't.