A light drizzle fell over Estádio Dr. Jorge Sampaio. December had arrived, but the temperature wasn't particularly low. Rather than cold, Porto's weather was defined by its frequent rain — persistently damp. And there in Porto, I was in the middle of a match against Sporting's youth team.
"Hey! Fábio!"
I covered the pitch without knowing whether what ran down my face was rain or sweat. My legs were already heavy and my mouth tasted bitter, but the same was true for the opposition.
A fair way past the halfway line.
A wayward pass rolled off to the side. The wet grass had made things uncomfortable for Fábio's touch. Getting to the ball regardless was part of my job.
Thud!
I drove hard into the opposing player who was going for possession. In that instant, the defenders who had been pushing forward spun and scrambled back. A large gap had opened up between their midfielders and the back line. I turned toward the opposition goal and faced front.
"Over here!"
"Jino, other side!"
A touch far for a shot. Voices from all directions calling for the ball. But if I pushed forward just a little more, I figured I could get a clean strike off. I knocked the ball long and burst after it. I kept track of the distance between me and the defenders. Hovering in an ambiguous space, I let the uncertainty cloud the center back's judgment.
Got him.
The opposing midfielder protecting the center backs made his decision and stepped out. Miguel Ruiz. Eighteen years old, supposedly — though you'd believe it if someone told me he was my father's age. Up against that Ruiz, I had a head of steam built up and then hit the brakes sharply. A slight shift to the left, then accelerating again.
Swoosh—!
Nothing particularly technical, but Ruiz's tackle went right past me. The path ahead opened with little resistance. The opposing midfielder's rash decision had handed me an opportunity.
The last line of defenders, too far back to close down, didn't know what to do as Miguel Ruiz was left in the dust. My choice was to shoot. Keeping my composure, I planted my right foot beside the ball. No longer the mechanics of American football — I shaped up to shoot the way I'd adapted to soccer.
Boom—!!
The ball flew toward the bottom left of the goal. Defenders threw themselves at it belatedly, but it was a futile effort. The goalkeeper got airborne too, but it was beyond his reach. It was a goal that proved the training hadn't been for nothing.
"Yes!!"
"Jino, you're in good form today."
"He's going to get promoted before us at this rate."
Players crowded around and tapped me on the head, each throwing in a comment. I shared the moment lightly with them and got back into position. The score was 3-2. We had taken the win against Sporting's U-18 side.
"Jino, come here."
After the match, Coach Dudu called me aside.
"How long has it been since you started training?"
"About four months."
"Join the reserve team after the weekend. You're more than ready."
Hm? That was the last thing I'd expected.
"Really?"
"13 games, 19 goals?"
"Made it 20 goals today."
"You've come along much faster than I thought. Oh, and Castro says stop hoarding him and send him up."
※
I had taken up soccer, but there was no dramatic change in my everyday life. Not in a soccer sense — I mean in my daily routine. I still woke up and ate breakfast alone, and I didn't particularly stand out at school either. The only time my voice got loud was when I was playing soccer. And even then, it was only in those moments. Because once I got home, I was alone again. But the late evenings — the one time my father and I were face to face.
"So the opponent straight up started swearing at me."
"And you just let that go?"
"I pretended to go for the ball and caught him in the shin."
"That's right. Didn't I say if you let it slide they'll keep at you? Make it clear."
Even if it was only for a short time, we talked. It was something both of us had started putting effort into, unlike before. And a day as good as today was not one to just let pass.
"Dad, I got promoted to the second team."
"…"
"Starting Monday against Benfica."
My father, who had been eating his late dinner, dropped his chopsticks. The slightly overdramatic reaction made me snicker.
"You're playing in reserve team matches? It hasn't even been six months yet?"
"Yeah. But don't get too excited — I'll be on the bench."
"What do you mean, just on the bench? Kids who started way before you still haven't made it up!"
"I'm just saying I'll be on the bench. Calm down."
"Should I come watch?"
"Come when I'm in the starting lineup."
"Why? You might come on as a substitute."
"It's my first day — I won't get on. Come another time."
"Fine. But you have to tell me the moment you're playing — I'm coming no matter what. Actually, wait. Should I go get a cake? We should celebrate."
"Come on, stop it. Ha ha."
I wasn't even playing. I'd said I'd only be on the bench, and yet my father was over the moon. Seeing him like that made me want more. It made me want to actually get on the pitch.
※
Estádio Dr. Jorge Sampaio — the home ground of Porto B. It sat right next to the U-18 training pitch, so it didn't feel entirely unfamiliar. But I'd never seen it this full of spectators before. The 8,500 or so seats were filling up quite nicely — probably because the visitors were Benfica, the arch-rivals.
Most of the crowd were Porto supporters, and amid that one-sided noise, Benfica's players began their warm-up.
They look a little heavy.
Lisbon, where Benfica are based, was an hour away by plane. Not far, but an away trip is still an away trip. Benfica's young players didn't seem to be in their usual shape.
"Jino, give the players a hand."
"Sure."
I helped the starting lineup with their warm-up. After a good while of that, I finally went to the bench just as kick-off approached. The players emerged and exchanged handshakes.
"""Oooohhh!"""
Players from both under-23 sides took their positions beneath the roar of the fans. The referee's whistle blew, and the match got underway with Porto striker André Ferreira taking the first kick.
The ball moved through midfielder Ruizang before cycling around the defensive line. Slowly, right to left. As one of our players settled on the ball in the build-up, a voice rang out from the stands —"Dalot!"
Diogo Dalot — already on the radar of Porto's first team. Not only that, but there had been whispers circulating about Manchester United already showing interest.
An eighteen-year-old talent.
The trial had been the first and only time I'd played against Dalot. I'd genuinely felt he was a beatable opponent. I thought I might finally be on the same level, but watching Diogo Dalot heading toward a bigger stage made me pull myself together once more. His first-team debut was set for January next month. Before then, I wanted at least one more chance to play alongside him.
Boom—!
The players were gradually catching fire. Sparks flying here and there. Both sides fighting to control the center. In the end, it was Benfica who seized the initiative first. The Benfica players who had looked sluggish were now surging with energy, as if nothing had ever been wrong.
"You can't do it alone."
Fábio, who had come up with me, said quietly. He was right. Dalot might be the reserve team's most heralded prospect, but he wasn't someone who could single-handedly flip the momentum of a match. Not a question of ability — it was the limitation of the fullback position. With the focus now on defending, there was only so much he could do. And in truth, whatever Porto's name was worth, in the second division we were not a particularly strong side.
Boom—!
Another shot, another moment of danger. The gulf in early performance was stark. Benfica had no shortage of their own standout prospects. The supporters who had been encouraging with cheers now wore expressions heavy with worry.
"Why are we being pushed around like this! Get your heads in the game!" "You call this good enough for the first team?"
The shift from cheers to criticism was swift. But the lopsided nature of the match didn't change just because the crowd had turned.
In the midst of all this, Benfica's number 21 played a looping through ball into the penalty area. A striker who won the physical battle with the defender got his shot off. The ball grazed the fingertips of goalkeeper Diogo Costa.
The first goal of the match. Conceded by us.
Murmur, murmur.
The Porto players wore unmistakably flustered expressions. The composed ease I knew from them was nowhere to be seen.
Then, around the 25-minute mark of the first half, the players sitting on the bench began to whisper. Glancing nervously at Coach Castro, someone let slip that being only 1-0 down was lucky. From the stands, sharp and venomous language was now audible too. Porto fans were ruthless, regardless of age group.
"For god's sake, they're being outplayed in every one-on-one — we can't compete like this!"
The moment criticism of the team's performance rang out from behind the bench, a second goal went in. A cross, then a header. A goal that was as good as an error — the defender had failed entirely to track the run in behind.
Two goals apparently being enough, Benfica pulled their line back after scoring the second. Even their intermittent counter-attacks were enough to send a chill down our spines.
A suffocating stretch continued. No way in to threaten the opposition goal could be found. The reason lay with the players themselves. The reserve team's top priority was promotion to the first team. There was a strong tendency to try to solve the game through individual brilliance rather than teamwork. But with the opposition showing a level of man-marking that was a step above, neither approach was working.
"Pass it!"
"Pass!"
Fábio and I shouted from the bench, but apart from the two of us, everyone else was silent. The team was losing and nobody seemed to particularly care. A clear symptom of their poor results in the second division.
"First half's about to be over."
Breaking through a defense that had locked up like a safe looked like too much to ask. The second half might be different, but at minimum, there would be no turning things around before the break.
Tweeet!
With the whistle ending the first half, the players trudged back to the bench. Watching them, Castro unleashed.
"What do you lot think you're doing! Get over here, now!"
Only then did several players pick up their pace, and the coach turned and headed toward the dressing room.
"Lete — is that how you plan to organize the defense? Do it the way we trained. If you're sitting back because you're scared of their counter, you're never going to win the game. Losing by two or three is the same as losing. Stop being afraid and push the line up boldly. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ruizang — you keep doing exactly what you've been doing in front of the back line. As the line moves up, the space you need to cover will shrink. So show me what you've got. Moreira and Bruno, put more into the wide areas. Ferreira — in the second half, I want you pressing harder up front. I'll bring you off around the 70th minute."
Ferreira changed his inner shirt and nodded in quiet silence. The oldest player in the squad, he was also the only one who had experience at the top division level. But the competition within Porto's first team was anything but forgiving. If he couldn't force his way back— A transfer to another club would probably be unavoidable. Looking like someone who had made up his mind, Ferreira tightened the laces on his boots.
"Fábi—"
"Shh. Stay quiet. You'll get us in trouble."
The coach went on relentlessly about what we needed to do in the second half. The time we'd spent together in the U-18 setup had been brief. He'd been strict in training, but nothing quite like this.
"Scared? He's saying it because he wants you all to do well."
Someone tapped me on the shoulder and spoke. I turned to find Coach Vítor Matos, with his distinctively dark eyes, smiling quietly. He'd come through as a Porto B coach, then two years at Shandong Luneng in China. It had been a month since he returned here as assistant head coach. We'd been crossing paths regularly enough lately, so I returned the smile.
"I know." "So then — are you feeling confident today?"
"Sorry?"
"… Sounds like you didn't hear anything."
He ruffled my hair and walked on without another word. I didn't think too much of what Matos had said. I knew he was the type who liked to joke around.
"Surely not. I only just came up today — it'd be crazy to play already."
"You never know. When you think about it, the only strikers are Ferreira, you, and that guy."
Three players had been called up to the reserve team this time around. João Malek, the U-18 striker, was among them.
"That guy's sitting there sulking even up here."
"Well, you are his competition."
"Competition? Isn't that already settled?"
"Ha ha. You did absolutely destroy him last time, I'll give you that. Though that was more of a brawl than a football match."
"Come on. I beat him on the football side too."
We chatted for a while, then headed out of the dressing room as the second half was about to begin. The second half kicked off, and a little while later, Coach Vítor Matos came over to me.
"Warm up."