We were sitting ninth in Liga 2 with four wins, four draws, and five losses — sixteen points.
With a squad that rotated frequently and was made up of players under 23,
we couldn't put in dominant performances the way a senior side would. Which meant that against stronger opposition, keeping things tight defensively was always going to be a priority.
"This weekend is Académica."
Training in preparation for Académica de Coimbra, who sat fifth on nineteen points.
They had dropped to the second division in 2016, but they were a club with tradition and history.
Porto's first-team manager Sérgio Conceição had come through their youth system, and André Villas-Boas — who would go on to manage Chelsea and Tottenham — had also managed there.
In terms of pure quality, Académica held a slight edge.
On top of that, we were carrying the burden of an away fixture.
"Everyone get in position."
With the coach's word, today's training began. It had already been a full week since joining Porto B.
The hardest part here was the defensive side of things.
In the U-18 setup the focus had been on developing my attacking ability, but here the demand was to press from the front and contribute defensively as well.
Attack and defense — both.
The more I trained, the more I felt how difficult soccer really was.
I thought scoring goals was all there was to it.
With modern football firmly built around building from the back and pressing high, the defensive contribution of the furthest-forward striker was an enormously important factor.
Porto were also a team that pushed for aggressive high pressing.
And this was when Castro's shouting was directed at me most of all.
"Jino! Don't try to force the ball off him on your own! Read the passing lane and then press!"
The coach came charging over, shouting. He stood right in my face, gesturing emphatically.
"Just now, Varela was pressing the opponent's pass from the left. So naturally the defender is going to try to play out to the right — make that uncomfortable! You're not trying to win it in one go! Squeeze the space and force a passing error! Only go for the ball when you're certain. Got it? Think while you move. Right, everyone reset!"
Castro tapped the side of his head with his index finger. Intellectually I understood, of course.
I'd done this kind of training in American football too.
The key difference there was that the primary objective was to take down the quarterback — the one responsible for the pass.
Old habits. Focus.
Training resumed at the coach's instruction. Lete received the ball from the goalkeeper and prepared to build.
From the front line, I eased my way into pressing position. Maintaining a sensible distance, I surveyed the players around me.
"That's it! Just cut off the angle so the pass can't come out easily! Midfielders mark your men — now! All push the line up together and press!"
Coach Castro, right there on the pitch with us, shouted for the coordinated defensive tactic.
The attacking players tightened the net as one and closed in sharply.
Unlike before, the midfielders pushed up together. Space deleted in an instant.
A flustered Lete played it out to Diogo Dalot, who had stretched wide.
First part done.
We'd forced their back line to retreat. From this position, pushing forward with short passes was nearly impossible.
Clearing it long was an option, but if they were allowed to do that it wouldn't be much of a training drill.
While our half of the session was about pressing, the other side with Dalot and Lete were working on build-up from the back.
"Push it left!"
On Ruizang's call, I applied pressure to Dalot.
His willingness to drive forward with the ball was something I'd already mentally noted.
Varela on the left was trying to push further up to support.
My body wanted to go. If I launched myself, I felt like I could win it.
I had to hold back yet… this was not easy.
Tap-tap-tap!
Coming from a diagonal angle, I closed the distance to Dalot in an instant.
His eyes shifted to me. In that moment he looked almost like a prey animal, urgently trying to deal with the ball.
He spun his body and attempted to pass back to center back Lete—
"Hey, Jino! You rushed it!"
Castro's shout rang out. But this time I was committed.
I drove my knee hard and changed direction at nearly a right angle.
Dalot had read it, but the ball had already left his foot.
I cut out the pass intended for Lete. In an instant, the roles of attack and defense switched.
"This kid… I can't say a word. Lete, Fernandes! Stop Jino!"
The shock in Castro's voice came through clearly. Lete, following the instruction, came at me with intent.
He'd taken enough from me that there was a real edge to him now. I tried to build speed, but Fernandes was covering from behind.
"Damn it!"
Lete was furious. Because a sharp stop followed by a wide turn to the right had sent him the wrong way entirely.
Good with his feet and physical by nature, but rapid changes of direction weren't his strongest suit.
Either way, now it was 1v1 with Fernandes. He angled his body and backed off, trying to buy time.
He was waiting me out — I punched the ball forward and used pure pace to go past him.
Thwap—!
There was nothing the goalkeeper could do. The drill connecting defensive work to transition play wrapped up just like that.
Castro walked over to me. Was he angry about not following the instruction?
"This time I was certain."
"Fair enough. When you're certain, the decision is the player's to make. Well done."
"Thank you."
"And that footwork when you changed direction — use that when you're shaking a defender in off-the-ball situations too."
I understood what the coach meant immediately. American football, like soccer, is a sport layered with constant directional changes.
Quick feet matter enormously, but because you're carrying the ball in your hands, the changes of direction are even more abrupt and frequent than in soccer.
Which means the footwork is considerably faster in some ways.
Of course, in soccer the footwork involves controlling the ball with your feet, so it felt more intricate and precise in a different way.
From my perspective, the delicate and sharp footwork of soccer was the harder discipline.
Either way, what the coach was asking for was to blend the strengths of both sports.
"Right, that's enough for today. Everyone rest up, then gather in the meeting room!"
Players dropped to the ground catching their breath. I lay flat on the grass and replayed the session in my head.
Pressing intervals, tempo, overall shape — all of it.
So much to learn. I'd actually come into today's training with quiet confidence, drawing on my American football experience…
But as it turned out, no sport gives you an advantage over another. Deep in that thought:
"Your burst of speed there… wow."
"Oh, Dalot."
"It's fine, stay there."
"No, it's okay."
I pushed myself up from where I'd been lying. Dalot had been the one most responsible for the breakdown in the drill just now.
He'd taken a earful from Castro and come to sit beside me.
"I thought a rhinoceros was charging at me. That last bit especially was no joke."
"Thanks."
The reserve team's top prospect, just waiting for the call-up.
Only two years older than me, but his standing in the team was already in a different league.
Even so, there was nothing arrogant about him. Always fired up, always working hard. Well — that's probably exactly why the first team came calling.
"I'm curious about something though."
"Yeah? What?"
"Why didn't you listen to the coach earlier? You'd already been told off before."
"Hmm… I just felt certain."
"No, I get that you were certain — but why did you go against the instruction?"
"… Is that really so wrong?"
"Not exactly. It's just that no one here does that. That's why I'm asking."
Is he always like this? I'm not sure what he's getting at.
"I did it because I thought I could. And the coach praised me for it."
"No, what I mean is — what kind of nerve does it take to go against the coach's instruction like that?"
"During a match I make my own calls too sometimes. Oh wait — did you get an earful from the coach? Is that why you're asking?"
Looked like I'd hit the mark.
"Yeah. Why does he keep going after me? From the very first trial."
"… You still remember that?"
"I never forget when someone does something to me. I still remember you getting past me the first time we met."
Seems like his pride is bigger than his talent. Though to be fair, eighteen is still young.
"So what do you want me to do about it."
"Hm?"
"No, I mean — what are you actually getting at?"
"How did we even end up on this topic?"
"…"
This guy. His personality is as unguarded as his defending.
...A tactical meeting in the meeting room to prepare for the weekend's match.
Castro told the players it was going to be a difficult game.
"The opposition play a 4-3-3 and enjoy pressing from the front."
With the coach's words as the starting point, they moved into full video analysis.
Assistant coach Matos did most of the talking, barely pausing for breath.
"We're going to tighten the midfield and hit them on the counter. To do that, we need to keep their midfielder Chiquinho quiet. Whoever starts, if we handle him we're halfway there. After that, it's about how well we can dominate the midfield battle. That's the key to this one."
No star players as such, but a trickier opponent than even Benfica's prospects from last time.
In terms of experience and organization, they were in a completely different league from a reserve side.
And.
Académica had a Korean player in their squad. His name was Hwang Gi-moon — a player who rotated between starting and the bench.
He'd mostly been deployed as a central midfielder, and the same was true this season.
Though recently, it seemed he hadn't been getting much game time.
Whether I'd see him on the pitch or not, the situation itself felt surreal to me.
※
12. 13
Estádio Cidade de Coimbra — Académica's home ground.
One of the oldest sports clubs in Portugal.
Even in the second division, the stadium was quite sizeable, and the passion for soccer in Portugal was beyond anything you'd imagine.
With around 30,000 seats filled to capacity, we were supposed to be executing the plan from the meeting—
"Keep losing him! Ruizang, if you can't do it — cut it off!"
As was plain to see, we were failing to execute properly. We were conceding runs and shots repeatedly.
Whether it was the away fixture weighing on everyone, the players all looked heavy-legged.
In particular, João Malek — who had started alongside the regular striker Ferreira — was substituted off early, and in his place Fábio, normally a central midfielder, was brought on to add bodies in the middle. Even so, they kept losing the midfield battle.
"Everyone drop!"
With control of the center lost, the defenders dropped the line on captain Lete's call.
Académica's players, unbeaten at home, pushed on with momentum on their side.
"Damn it!"
"It's alright, that was close!"
Three shots on target already.
The possession stats were generous at 60-40 — probably more like 70-30.
I wanted to get on and change things myself, but again I started on the bench.
Frustrating as it was, I couldn't change that. In limited opportunities, what mattered was producing results. But first, the team needed to win.
Come on, get it together.
In this situation, we had no choice but to count on Ferreira for something.
And for that, the defense had to hold first. Académica pushed forward again.
Académica's central striker Donald Duce, receiving a forward pass, got the better of center back Fernandes in the challenge.
With the natural athleticism of a Cameroonian player, he moved into a shooting position inside the penalty box.
Thwap!
The ball struck Costa's fingertips and went wide of the right post.
Young goalkeeper Costa, eighteen years old, turned and vented at the older Fernandes, swinging his arm.
Age is just a number. A scene I'd seen plenty of in foreign football.
Right — there's no room for worrying about seniority in a match.
The corner that followed: inside the penalty box, a single dark Académica jersey rose alone.
Number 9. Donald Duce again.
A header directed toward the left post — Costa got his hand to it a second time.
"Ah…"
"For god's sake!"
Groans leaked out from the Académica home fans all around.
But it wasn't over. A fierce scramble for the loose ball inside the box — those trying to shoot against those trying to clear.
In the end Lete hoofed it long into the opposition half.
It looked like a desperate clearance, but it was aimed at a player who had stayed forward.
The ball flew long on the diagonal and dropped in front of Fábio, who was running along the right sideline.
When it came to ball skills, he was clearly among the best even in the reserve team.
Fábio controlled it smoothly and comfortably shook off the pressing fullback.
Then his eyes shifted to Ferreira, cutting across the center of the pitch.
"Hey."
André Ferreira — the man moving between the first and second teams.
He crossed the halfway line and drove into the opposition half, and the ball left Fábio's boot.
Fábio's pass curved through the gaps in Académica's unsettled defense.
A key pass that made the defenders look foolish.
A reminder of why he was considered the finest technician in Porto's youth setup.
A confident pass — Fábio asserting himself.
"""Yeaaaahhh!"""
Applause and gasps erupted from the bench, myself included.
Ferreira knocked the ball long and stretched his lead over the defender chasing from behind.
A golden one-on-one opportunity — rare in any match, perhaps once-in-a-match, if even that.
"Yes! Ferreira!"
"Goooooal!"
"Força Porto! (Come on Porto!)"
Among 30,000 supporters, only the small cluster of Porto fans living in the Coimbra area let out a roar.
A clean finish, slotting it past the Académica keeper.
Even with the match going against us, the opening goal had come through individual quality.
And.
Having conceded, Académica pushed their line up further.
Watching that, Castro — arms folded — turned his head toward me.
"Jino, get ready for the second half. I'll send you on when they start to tire."
I could see it too. The more aggressively they pushed forward, the more space opened up behind them.
What the coach wanted from me in the second half was to put the knife in against an opposition running out of legs.
One pass would be enough.
I was confident. Sonnet.