Académica's counterattack was no pushover, but we made it through the first half without conceding.
As the players returned to the dressing room, the coach announced changes to the detailed tactics.
From a 4-4-2 at the start of the match to a 4-5-1. And now a more defensive shape — a 3-5-2.
Dalot, who had been part of the back four, took on the wing back role, and Galhos on the right was paired with striker Ferreira.
All of this was tactical variation that Porto's first team used depending on the situation.
The second half that followed showed better performance than the first.
With three center backs in place, the two wing backs worked tirelessly up and down their flanks.
Even so, the primary battle remained a back-and-forth in the center.
The pressing was intense enough that it was difficult for anyone to hold the ball for long.
Académica then made their own adjustment. Chiquinho — our top defensive priority — dropped deeper to operate as a deep-lying playmaker.
Perhaps because he had more time and space, dangerous passes kept coming off the end of his boot.
"Wow… he's good."
From the moment I started warming up I couldn't properly follow the match, but the disappointed groans from the home fans never seemed to stop.
The flip side of that was Porto stubbornly holding Académica's attacks at bay.
But.
70th minute of the second half. A moment of disaster inside the penalty box.
The referee blew his whistle without hesitation after seeing Dalot's tackle. He pointed to the spot.
A tremendous roar from the home crowd shook the ground.
Castro, face flushed, protested furiously — the referee didn't budge an inch.
He declined the recently introduced VAR request and stood by his own judgment.
Nothing to be done.
When the referee's hand moved toward the card in his chest pocket, the players finally retreated outside the box.
Chiquinho walked alone to the penalty spot, wiping the ball with his jersey.
He set it down and stepped back three or four paces.
"""Yeeaahhh!"""
A shot that stole Costa's timing rippled the left net.
The momentum shifted again. The two wing backs who had been pushing forward energetically dropped back to defend, and Castro moved to bring off striker Ferreira.
Around the same time as last match.
Coach Castro spoke to me as I stood beside the fourth official.
"You know the situation, don't you? The opposition don't want a draw."
"Yes."
"We're focused on defending, but I don't want a draw either. In a moment like this, what do you do?"
"Counter-attack."
"That's right. Show them your pace. That alone will make it hard for them to push their line up. And the chance will come — it always does. Understood?"
"Yes."
No detailed attacking instructions, but I knew what needed to be done.
In recent training, we'd been preparing for situations exactly like this.
No need to be nervous.
Train like it's a match, play like it's training.
I prepared for my second consecutive appearance.
Substitution.
Alongside my introduction, central midfielder Ruizang — feeling the physical strain — was also swapped for Santiago Iralha.
I hadn't had many conversations with Iralha, who held Paraguayan nationality.
Calling it a language barrier feels a bit strong, but I spoke Portuguese and Iralha spoke Spanish.
Sharing the same roots meant I could follow maybe 60 to 70 percent.
The other players had been learning Spanish as a second language since they were young — I hadn't.
Even so, communication on the pitch wasn't a problem.
As we stepped onto the field together, he shouted "Vamos! (Let's go!)"
"Jino! Push higher!"
The moment I stepped onto the pitch, I started pressing from the front line. Winning the ball wasn't the objective.
I wanted to make their build-up as uncomfortable as possible. The difference from training was that support from our own players was hard to come by.
Everyone was being pushed back and couldn't join the attack.
Away games really are tough.
This was Estádio Cidade de Coimbra — Académica's home ground. Académica, who had the run of the match, came charging forward relentlessly.
Guimarães played it to right winger Marinho, who exchanged a quick one-two with the advancing Chiquinho before cutting inside down the flank.
It was clean, economical attacking play. Moussa Yahaya, beaten on the outside, gave chase then gave up. Marinho rolled it low into the penalty box for Donald Duce making a run inside.
Duce attempted a cut-back and fired first time.
"Costa!! Great save!!"
It was somewhat straight at him, but the distance was dangerously close. Costa stretched his left leg and barely clawed it away, and Lete let out a roar right in Costa's face.
The Académica fans in the stands were half out of their seats.
A growing sense that a goal was coming.
Académica's players moved with urgent feet, as if determined to repay their supporters.
A corner kick followed, glancing off Lete's head and looping high.
Substitute Santiago Iralha and Chiquinho clashed inside the box once more.
"Physical battle" barely covers it — it was closer to a proper fight.
The ball broke loose from their tangle and Moreira played a short pass forward.
Pires skinned one player and quickly passed again.
The ball found its way to Fábio, who was stationed on the left.
Thwap!!
Fábio met the rolling ball without stopping it and played it instantly with the outside of his left foot.
Near the halfway line. The two center backs who had been tight to me slowly turned their heads upward.
My own gaze followed the trajectory of the ball arcing overhead.
"Stop him!"
Three of us, as if by agreement, made our runs into Académica's half simultaneously.
Experienced, but physically well past their peak — that was the pair of center backs.
Joao Real, born in 1983, shouted the call.
Ze Castro, the same age, tried to block my path with his body.
Even at the cost of losing ground, I swung wide around Ze Castro.
I sprinted toward the ball dropping into the space ahead. Ze Castro was already left behind, and the distance between me and Joao Real closed in an instant.
A battle of wills — whose desire was stronger.
My shoulder edged ahead of Joao Real. In response, a mindless tackle came not for the ball but for my ankle.
"Damn."
The expletive escaped before I knew it.
I staggered enough to catch myself with my left hand on the ground, but all I could see was open space ahead.
I ate the tackle and kept going — and the referee, whistle ready at his lips, extended both arms.
Play on.
Even in that moment, I was struck by the pass Fábio had put through.
Granted, it was a situation born from Académica's hunger for another goal.
But the fact that one moment of brilliance from a gifted passer could flip a match — there was no denying it.
With the precondition that a striker like me was there to receive it, of course.
"""Boooooooooo!"""
I powered forward all the way to the edge of the penalty box. The jeers from the Académica fans seemed to be willing me to mess up. Thud!
I spotted the goalkeeper rushing out and clipped underneath the ball.
He reflexively backpedaled and thrust his arm out, but the keeper's hand cut through empty air.
The ball traced a beautiful arc and rippled the white net.
"Yeahhh!"
I sprinted straight toward the corner flag at the opposition end.
In a burst of uncontainable joy, I kicked the flag and threw an uppercut into the air.
Players who came chasing after me piled on top and celebrated like it was their own goal.
Everyone was drenched in sweat, but right now that didn't matter.
2-1.
The winning goal in a match that would see no further scoring. And I never did get to see the player I'd been hoping to catch a glimpse of — Hwang Gi-moon.
"How did you end up signing him?"
"Who, Jino?"
"Yes. I only heard he was picked up through a trial — never got the full story."
"He just appeared out of nowhere. Fate, I suppose."
The weekend after the away match against Académica.
Back in Porto, Coach Matos sat talking in the manager's office.
The match was over, but his voice was still buzzing with excitement. Matos took a sip from the cold beer can in his hand and set it down.
"Come on, Coach. Either way, seeing him score again gave me chills."
"Me too. But what impresses me even more is that he remembers what he's been taught in training and actually does it."
Separate from the goals, Seo Jino had pressed the opposition without rest.
Even after scoring a goal that had required him to chase it down, he was pressing and pressing again at Académica's back line.
The numbers bore it out — Académica's passing errors had spiked noticeably, and he was the reason.
Basic, but easy to neglect. It was only natural to like a player who faithfully carried out the bench's instructions.
"That's partly because his physical ability is so exceptional — everything he does is a threat."
"A tremendous talent. Finding a player with that level of athleticism in Portugal isn't easy."
That was why Castro had been taken with him at first sight. But naturally, there were concerns too.
Since he was a player who had never been properly trained in soccer, the judgment was based on potential alone.
Castro was convinced the ceiling on that potential was enormous — but potential was still all it was.
He's been well developed.
It was a contract that had actively reflected Castro's own input. Which was why, even after moving to the reserve team, he had kept a close eye on Seo Jino in the U-18 setup.
The result — Coach Dudu's report of remarkably swift adaptation — had led to Castro ordering the call-up to the B team in under six months.
And after two weeks of careful observation, the verdict: offensively, he was flashing at a level beyond expectations.
Coach Dudu had done a thorough job of instilling an understanding of Seo Jino's strengths.
Defensively, however, there was still plenty to work on. The first item on that list was the movement a striker needed to show in the pressing phase.
"He seemed to be doing what he was taught well enough."
"This is just the beginning. There's a lot to do."
Defensive support, pressing intensity, marking — detailed defensive concepts were needed.
Modern football doesn't treat attack and defense as separate things. No matter how gifted a player is going forward, without contributing defensively, he'll always be considered half a player.
Well — for someone at the level of Ronaldo or Messi, the conversation is different.
Either way, to move on to a bigger stage, defensive capability had to be developed without fail.
It wasn't something that could be picked up in a short time, but watching the way he absorbed instruction like a sponge, it seemed entirely possible.
"The Assassin from the East!"
"…"
"It's your day off — where are you going?"
Two goals in two consecutive matches. Nobody had been happier than my father.
How he'd managed to find an article about the second division, I had no idea.
I was pleased by his interest, but I tried not to show it too much.
Maybe it was just the two of us living together — expressing feelings didn't come easily to either of us.
"Going to the park for some recovery work."
"Just rest for once. Don't push yourself."
"This is the only way I can keep up with the others."
Doing the same as everyone else would never be enough to get ahead of them.
I had to carve out individual training time wherever I could find it.
Because this wasn't my final destination. Like Diogo Dalot, I wanted to move up to a bigger stage as soon as possible.
Even if this season was a stretch, by next year I wanted to be one of Conceição's options.
After wrapping up the conversation with my father, I left the house for a light jog.
They call it Portugal's second city, but with a population of around 230,000, it's not a large place.
Even the narrow alleyways of the Old Town I walked through regularly — finding another person was often a challenge.
Instead, moss-covered tiles and weathered wooden doors lined the lanes.
Passing through those streets soaked in the marks of time—
"Oh, Jino! Give me a training session today too!"
There was always the nameless Korean guesthouse owner standing out on the street.
After greeting him, there was one creature that came chasing after me every single time.
Woof woof!
A brown puppy no bigger than a forearm.
Still young, with ears that hadn't stood up yet — his name was Hodu.
According to the owner, he was some kind of mixed breed.
I thought it might be different abroad, but to me he looked like a plain old village mutt. Still cute, though.
And despite the tiny frame, he ran incredibly well.
I arrived at the open space in Parque da Cidade.
I started recovery work with some light stretching. Nothing particularly special beyond that.
I took out the ball I'd brought in my backpack and got started on something that could loosely be called dribbling practice.
"Hodu, try and take it!"
I played with Hodu as he kept lunging for the ball, then eventually sat down on a nearby step.
I tossed him some dried meat snacks I'd bought for him last time and was just settling in for a rest when—
Woof woof!
The barking made me turn my head. I met eyes with a man untangling the leash of a large dog.
"Porto jersey and black hair… Jino?"
"…"
Streaks of white through his hair, and a beard running from his sideburns down to his chin — a striking impression.
"What a pleasant surprise to see you here in person. I'm Vítor Baía."
"Vítor Baía?"
"That's right. Do you know who I am? Any Porto player would, I'd think."
A brief silence.
Baía and I exchanged a look without a word.
"Who are you?"
He was someone I had absolutely no idea about.