Vítor Baía.
He said he used to be a footballer, but how would I have known that. Out of curiosity I came home and searched his name. And this man — he was no ordinary player.
"Oh, he was a Porto goalkeeper?"
Apart from the longer hairstyle from back then, his face was exactly the same as when he was young. I scrolled through his records with the mouse wheel. A goals-against average in the 0s across 315 appearances before leaving for Barcelona.
He hadn't been able to show his best at Barça due to injury, but his career was truly remarkable. I briefly wondered how Baía had recognized me.
Porto Ambassador.
It made sense now. His connection was probably through Coach Conceição. They had been Portugal national teammates together. On top of that, he was the man who had let in the goal to Park Ji-sung at the 2002 World Cup.
Either way.
Baía and I had talked for a short while. Nothing particularly deep.
About Porto's football. About Porto's players.
Up until that point I genuinely hadn't known he was a former player. I'd assumed he was just a fan who had watched the Porto B match. As the conversation was wrapping up, Baía revealed he had been a player and offered me a piece of advice.
Shooting tempo.
The hardest thing for a goalkeeper to stop is not a powerful shot — it's having the timing taken away. Thinking about it now, Baía had definitely watched my match. I thought back to the Académica game, our second opponent.
Before the goal, even with limited chances, there had been shooting opportunities. When I wound up to strike with intent, it naturally required a big motion — and in that moment, a defender's leg came out. That small interference had made a difference.
I couldn't help being aware of the foot.
My angle was restricted, and no matter how powerful the shot, if it fell within the goalkeeper's expected range it would be saved. I found myself wondering what might have happened if I'd finished it off sooner.
Timing, timing…
There's just so much to work on. Attacking, defending — all of it.
※
Parking lot of the Library.
The weekend passed and it was back to 'Parque Esta…' — why does this school name have to be so long. The moment the tedious classes ended, I took the club bus that picks up youth players and headed to the training ground.
After about two and a half hours of training, as the sun was beginning to set. After eating at the now-familiar club canteen, the players gathered in the meeting room.
Every pitch at Estádio Dr. Jorge Sampaio is fitted with recording equipment, allowing training footage to be reviewed immediately. Porto in particular places great importance on the video reference process. Most players gathered here without fail every day to review their play and consult with the coaching staff.
"Jino, good work today. That's exactly how you contribute defensively."
Coach Matos, going through the footage one by one, offered his praise. From a coach who wasn't free with compliments, the words drew unmistakably envious stares from the other players. The sharp looks from the forwards in particular made me uncomfortable. Both starter Ferreira and João Malek had been grumbling throughout the defensive drills.
Pressing high up front, and also dropping below the halfway line to help defensively. It wasn't as if I found it enjoyable either. But soccer is a team sport. Having played sports before, I understood all too well how important those seemingly small things were.
Similar enough.
Besides, disrupting the opposition's forward momentum is the same whether it's American football or soccer. The unfamiliar tactical movements were tricky, but whatever I was shown I imprinted onto my body. Anything I didn't understand, I could just ask about.
"Even if Jino hasn't been here long, there are things you can all learn from him. Does absorbing what you're taught like a sponge come naturally to him? Maybe it does. But what matters more is the volume of sweat."
This praise was getting uncomfortably excessive.
"Why do we have these sessions? When your mistakes are pointed out, are you not thinking about fixing them? Look at Jino. If I'm not around he goes to Coach Dudu and asks him to review it again. Aren't you lot embarrassed, calling yourselves seniors?"
Please stop.
"Even if you're ahead of him right now, I'm telling you — keep this up and your spots will be taken. Don't go looking for sentiment here. It's all about ability. Understood?"
For the love of — tone it down. Fábio and Ferreira next to me were tapping my thigh.
"And you lot. Did you do your recovery work properly after the match? Do you even remember the training manual? Did I tell you to rest so you could go home and play games? Someone went to the park just to keep their body moving — you know who I'm talking about? Can't even guess?"
"Is it Jino?"
"Sounds like Jino."
"Jino?" "Jino!"
No idea where the coach had heard about that from.
"Right. The training ground will be left open, so anyone who wants to do individual work can stay. The coaches won't be around."
. . .
Training that Coach Matos had practically shoved us into. Even so, under the banner of voluntary work, most players showed up at the training ground. Of course there were some who didn't come for reasons unknown, but with no coach around either…
"Lete. Check who's missing and let me know."
"Yes, Coach."
The players stirred. Despite what he'd said, Coach Matos appeared at the training ground, checked attendance, and observed the players.
Fábio ran around muttering "figures, it was a trap all along," while I worked through the individual training session I'd been personally assigned by the coach. Porto's training program is demanding at every level. But I couldn't not know that the attention directed at me was real. How long had I been at it by now?
"Jino, take a break."
I turned toward where the voice came from. Fábio was walking over to me juggling a ball.
"What, are you done already?"
"Was doing free kick practice with Costa — taking a breather."
"Yeah? I should rest a bit too."
The coach was nowhere to be seen. It looked like once we were focused on training, he had slipped away. I wiped the sweat with my sleeve and sat down on the ground next to Fábio.
"What were you doing at the park?"
"Just messing around with the ball. Nothing major."
"But how did the coach find out?"
"Oh — the Porto Ambassador? Probably him that mentioned it."
"Which ambassador?"
"Vítor Baía. You know him?"
"Baía? Any Porto fan would."
"So the thing is, he told me to steal the goalkeeper's timing. What does that actually mean?"
"Timing?"
"Yeah."
"Come here. Hey, Costa!"
Fábio got to his feet. He called over goalkeeper Costa, and the three of us moved near the penalty arc. Costa naturally took up his position in goal, and Fábio passed the ball to me.
"?"
"Pass it."
I pushed the ball forward without overthinking. Fábio set it with his left foot and struck it quickly with no run-up. The ball, hit purely with ankle snap from a standing position, grazed past Costa's fingertips.
"Oh…"
"Again."
This time Fábio received my pass with his back to goal. He half-turned and produced a shot nobody had anticipated. Not particularly powerful, but it lodged in the upper right corner. Costa, who hadn't even managed a dive, gave a thumbs up.
"You shoot like that?" "Literally — timing the goalkeeper can't predict. People usually describe it as half a beat early, or a full beat early. Costa, roll one low."
The ball left Costa's hands and came rolling fast. If it were me I'd have taken a run-up and smashed it, but Fábio shuffled his feet in place.
Click! Bang!
Something like that? A very compact shot with no big preparatory movement. Shooting that cleanly and simply — it would be difficult for a defender, let alone a goalkeeper. Hearing it explained a hundred times is one thing, but seeing it directly made it click.
"I think I get it roughly." "But using it in a real match is a different thing. It's easy now because there's no defender."
"So how do you practice it?"
"It's less about practicing and more about the situation presenting itself in a match. In the last game you chipped it over the keeper. At the trial you were shooting from long range. All of that is stealing timing."
"Is it?"
Fábio scratched his earlobe.
"How has someone like this been scoring goals? Never mind. What Baía said sounds simple but it's incredibly difficult."
"I'll do it."
"Do what?"
"I'll figure it out."
"Why are you staring at me like that, it's unsettling. And anyway, try shooting from all kinds of different positions — it'll help."
※
Past 8 o'clock in the evening.
The lights on the training ground had been switched off and the players had scattered. I wanted to do a little more shooting practice but put that feeling aside.
"Wait for Ferreira. Let's hurry."
"Got it. Just let me pack this up."
Fábio and I, among the last to leave the training ground, rushed toward the car park. Ferreira, who had a car, had offered to give us a lift. Moving at a brisk pace, I spotted one training pitch with its lights still on.
"Fábio. Looks like someone's still around."
"Probably a groundskeeper."
It was the training pitch used by the U-18 team. My curiosity was piqued. There was something in the back of my mind too.
"You go ahead. I'll stop by and catch up."
"What are you on about? You didn't even bring your bike today."
"It's a short run."
You're mad. I'm saying it's not safe at night."
"Come on, go. Ferreira's waiting."
I shoved Fábio forward by force.
"Don't push me! I nearly flew."
"Take care, see you tomorrow."
Having sent Fábio on his way by force, I made my way toward where the light was on. I'd just been training, yet I felt the excitement again. Hoping there would be someone there, I stepped onto the open ground. Strange — it was completely quiet. Just a single football sitting alone in front of the goal.
"Is anyone here?"
Maybe someone had trained and left without tidying up. Maybe it was a groundskeeper doing checks, like Fábio had said.
I walked over to where the ball was. Not a sound from anyone. With the deflated feeling of a wasted trip, I gave the ball a firm kick. The net rippled. I was just about to turn and leave.
"Jino?"
I turned toward the voice calling my name. Emerging from a corner that the lights didn't quite reach — a towering figure.
"Mbaiye?"
That's right. It was Mohamed Mbaiye, who had come from Senegal. The backup goalkeeper for the U-18 team. Over 190cm tall, with a fierce-looking face — yet a remarkably introverted kid. Calling him a kid felt a bit odd since he was two years older than me, but either way. Even though we were on the same team, Mbaiye's Portuguese wasn't comfortable enough for proper conversation. And I had been too busy adapting myself to have the bandwidth to look out for anyone else.
"You startled me. I thought you were a coach."
"You're still here… are you eating?"
A plastic container in his hand. Even from a distance, the smell of spices was strong. Glancing over, it appeared to contain something like fried rice. The look of it wasn't particularly appealing, but judging by what was around Mbaiye's mouth, he seemed to be enjoying it. He scooped up a large spoonful and brought it close to my mouth.
"Thieboudienne. It's a Senegalese fish fried rice — want to try?"
"… I'm, I'm full, thanks. But why are you eating alone here without going home?"
"Everyone left."
"Then why didn't you go?"
"Couldn't train properly. Nobody to help with individual training."
"Oh… You couldn't train properly? Because nobody helped you?"
"Yes."
"Learn the language faster. Without communication it's going to be tough."
I had sensed it vaguely. Mbaiye's situation within the U-18 team. The indifference of the other players. Being a backup on top of that only made it worse. I at least knew how to adapt in a foreign environment, but Mbaiye was struggling with the relationships around him.
"Why are you still here then."
"The light was on. I came to see who was working this hard. Do you do this often on your own?"
"Have to work hard to move up. Two or three times a week I stay late."
"Oh — can I join?"
"Fine by me."
"Guess I should bring some food too next time. Eat at your own pace. I'll get my boots on."
"Alright. What do you want to practice? Free kicks? Or in-front, inside?"
I straightened the laces of the boots I'd pulled from my bag and said:
"Shooting half a beat early."
"… I can stop that."
"My goal is to keep going until you can't."
A training partner. No — I had made one more friend.