"Damn it! Hey, ref! No card for that? That's not a yellow? I said, is that not a yellow!"
Coach Castro was openly unhappy with the referee's decisions throughout. Even for Famalicão's rough fouls, no cards were coming out. Without anyone to calm the atmosphere down, Famalicão's players only got more physical.
From the start, there had been something unsatisfying about the match against Famalicão. This season, they were a team trying to compensate for their declining level of play with excessively rough football.
Young Porto, on top of that, wasn't accustomed to this kind of match. The frustrating first-half performance alone had turned that concern into reality. But in this kind of game, one player shone especially bright. Ironically, it was the youngest player who had appointed himself Porto's fighter.
"That kid has no fear, does he?"
As Fábio, taken down by a heavy tackle, grabbed his ankle, Seo Jino squared up to the opposition. He was going forehead-to-forehead with the Famalicão captain — a difference of over ten years between them.
"Matos. Shall we start pairing him with Ferreira soon? Jino will have a lot to learn. It'll give Ferreira a push too."
"Understood."
The coaches were busy noting down player evaluations, and Castro kept his eyes on the ground. Past the 25-minute mark of the second half. The match was still rough, but the score had been flipped to 2-1 in their favour.
Equalizer and then the winner.
One shot, one kill. He had kept moving endlessly for that single chance to shoot. In the end, a breathtaking header for the first goal — and then exactly five minutes later. Seo Jino received Fábio's through ball and added a second.
A wonderful goal with a wonderful process leading to it. He appeared and disappeared from between two center backs repeatedly, then slipped in at exactly the right moment. Bang!
"He's got the feel of a true number nine, hasn't he?"
"Exactly. Watching his header and toe-poke today, he's getting quite decent at controlling his shooting timing too."
"And Fábio brings out the best in Jino's play. I was thinking of promoting him next year, but our judgment was right."
"The two of them have real chemistry. Fábio's passing is genuinely brilliant in places."
Castro nodded. Fábio's outstanding passing instinct had been evident since he was young. The only missing piece had been a striker who understood and could receive those passes.
Here he is at last.
Three goals in three consecutive matches up to today. Seo Jino's attacking talent had been more than confirmed. His ability to cope in static situations and his somewhat direct movement were weaknesses, but improvement on those fronts didn't look too difficult. Underpinning it all was a ferocious passion that left you speechless.
"I hear he stays behind every day to train?"
"Yes. If there's something he can't do, he keeps at it until he can."
"You can tell when you watch him play."
A smile came naturally. This was not an ordinary player. That competitive instinct in particular — just look at it.
"Wow."
He'd lost the ball in a 1v1 with a defender. It would be understandable to let it go, but he chased like he was going to kill someone. And in the end, he actually won it back. And that wasn't even the end of it. He went on to attempt a counter with a rough, bulldozing dribble.
Tweet! Tweet!
In the end, Famalicão's players had to foul Seo Jino to stop him. His competitive drive was clearly in a different class. Setting aside ability, as a manager you couldn't help but love that quality. They say it makes you want to develop a player — to nurture them. Just as Castro was thinking that Seo Jino was exactly that kind of player.
"""Yeeaahhh!"""
Porto scored again. Fábio's free kick delivered into the box caused chaos in front of goal. Seo Jino, forcing his way through between the defenders, practically muscled the ball into the net.
"That went in off his shin."
"Shin, thigh — doesn't matter. Just told him to score."
※
At that same hour, Académica's home ground.
"Seen enough, let's get up."
In the stands directly behind the bench at Estádio Cidade de Coimbra. A small group of Asians caught the eye. Jeong Cheong-yong, who had been watching Académica vs Benfica, stood up as the match ended.
"Coach, what do you think?"
"Left out of the starting lineup last time, and today a late substitute appearance in the second half. Not much to see, is there?"
Jeong Cheong-yong swept his fringe back and shook his head. He was the manager of the South Korean national team, who had come to assess Hwang Gi-moon ahead of the 2019 U-20 World Cup. If they came through the qualifying rounds for next year's youth World Cup, bringing in overseas players would need to be considered.
FC Liefering's Kim Chang-min. Hamburg's Choi Min-jun. Valencia's Lee Sang-in.
He had checked on sixteen-year-old Lee Sang-in, considered young even by those standards, and Portugal was the final stop.
That won't do.
Hwang Gi-moon was certainly versatile in both attack and defense, but he didn't look markedly different from the domestic players. There were reports of him facing difficulties getting game time due to differential treatment at the club, but that was a situation the player himself had to overcome — it had no bearing on national team selection.
"That Korean lad at Porto last week — he's Korean too?" "I asked the club and yes, apparently so. Name is Seo Jino, age sixteen."
"A sixteen-year-old in Porto's reserve team?"
When he'd come to check on Académica's Hwang Gi-moon the previous week, the Asian player at Porto had caught his eye. On the off chance, he had asked his coach to find out the identity of Seo Jino — whose name he hadn't known at the time.
"But Coach — this is where it gets surprising."
"How so?"
Assistant head coach Gong Ho-gyun had checked Porto's website at the manager's request. There was a name and nationality, but little other information. So with the help of the federation, they contacted Porto directly and found out.
"Apparently he's been playing football for less than six months."
"What does that mean?"
Jeong Cheong-yong stopped walking toward the exit and turned to look at Gong Ho-gyun.
"No prior record. Apparently he worked his way through the U-18 in just four months… That's everything."
"Do you think that makes any sense? Something must have gotten lost in translation."
"We asked multiple times. Either that, or the talent is genuinely extraordinary."
"Hmm… That is strange. Nothing urgent, so keep following him for now. We'll see what becomes of it."
※
After the match, the coach summoned me. He said to stop by his office before heading home. I was a little worried about what he might say, but.
I had to go. Right — when called, you go.
So here I was, having stepped inside the manager's office.
"Sit down."
"Yes." "Good work today."
"Yes."
"You were a scrapper out there on the pitch — how come you're so awkward in here?"
"I'm not."
"Nothing else — this is actually the first time we've sat down and talked since you came up to the reserves, isn't it?"
"Ha ha. Yes."
An awkward situation. I pulled the corners of my mouth up emptily and laughed with embarrassment. At that, the coach leaned his body forward and started speaking seriously.
"First of all, you're doing well. Worth calling you up early. Oh — before that. Do you know why I brought you in this early?"
"Because I was doing well in the U-18?"
"No. Ferreira before you did better than that. That's not the reason."
"Then what is?"
"What I do is develop players that the first team needs."
Half understood.
"Yes. That's what I'm working toward too."
"Right. To shorten that timeline, there was a request from Coach Conceição. I agreed with it, of course."
"Oh…"
That I hadn't known. No wonder when the call-up came, it felt less like skipping a level and more like something drastic.
"André Silva left midway through, and Moussa Marega keeps getting used but you'd have to say his adaptation has failed. Aboubakar is doing well, but asking him to carry the whole league alone is too much."
Silva, who had left for AC Milan. Marega, the Mali international. And Aboubakar, Cameroon's undisputed starter. In all honesty, these were players I could barely bring myself to mention at my current level.
"Not yet—"
"That goes without saying. Either way — myself and Coach Conceição have judged that you could one day replace them. Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not saying right now."
"Me — replacing Porto's strikers?"
"Yes. But we won't bring you up in a half-finished state. It depends on what you do."
"What do I need to do?"
"No need to rush. We'll refine things one by one. Before that — what kind of striker do you want to be?"
Aerial dominance, finishing, work rate, technique, off-the-ball movement, vision and decision-making, two-footedness. As a striker, naturally I wanted to be a complete one. When I told all of this to the coach, he laughed again.
"You've got big ambitions. Mastering even one or two of those perfectly and it won't be Porto calling — it'll be a big club." "If there's a type of player you think I should learn from, I'd like to use that as a reference."
"Having a role model is good for motivation. Alright. Can I suggest someone?"
"Yes."
"I recommend Fernando Gomes — a Porto legend."
"…"
"What?"
"I don't know him." "Hmm. Maybe too long ago."
The coach thought for a moment, then brought up another player's name. The moment I heard it, his style of play played out in my head.
"Hulk — who had his prime years at Porto."
When I first came to Portugal, FC Porto's striker was none other than Hulk. A versatile attacker capable of playing as a winger, shadow striker, or out-and-out number nine. A player who used his physicality as a foundation, with pace and powerful shooting as his main weapons. His standout quality above all else was the cannon shot from outside the box.
"The style suits me, but…"
"But what?"
"Honestly, aren't there more impressive players?"
"Well, fair enough. Then find one yourself. It'll help either way."
"Yes. I'll give it everything."
"There are no players here who don't give everything. Let your results do the talking."
Results. Right — what mattered most was results.
Whether I'd be the main character. Or the supporting one.
Everything would change depending on the results.
※
"Fábio."
"What?"
"Who do you think is the best striker? The traditional number nine role."
"Hmm. If we're talking peak form there are too many. Personally I like Suárez."
Luis Suárez. A player who fully deserved the label of genius. His occasional erratic behavior was an issue, but fine. I kept him in mind and moved to the next player.
"Varela, what about you?"
"For me it's Batistuta. A bit old school, but do you know him?"
"Of course. Who doesn't know Batigol? But leave out your own country's players — there'll be bias."
"If we're talking pure strikers and not Messi or Ronaldo — Lewandowski at Bayern? Probably the best number nine around right now."
Roberto Lewandowski — rated as the complete striker. What more needs to be said about the player called the strongest in the human realm.
I asked every player I came across which striker they liked best. All subjective answers, but a rough picture emerged.
Ronaldo Thierry Henry Luis Suárez Robert Lewandowski Andriy Shevchenko
Open to debate, but that was the ranking from our squad. Beyond that — Zlatan, Samuel Eto'o, Van Nistelrooy, Harry Kane, Benzema, and more. All outstanding players. Each with their own distinctive quality, but what they shared was the ability to make their presence felt in front of goal.
So what type of player would suit me? No — what would it take to surpass these players?
It might be a slightly arrogant thought, but there was nothing stopping a person from dreaming. You'd need at least that level of ambition to even get close. Either way, I spent a moment thinking about which player to take as a role model.
And then.
I snapped my fingers.
Might as well just learn from all of them.