Tweeet—!
The referee's whistle sounded and the match kicked off at Braga's home ground.
Sixth-placed us on 25 points against fifteenth-placed Braga.
Unlike other second-division adult sides, neither Porto B nor Braga B were teams obsessed with results.
The top priority was developing standout players for the first team.
Of course a good result would be welcome, but for reserve sides, motivation naturally ran lower.
That said, it didn't mean they were content drifting around the bottom of the table.
Of the eighteen clubs, the bottom three were relegated to the third division.
Staying in the second division was necessary for the young players to develop their competitive edge.
Either way, regardless of the team's standing, players rising to stardom were plentiful on both sides.
Both teams went at it with individual quality leading the way.
Thwap, tha-thwap! Thwap!
The midfield, held together by Fábio and Ruizang, was beginning to be gradually pushed back.
In the middle of the pitch, Braga clearly had the stronger presence.
On top of that, Mamadou, Crespo, and Trincão had a natural understanding between them.
Short-pass-based possession.
Numerical superiority through outstanding work rate.
Focus that carried all the way through to the finishing shot.
Braga pushed aggressively, capitalizing on home advantage.
"Block the pass!"
."Behind you! He's going around the back!"
"Drop and press!"
Our players were pulled all over the place by the relentless forward play.
My job at the front was simply to make things uncomfortable for the opposition, so the defensive burden on me wasn't that heavy.
But if I'd been going head-to-head with Braga's midfielders directly…
How is the tempo this quick?
I wasn't sure there was an answer. Even Ruizang, supposedly strong defensively, couldn't get a read on things, and Fábio was conceding repeated dribbles to Trincão, who kept switching between the center and the flank.
Then when the space opened up, a clean long-range shot with the left foot.
So that's what they mean when they say a ball flies like a clothesline.
Beyond that, Mamadou and Crespo in the center were busy and compact.
Wherever the ball was, they were there.
At this point it might seem strange that Braga were struggling near the bottom.
A team of this level languishing down there?
Thwap—!
Soccer isn't a game decided by a few individuals.
Braga's thin attack and shaky defensive unit — that was the explanation.
Porto finally mounted a counter.
Dalot on the left played to his strengths. Carrying the ball from defense, once he crossed the halfway line—
"Hey!"
He played it to Fábio, who had joined the attack, and pushed deep into the opposition half.
Fábio rolled the ball back into the space in front of Dalot.
Crespo, who had been blocking Fábio in the center, had no time to react.
And from that moment, I was locked in a fierce battle for position with the two center backs.
"Over here!"
Outside the penalty box, I turned my back to the defenders and called to Dalot.
Not a counter like the ones I'd scored from before — this was a hold-up play.
Time to use what I'd been taught. How many times had I heard the words "lay it off and go"?
Dalot played it to me and pointed to Fábio.
Thwap!
One touch back to Fábio behind me. And I followed through with the next movement we'd agreed on.
When the ball is at my feet — soccer footwork.
When there's no ball — the fast-footed steps from American football.
Fake first.
I twisted my upper body to the left as a dummy move.
The defenders' balance shifted momentarily. In that gap, I did a split step from a standing position and quickly turned out to the opposite side.
Made it into the penalty box.
Timed to my run, Fábio's looping pass was already on its way.
I watched the ball dropping slowly toward my feet and thought:
Half a beat early.
If I took a touch, the goalkeeper was already narrowing the angle on his way out.
Before the dropping ball hit the ground, I swung my left foot. Boom!!
A shot the goalkeeper had no chance to react to rippled the net, and at the beautiful volley I raised both arms high into the sky.
"That was insane!"
"Jino! Great goal!"
"Yes! That's how you do it!"
Every player on the pitch came to wrap their arms around me in celebration.
On the bench, the coach and Matos exchanged high fives, visibly satisfied with what had been close to perfect attacking play.
"That's the one."
I clenched my fist tight and jogged back toward the halfway line. It was the best feeling of any goal I'd scored.
Not because the shot was difficult — but because it was a goal that had woven together almost everything I'd been working on in training.
※
One attack had produced a goal, but Braga's momentum hadn't broken.
In the midfield battle, Braga clearly had the upper hand.
And yet, they failed to score. Just as in defense, it was the absence of a striker capable of putting the finishing touch on things.
"Push up!"
The same pattern kept repeating.
Braga's back line had pushed up above the center line, and Trincão — functioning almost like a mezzala — was cutting directly into the penalty box himself.
Boom—!
Trincão's fierce left-footed shot. Costa with another save.
That was the reason Porto B, unlike other reserve sides, was competing in the upper-middle of the table.
A reasonably solid defensive unit combined with Costa — already earmarked as Porto's next generation goalkeeper — and his brilliant saves. Animal reflexes and lightning reactions producing a super save, followed by a counter.
"Jino!"
We had been crouching deep and now transitioned to attack.
Lete's long pass came flying to me. I turned my back to the defender and headed the ball down.
Thwap!
Fábio quickly switched it to Varela on the left. Varela — who idolized Argentina's 'Caniggia' and called himself the son of the wind — picked up speed and drove forward.
My job this time was to break Braga's back four and penetrate into their half.
Just do what I can. Like right now — run hard toward Varela's low curling ball.
The through pass into the space behind the left back — I got there first.
Again, it was me. But.
Perhaps deciding that trying to match my speed was pointless, the center backs had dropped back and set up near the goal.
Instead, defensive midfielder Mamadou tracked all the way back to block me.
Left corner of the penalty area.
He wasn't positioning to deal with me in possession — he was occupying the next space I'd want to move into.
Tap.
I held the ball and faced off against Mamadou. I couldn't find a teammate to pass to.
Braga's players had already sealed off Varela, Fábio, and Ruizang near me, leaving me with nowhere to go.
And the angle wasn't right for a direct shot.
I had to get past this guy…
"Ugh!"
In a split second. Before I'd even finished thinking, Mamadou had closed the distance in one movement.
188cm, shoulders built like a wall.
With the ball between us, my breath seized up.
To the left along the goal line there wasn't much room, and to the right Mamadou was ready and waiting.
I tried all kinds of footwork drawing on my futsal memories, but it was no use.
I gave up the clumsy individual tricks and just tried to force my way through somehow.
I knocked the ball wide to the right and— damn!
As if he'd seen it coming all along, Mamadou cut off the path.
I tried to muscle through with a physical challenge, but.
Thwap!!
Crespo, who had arrived to cover, intercepted and cleared the ball.
Then Mamadou, who had been pushed back a step by me, gave a wink.
"You're nothing when you're stopped."
Eyes looking down at me. A smug tone.
I wasn't usually one to curse, but.
I was furious.
※
Just before the end of the first half.
In the end, Francisco Trincão's long-range shot went in.
The movement of an inside forward cutting from right to left.
Tall for a winger at 186cm and physically sturdy, he hadn't been shifted even when Dalot pushed into him.
On top of that, it had gone in off the post — there was nothing Costa could do.
1-1.
Scores level, but we'd managed all of three shots.
The players knew full well the performance hadn't been good. Fábio and Ruizang in particular, who had lost the midfield battle, came in looking frustrated.
Same for me.
Even the memory of the first goal couldn't wash away the image of being completely shut down by Mamadou — it wouldn't leave my head.
After that, Braga's defenders stopped trying to mark me directly and instead blocked off the space.
Unlike before, it was clear the opposition had done their homework on me.
Physical duels and pace were my strengths, and play in tight static situations was my weakness.
Mamadou had proved it, and now they had the conviction to defend accordingly.
How do I get through?
Mamadou wasn't contributing to the attack at all — he simply patrolled the space in front of Braga's back four.
Excellent man-marking combined with rough play that cleverly mixed in fouls.
In the end, after that first shot I hadn't managed a single one since.
"Hey, Jino."
"Yes."
"You're doing well for a first start. You scored, didn't you."
"Not really."
I had a towel draped over my head when Castro put his hand on my shoulder.
The words didn't land. Yes, I'd scored — and after that I'd been invisible.
"Football is a team sport. You don't have to do it alone. The result is my responsibility."
"It's just that I couldn't get past that one player…"
The coach knocked me on the head.
"I'm not expecting that from you yet. How long have you been playing soccer? Don't get ahead of yourself. Just do what you can."
"…"
"Right, listen up everyone. Around the 70th minute of the second half — that's when we push the line up. Hold your shape and Ferreira, get warmed up now."
Braga's players had been noticeably high in their work rate throughout.
The plan was to go for the win when their legs started to go. And Ferreira's name had come up.
"Am I being taken off?"
"No. Ferreira is going to draw the defenders away."
André Ferreira was a competent player in the air, with pace and decent footwork, but his greatest asset was his selfless play.
"Two strikers up front?"
"Just don't overlap your runs with Ferreira. You know Anelka? You've watched the footage."
"Yes. I know him."
"Ferreira will take the Anelka role. With some differences, but roughly that."
Matos must have been talking to the coach again about Drogba and all the rest.
Anelka was the striker who had given everything to make Drogba shine.
In other words — tonight, at least, I was going to be the main character.
We headed back out for the second half. After weathering close to twenty minutes of one-sided pressure, the referee accepted the substitution signal.
Galeno came off and Ferreira came on, looking for the chance to shift the momentum.
"They're running on empty now — time to hit back. Understood?"
Ferreira, who had relayed the coach's words to the players, came and stood beside me.
"I'll create the chances. Go and tear them apart."
"Yes."
The score was still 1-1.
We switched to a 4-4-2 and pressed on. You could feel how much the manager's role mattered.
A single instruction to push the line up began to have an enormous impact on the whole match.
We started winning the midfield battle.
"Push up!"
Dalot and Yahaya, who had seemingly been conserving energy in the first half, threw themselves into overlapping runs with full commitment.
The energy of those two joining the midfield punched through Braga's middle line.
The way a match could flip in an instant like this was something to behold even as you watched it.
"Fábio! Here!"
Dalot and Fábio worked through the space with quick passes. Then Dalot's bold forward pass found Ferreira, who had been busy moving between the defensive midfielder and the center backs.
"Hey!"
The moment Ferreira received the ball, he turned to his right.
Ferreira had the wide vision to rival Ruizang and Fábio.
Tap!
Near the right touchline, Pires received the ball and the opposing fullback immediately closed in to defend.
Pires, without much fuss, slipped it to Yahaya overlapping past him.
Yahaya knocked the ball long and checked the positions of his teammates. Then he swung his right foot through with a wide arc.
An early cross with a crisp tempo, timed to Ferreira's run.
Where Braga had built through short passes, we had advanced in one direct stroke.
Now came the important part. I ran down the center and watched for what Ferreira would do next.
What's he going to try.
A slightly long ball — Ferreira stretched out his leg and picked it off.
Right corner of the penalty area.
The position was the mirror image of where I'd faced off against Mamadou.
But there was a difference from what I'd done.
The moment he turned his body — into an open space behind—
No, wait. Someone was there. Pires shook off his marker and received the ball.
What had I done in a situation like that?
My decision-making was slow.
Slow decision-making meant a narrow field of vision, both in action and in thought.
Controlling the ball with your feet was already hard enough, and the angle of vision was fundamentally different from American football where you can only go forward.
As a result, Braga's defenders had stuck tight to our players, and I'd naturally ended up isolated.
By contrast, Ferreira had checked his teammates' positions several times before even receiving the ball.
That was what allowed the quick decision and the pass to follow.
All of it done before the opposing players could get their marking organized.
It wasn't individual skill or dribbling. Just a simple lay-off, and the attacking flow hadn't been lost.
"Jino!"
I'd think about that later.
Pires played the ball into the open space outside the penalty box.
The gap between their last line of defense and the midfielders.
This pass was for me. I pushed off the ground so hard I could feel the turf tearing up beneath me.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Matar (I'll kill you)."
Racing toward the ball — and Mamadou, suddenly beside me again, competing for it.
Before either of us reached the ball, our shoulders collided.
Simultaneously our pace dropped and we both staggered apart.
Who recovered first — and one more time with the ball right there!
"Urgh!!"
Mamadou groaned and disappeared from my field of vision.
In that moment, Ferreira made a darting run inside, stealing the center back's attention.
Now it was the situation I was good at. I put on the pace and slotted the ball into the space between the awkwardly positioned center backs.
And.
I drove my body through to follow it in between them.
Hands, feet, entire bodies coming at me from both sides trying to stop me.
I was forcing open a door that was shut.