I tore through the gap between the two defenders and slid my foot toward the ball.The feeling came. A clear, unmistakable sensation against my toe.
Got it.
The ball, forced in against all odds, rolled through the goalkeeper's legs as he narrowed the angle rushing out.Still on the ground, I lifted only my head to confirm the goal. Then I spread my arms and legs wide and lay flat on my back, letting the turf hold me.
I'd done what I could. That was enough.
One by one, the players piled on top of me to share in the moment.Ruizang messing up my hair, Lete pressing his face against mine and roaring like an animal.Even Fábio planting a kiss on my forehead before getting back to his feet.As I finally moved to get up after lying there an age in front of the opposition goal, the hand reaching down for me belonged to André Ferreira.
"I watched carefully. That's how it's done."
"A striker doesn't just run forward with eyes only on the goal. Think about it after the match."
"Yes."
"Still — that goal just now was something else."
Almost twenty-three.Too good to be wasting away in the reserves much longer.Fábio had mentioned that when this season ended, Ferreira would probably be on the move. Talks were already going on between Porto and Rio Ave FC, apparently.A top-flight Portuguese side — for someone who desperately wanted to play regular football, it wasn't a bad call.
"Earlier — when I went 1v1 with Mamadou."
I asked him as we walked together toward the halfway line for the restart.
"Yeah.""What should I have done? At my current level, I mean."
"That? Simple. Even with no real angle, you should have shot before the defender got set."
"… It wouldn't have gone in anyway though."
"The coach said it himself — do what you can right now. Nobody knows what happens when you shoot. Sure, chances are it gets blocked. But that's still better than losing it like an idiot."
He was so right there was nothing left to say.
"Understood."
"Don't worry. I'll show you what I can while I still can."
"Seriously!?"
I reacted with genuine shock. He was the same position, a direct competitor — someone I'd been too cautious to approach.
"What are you so surprised about?"
"Is it okay — with me, I mean?"
"What is?"
"We're the same position."
"So what?""I mean… we're rivals."
"… You think I'm that easy to replace? Go make sure Malek knows his place first."
※
Around the 75th minute of the second half.
We weren't about to roll over for Braga the way we had in the first half.Drop too deep and a concession could come at any moment — that was the thinking.The midfield war flared up again, and now I dropped back to throw my weight into the defensive effort too.
"Stop Trincão!"
Castro's instruction, aimed directly at me. Cut him off before Francisco Trincão could get near the penalty box.With pace and physicality both in abundance, Ruizang and Fábio were still struggling to contain him.And his technique was razor-sharp on top of that. Again, Trincão received the ball wide and drove inside toward the center.
A quick exchange with Crespo further back, then forward again.He shook Ruizang off with ease and burst into a higher gear in an instant.Fábio threw a shoulder at him and came off worse, and with Trincão winding up to fire from distance with his left foot—
Boom!!
I got there first and sent the ball hurtling toward the far sideline. Was it the fact that I'd come charging from behind and booted it like a shot that bothered him?Or was it the embarrassment of swinging and missing, then crumpling over in an undignified heap?
"Something wrong?"
I looked at Trincão glaring back at me and said it plainly.To be fair, I had kicked it harder than necessary on purpose. The way he'd been showing off his footwork from the very first minute of the game.
A bit much, honestly.
From then on, every time Trincão went for the ball I was right there.He might be a phenomenon in the making, but at nineteen his body still hadn't fully grown into itself.I was still developing too — but the kind of sport I'd come from was a different beast entirely.Stopping a player like this was nothing to write home about.Every time Trincão tried to get cute with his tricks, I drove my foot in deep and made it physical.
And in the end.
With Braga's ace repeatedly shut down, the momentum swung our way.Fábio showed everyone exactly how frightening he was when he had the ball at his feet.One first touch to glide past Crespo and Trincão's press without breaking a sweat.
Thwap!!
Forward to Ferreira.At the same moment I drove inside to the left, calling out to him.He had been dragging defenders along with his dribble — and he answered my signal.
As I chased the ball cutting across between the center backs and the goalkeeper, sure enough Mamadou was right on my heels.Stop the ball dead and I'd be right back to that isolated, helpless scene from the first half.
I wasn't confident enough yet to do something fancy. All I had in my head was what Ferreira had told me.So instead of trying to bring the ball under control, I immediately twisted my body and lashed out with my left foot.
My body tilted under the momentum, but I kept my eyes on the low trajectory of the ball skimming away.Getting it past the goalkeeper guarding the near post was close to impossible.Left to roll on its own, the ball would have drifted wide of the far post anyway.It was a shot born from hope — nothing more. But exactly as Ferreira had said, something unexpected happened.
Thwap!!
The goalkeeper, caught completely off guard, panicked and threw out a leg to stop it.The ball bounced back and ricocheted out to the center of the penalty box.And the player who got a foot to it first—
"Block him!!"
"Number 21 — behind you!!"
The player in Porto's black away jersey.Fábio Vieira, calmly tucking the rebound inside with the instep.
"Nice!!"
I cheered from where I sat on the ground, and Fábio backpedaled pointing straight at me with both fingers.I scrambled to my feet to sprint over to him. But first — Mamadou, standing there with a blank expression directly in my path.
"You're even worse than I thought."
Couldn't let that one go.Then the three of us — me, Ferreira, and Fábio, who had combined to make it happen — wrapped our arms around each other near the corner flag.
3-1.
The goal that sealed it. Braga folded, settling for damage limitation as the clock wound down.Even with stoppage time, barely ten minutes remained.They passed it sideways, passed it back — going nowhere on purpose. Their own fans turned on them, raining down jeers from the stands.
And then.
As if on cue, Porto's midfielders came surging forward like a thunderclap.Led by Ruizang, they swarmed the ball in an instant and stripped it clean.
Thwap! Thwap— thwap-thwap—!
Fábio, Ruizang, Pires — passing and moving, dismantling Braga's famed trio in seconds.A pass to Ferreira, back to the goal with a defender against him near the penalty box.One touch, and he rolled it through to me as I burst into the box.
Boom!!
Right foot this time. If Trincão was a clothesline, then call me a cannonball.A shot hit with full conviction cracked off the top of the post and down behind the line.
Tweeet!!
Goal confirmed. The referee pointed to indicate the ball had crossed the line and signaled for the restart.
"Booooooo—!"
"What the hell is wrong with these guys?"
"Is that how you play football? What is wrong with this reserve team?!"
The Braga players who had been coasting toward the final whistle looked rattled.A torrent of abuse and jeers rained down from every corner of the stands.
But what could you do.
That's your problem, not ours.
※
[Porto's New Sensation — Seo Jino!!][(Photo) Braga's Ace Sent Flying by Seo Jino.]
After the Braga match, a Portuguese online outlet called 'O Jogo' ran a short piece with my photo and name.This was the same publication that had first called me "the Assassin from the East."They covered FC Porto news as their main beat, so naturally they kept an eye on me even as a reserve team player.
But that was as far as it went.
The second division was the second division. Without the Porto name attached, not a single line of coverage would appear.That was exactly why every player was chasing a spot in the first team. The moment you pulled on that jersey, everything changed.
And it wasn't just within Portugal. Porto had made a habit of shipping young talent off to the biggest leagues in the world.Which was proof enough of how consistently exceptional players had come out of this club.
The payoff of all that effort was staring right back — in January 2018, Porto sat seventh in the UEFA club coefficient rankings.Down two spots from fifth, but only because French and Russian money had become impossible to compete with on pure economics.Considering that the Dutch league had fallen out of the top ten entirely, it was still a fiercely competitive ranking.
That virtuous cycle had carried all the way through to the Euro 2016 title.So naturally, the Portuguese players around me were walking around right now fully convinced their country was the best in the world.
"What are you talking about? Brazil? Not a chance. Ronaldo gives it one 'Hou' and it's over."
"Exactly. And it's not just Ronaldo — with Nani and Quaresma on the flanks, your wide players are getting absolutely demolished."
"Wow… like Thiago Silva is just some nobody?""Silva doesn't even need to get involved. It ends at Casemiro. And who dragged out Quaresma — a YouTube celebrity? Don't embarrass yourself."
Fábio and Lete made their case for Portugal's dominance while Ruizang and Galeno, both Brazilian, fired straight back.
It was all about which country was stronger, and the players flying out of their mouths were all too familiar to me.Ronaldo needed no introduction. Nani I knew well from his time with Park Ji-sung at Manchester United — apparently on loan at Lazio now. Looked decent on TV back in the day, though I honestly wasn't sure about the current version.
Then Quaresma.I had some sympathy for Galeno's "YouTube celebrity" dig.With the trivela and all the rest, the highlight reel alone put him on Ronaldo's level.But when the stakes were highest in the biggest leagues, the gap had always shown.
Whether that Portugal attack could really carve through PSG's Thiago Silva and Real Madrid's Casemiro — genuinely, I had my doubts.
Either way.
These South American guys became completely unhinged the moment football came up. Exhausting.The Portuguese weren't much different, to be honest.
"Jino! Be objective — Portugal or Brazil?"
Fábio turned to me.Awkward. Though considering most of the squad was Portuguese…I kept it short. Said nothing extra. Just the one line.
"Portugal lost to South Korea."
"…"
"What? They did. At the World Cup.""I am so done with you. Ancient history. If we played again and lost I'd burn my own stomach."
"The ball is round."
"I can't breathe. Dalot — you're the closest to the national team out of any of us, so you weigh in. Do you actually think we'd lose?"
Diogo Dalot thought for a moment, then answered.
"I've got a bad feeling about it."
※
A deceptively quiet morning at the Jorge Sampaio training ground.Castro stood with his arms folded watching the session, while Coach Matos bellowed at full volume beside him.
"Are you looking at where your teammates are? You keep forgetting and staring at the ball again! This isn't the futsal you played as a kid. Check at least twice before you receive!"
"Yes!"
Following the instruction, I kept turning my head left and right while waiting for the pass.Doing it deliberately made it feel painfully unnatural. And I was the only one getting pulled up on it.Even back in the U-18 setup, nobody had drilled this kind of basic into me.Was it embarrassing?Not even slightly. To climb the next step, this was nothing.
"Use a checking run before you go to receive! Don't just rely on your pace! What happens when you meet someone faster than you? Stay busy when you don't have the ball. Stop trying to figure out what to do after you've got it! Hey! Again!"
No let-up. No breaks.I stole a glance at Matos, silently wondering if rest was ever coming.Then Castro leaned over and whispered something in his ear.
"Jino, run! Don't wait for the ball — move into the space and receive it! You did all of this in American football, didn't you? The only difference is you're using your feet instead of your hands. You can do it! Stop staring at the player in front of you — check the sides too. Hey!"
"…"
I'd been trying to receive on the flank and take on Dalot in a 1v1. What came flying instead was Matos's voice like a thunderbolt. Then Castro whispered again beside him.
"Jino, come here."
The coach waved me over. I sprinted across and stood in front of him.
"Yes."
"A striker has to be willing to take on a 1v1 — I'm not saying don't try. The attempt itself is fine. But in football, the player who keeps it simple plays it best. Even just now — if you'd had the awareness, you could have passed and kept the attack moving."
"Yes."
"So let's take it one thing at a time. Just one. Okay? Start with what you need most right now."
"Yes."
I'd lost count of how many times I'd been called over like this. My head was buzzing. But after every telling-off, the coach always finished in a warmer tone than he'd started.
"Hard going, isn't it? But here's the thing — opposition teams are going to start targeting your weaknesses now. If you don't lock down the basics now, there's no going back later."
"Understood."
"And how's the mask?"
The Braga match had laid it bare — regardless of the result, the holes in my game were there for all to see.Playing purely off instinct and what was directly in front of me wasn't going to cut it. I needed to become a more complete, more sophisticated striker.
For that very purpose.
Right now, there was a protective face mask strapped across my face.The kind worn when you've taken a knock to the face — that mask.It wasn't so much uncomfortable as it was deliberately designed to make my vision awkward.Trying to scan the players around me in this state meant my head was in constant motion, turning left and right without stop.
The mastermind behind all of it was Castro — who was whispering into Matos's ear again, right at this very moment.