A 4-2 comeback victory over a side that had given us everything they had.
The kind of match that stays with you. Maybe not for everyone — but for me, it did.
In more ways than one, I'd managed to fight through what had always been called my weaknesses.
And with each match played, another article appeared with my name in it.
[Watch out for Porto B's rising star Seo Jino — he single-handedly turned the Arouca match on its head.]
[5 appearances, 11 goals including substitutions. A new scoring machine has arrived.]
[The Assassin from South Korea — a goal-scoring instinct at its peak.]
[Seo Jino, who tore through Porto U-18 in just four months. The birth of a new monster.]
[Seo Jino's physical test results revealed — the numbers are shocking.]
They weren't writing "Asian" anymore — they were writing "South Korea." That alone said something.
And after the match, the manager and coach had given me their full backing. Do whatever you want inside the box — those were their exact words.
I was being recognized. And time moved on.
※
Three matches in the space of a week — one win, two defeats.
Penafiel (H) 2 : 1 Porto (A)
Vitória Guimarães (H) 1 : 0 Porto (A)
Porto (H) 2 : 1 Leixões (A)
As the table showed, we lost on the road to fourth-placed Penafiel and eleventh-placed Guimarães.
Against Leixões, ranked tenth, we took the win.
I came off the bench against Penafiel and scored once.
Against Leixões I started, and scored once more.
The thing worth noting was that opponents were no longer leaving me alone.
They began marking me from two-thirds of the pitch up, and inside the box two center backs clung to me at all times.
While the reserves were growing steadily, Porto's first team stepped onto the Champions League stage for their round of sixteen.
The opponents were Liverpool — one of England's elite four.
Porto were still unbeaten at home, so there had been quiet hope for the home leg.
The result: 5-0.
Whether it was because I belonged to the same club, I genuinely hadn't expected the first team to collapse like that.
In the league they had stretched nine points clear of Benfica — the aura of a side built for the big stage.
They were just too strong.
Watching Sadio Mané in particular, my jaw dropped.
A player the pundits had written off as struggling — and he had torn Ricardo Pereira apart with nothing but raw athleticism.
Ricardo Pereira, of all people.
Porto's finest right back, the man Leicester City were reportedly drooling over.
Explosive speed, relentless in both directions — his reputation was bulletproof.
A hat-trick.
Three goals — three of them directly involving Pereira — conceded in one evening.
Mohamed Salah and Roberto Firmino added one each.
Meanwhile, the strikers who had been carving up the Portuguese league ran into a wall they couldn't climb.
No need to go through the whole lineup. A center back, 193 centimeters tall, who had defended almost single-handedly.
His name was Van Dijk.
More accurate to say he had swept Porto's attack clean off the pitch with the force of nature he brought with him.
Until recently I'd held Porto's first team in something close to awe.
And yet Van Dijk had made them look like that.
Half terrified. Half burning to try it myself.
I wanted to be there. I was certain that day would come — and I was making my way through another afternoon with that certainty sitting quietly in my chest when the phone rang.
"Yes, Coach."
— It's Sunday, what are you up to? Come out for dinner tonight.
"Oh…"
— You're not doing anything, are you? It's important. Come out.
"Important? Yes, alright."
Dinner with the manager. Wonderful. Terrifying.
He said important, so there was no getting out of it.
If I was going regardless, at least I'd eat well.
"Where should I meet you? There's a Korean place that just opened in the city center — their grilled octopus is incredible. Ha ha."
— The club's sending a car.
…What?
"Why is there a car? Aren't we just having dinner?"
— It's good news. Come and you'll see.
Good news?
The only good news I could think of was starting more matches.
This wasn't something the manager normally did — calling me out for a private meal out of nowhere. My curiosity was properly piqued.
"Ugh, what now."
When the time came I pulled on jeans and a coat instead of my usual training gear and stepped outside.
A club car was waiting in the narrow alley.
Before long I was passing through the center of Porto and pulling into the grounds of Estádio do Dragão — the first team's stadium.
Someone who might have been a driver or a personal assistant helped me out of the car and led the way.
Since the day I'd signed my youth contract, this was only my second time here.
I took it all in as we walked, and at the end of a corridor, Coach Castro was standing there waiting.
"You made it?"
"Coach, why are we here?"
"Someone wanted to see you."
"…Excuse me?"
Completely caught off guard. The man who had guided us knocked on a door and opened it.
I took a slow breath and stepped inside, chest tight with nerves.
Why would they bother calling a reserve team player here?
"They're inside. Go on in."
Castro nodded and opened a second door within the room.
Familiar faces appeared. The first pair of eyes I met—
Vítor Baía.
I'd found out since our encounter in the park — Baía was Porto's vice-president as well as an ambassador.
And I'd said "who are you" to that man. Brilliant.
I moved my gaze from the vice-president to the others in the room.
My heart rate was already climbing. It had been climbing since the moment the door opened.
Whatever kind of gathering this was, it was not the kind where I'd be eating in comfort.
Youth director Abraham Marcus. First-team manager Sérgio Conceição.
And.
By now I knew the big names of Portuguese football well enough.
"You're Coach Pauleta, aren't you?"
Miguel Pauleta — the man they called the King of Hat-tricks — was sitting there too.
One of the pillars of Portugal's Golden Generation alongside Luís Figo, Nuno Gomes, and Rui Costa.
This season he had joined as a tactical coach under Conceição, specifically to handle the attack.
"Ha ha ha! This young man didn't recognize the vice-president — but he knows me straight away. Come on, sit down."
I was standing frozen in the doorway, completely at a loss, when Pauleta laughed and waved me over.
I ended up seated between Baía and Pauleta.
Whether any food would actually make it down my throat was another question entirely.
.
.
.
Good news?
I stole a glance at Castro. Carefully enough that he wouldn't notice.
If you're going to call someone, at least fill them in beforehand.
But these legendary figures had climbed into a time machine and gone somewhere I couldn't follow.
Whether it was my presence that sparked it, I couldn't say — but the destination was the 2002 World Cup.
"If we hadn't been drinking the night before, would we really have lost to South Korea? I could understand the two of you — but Costa was the captain. I genuinely never expected that from him."
Pauleta said it with complete sincerity.
"Look, I'm sorry. Conceição kept pushing."
"When did I ever — you were the one who followed along because someone mentioned girls."
I'd seen it on TV once. The story about how entertainer Hong Seok-chan had shared drinks with the Portuguese players the night before the match. The ones at that table — Fernando Couto, Rui Costa, and the two men sitting right in front of me now: Baía and Conceição.
"Couldn't even shake the hangover. I can barely bring myself to talk about it anywhere."
Pauleta dredged the memory of that match back up.
"Oh no, not this again. You could have just scored and fixed everything yourself."
"Baía, enough. Pauleta was absolutely terrible in that game too. Ha ha."
"Exactly. Not exactly in a position to judge."
Pauleta's face crumpled at Baía's comment.
"Jino, you tell us. What's the general opinion of these men back in South Korea?"
The 2002 World Cup — a match still being talked about in 2018.
The comments sections of every internet video and YouTube clip I'd ever seen proved that.
"I'm not sure I should say…"
"Go ahead. Ancient history."
"That's right, it's fine. South Korea must have loved it."
Baía said it casually. Left with no choice, I decided to give it to them straight.
"Coach Conceição is known as the man who got nutmegged by Park Ji — by Ji-sung Park. Vice-president Baía is known as the man who had the egg cracked on him."
"…"
"…"
"Ha ha ha! Of course. What about me — is there anything about me?"
Pauleta is.
Pauleta is..
Pauleta is…
Nothing came to mind. I genuinely couldn't recall ever seeing him mentioned.
"Coach… people aren't sure you actually played in that match."
"Poxa vida! (Oh for—!)"
Club employees they might be — but in an unofficial setting, these men were still old friends with nothing to hide between them.
※
We sat together over the meal and the conversation wandered everywhere and nowhere.
I'd imagined somewhere elegant, something expensive. Not even close.
A quiet spread of bifanas in the club offices.
"How is it? Best place near here."
A bread roll roughly the size of your hand, packed with pork slow-cooked in garlic and every spice imaginable.
A proper Portuguese staple — and honestly, it was delicious.
"This is really good."
"Isn't it? There's plenty more, go for it."
Pauleta — who I'd only just met — was looking after me. He kept gently drawing me into the conversation, working to put me at ease.
Even so, the tension never fully left. I simply didn't have enough life experience — footballing or otherwise — to hold my own in a room like this.
When are they going to get to the point?
Oblivious to what was going on inside my head, the meal ended — and now apparently it was time for tea.
I was just starting to feel the weight of a full stomach pulling me toward sleep when Pauleta snapped me back into the room.
"Did you watch the Liverpool match?"
"Yes."
"Forget the defending for now. We couldn't score a single goal at home. Why do you think that is?"
Over an hour in — and finally, this was what it was really about.
"Liverpool's defense was just that good."
"Skip the textbook answer."
Pauleta's tone shifted. I chose my next words carefully.
"Van Dijk — the defensive anchor. I think there was too much fear of him."
"He's the best defender in the world."
"And maybe that's where it went wrong. He's not the kind of player you can avoid — that much was obvious from watching."
"So what would you have done? They're strong and they're fast. You'd just run straight at them?"
Conceição cut in.
"I would… yes."
"Explain that, Jino."
Even Baía leaned in.
"Someone had to attempt the direct run. Even one or two successful breaks would have opened up more attacking options."
I said plainly what I'd been thinking while watching the Liverpool match.
The expressions around the table were all variations of the same thing.
Pauleta, who had designed the attacking tactics, and Conceição, who had signed off on them, were both noticeably serious.
Baía stroked his chin and nodded.
Only Marcus and Castro — the two who knew me — were smiling.
"Wouldn't it have been worth making Van Dijk's head a bit more complicated — even just to help the second leg?"
"The second leg? Like you would do?"
Conceição was watching me now with something approaching genuine interest.
"Sorry?"
"You. When something doesn't work, you always come back the next time with an answer to it."
"Something like that, I suppose."
"The level up there is a different world though. You think you could manage it?"
It was a question I'd already been turning over in my mind while watching the match.
"Whatever it takes — I'll find a way."
"Hmm… well said. You must have spent a lot of time cursing me while watching."
Everyone except me burst out laughing.
A beat, maybe two.
Then Conceição turned to Pauleta and said:
"It's been a while since Porto produced a real striker prospect from within. What do you make of him?"
I knew they were talking about me. I swallowed.
Pauleta made them wait a moment — then licked the last of the bifana from his fingers and answered.
"What's there to ask? The boy's a born striker."
※
When the dinner broke up, I left the club offices with Marcus ahead of the others.
The rest were apparently having drinks — first time they'd all been together in a while, so the night wasn't over for them.
Either way, I climbed into Marcus's car and we headed back. After a quiet moment he spoke.
"How was tonight? A bit uncomfortable?"
"No. I was fine."
A lie, to be honest — though things had eased toward the end.
"Take care of yourself. Stay away from injuries."
"Yes."
"Take in everything Castro teaches you."
"Yes."
"And when Pauleta gives you an assignment, make sure you follow through."
…Wait.
"Coach Pauleta?"
I stared at the back of his head as he kept his eyes on the road.
"You didn't know?"
Marcus stopped at a red light and turned to look at me.
"Know what?"
"Why today happened. Did Castro not tell you?"
"He just said good news and to come out."
"That man, honestly. Pauleta will probably be calling you in regularly."
"Sorry — the first team?"
The surprise came out louder than I intended. Marcus caught my expression and smiled.
"The Liverpool loss hit Conceição hard, apparently. But bringing in an expensive striker isn't an option right now — so the thinking is to develop you faster."
"The first team…"
"The league title race isn't decided yet. So you won't be officially integrated — they won't add you to the squad officially in case there's a match where you end up stuck not playing."
"The first team."
That was the only phrase left in my head.
"Don't get ahead of yourself. It's just targeted work, filling in specific gaps."
"The first team."
"… You're only hearing what you want to hear. Fine — yes, it's an opportunity. The senior players will chip in with advice too."
"Exactly!"
"Oh — you nearly gave me a heart attack. That happy about it?"
"Of course."
Happy didn't cover it. For me, this was the stuff of dreams.
Even if it was only training — it was one more step forward.
"And there's one more thing — not confirmed yet — the contract renewal… actually, never mind."
"Sorry?"
"When it's certain I'll let you know properly. Just know it's genuinely good news."
Whatever it was, right now all I could picture was Pauleta putting me through my paces.
"Understood."
"Good. Go and become the dragon that guards Porto."
Dragões — dragon.
Embroidered into the club crest, the dragon was Porto's other name. And the day you ran out at Estádio do Dragão — they called that becoming a dragon.
I would.
In no great length of time, I would become that dragon and take flight.