After a day's training, André still went to Hierro's office for his extra private lessons. Lately, the external criticism about Hierro had been growing louder, and he knew Hierro was under enormous pressure.
Having been with Oviedo for nearly two months, André's Spanish was basically no longer a problem. Consequently, he'd started watching newspapers and television news—a suggestion from Hierro when he first started learning the language. Hierro had said he should understand more about the outside world.
André sneered at the reasons those media reporters and so-called football experts used to question Hierro. Only then did he realize that there were trolls and attention-seeking "experts" everywhere, in every country.
The fundamental problem with Real Oviedo wasn't some nonsense about the 4-3-3 formation, but rather the lack of a proper striker to break the deadlock during a stalemate. Thus, in recent matches, teams facing Oviedo had all adopted defensive counter-attacking tactics.
"Alright, André, that's all for today."
"Okay, thank you, Boss."
"Go back and rest early. I heard from Miguel that you've been practicing free kicks lately. Is that right?"
"Just practicing casually."
"That's good. But André, you still need to pay attention to rest. You're still growing, so you must make sure to get proper sleep."
"Okay, I understand, Boss."
Hearing the phrase 'still growing,' André felt a bit odd. If this body could grow even more, what would it become? A bloody giant? However, he also knew this was Hierro showing his concern.
Turning toward the door, André thought for a moment, then turned back.
"Boss, actually... you don't need to care about those things said outside. Those people don't know anything and just talk rubbish. I believe you can do it. And... and..."
"I understand what you mean, André. Thank you."
"Boss, I wanted to say—I think I can help you."
Hearing André's words, Hierro was stunned for a moment, then said with a smile, "Okay. I'll consider it carefully. You go back first. André, thank you for the encouragement. Everything will get better."
"Yeah, I know."
Would everything really get better?
The location was the Estadio Municipal de Santo Domingo in Spain. A light drizzle was falling from the grey sky. Hierro stood expressionless on the touchline, seemingly watching the match, but no one knew what he was thinking at this moment. The few Oviedo fans who'd traveled here to support the team had also fallen silent in the stands.
The large screen on the sidelines showed the current score: 2-0, with the home side leading and the away team trailing.
Facing this newcomer to Spanish professional football—a club only established in 1971 called Alcorcón—there were thirty minutes left until the final whistle. Although Hierro knew the reasons for the external criticism lately, he'd still insisted on fielding the formation he believed was best for Oviedo: the 4-3-3. However, reality had dealt him another painful blow.
Facing Oviedo's 4-3-3, Alcorcón deployed a conventional 4-4-2, but in the match, the entire team retreated to defend, leaving only one forward up front to hold the ball.
Ultimately, the opponent managed one counter-attack in each half, resulting in two goals.
"Make a substitution, Fernando. It can't go on like this," Sánchez said as he walked up to Hierro.
As a veteran at Oviedo, he'd remained steadfastly behind Hierro. In fact, what Hierro didn't know was that it was because of Sánchez that the club had finally dropped the idea of replacing Hierro. Sánchez had always believed Hierro's choices were right. A team must have its own philosophy and stick to it.
Hierro also knew that to change everything before him, he had to make a substitution. But who should he bring on?
Suddenly, the image of André appeared in Hierro's mind, and he remembered André saying that night: "Boss, I think I can help you."
"Miguel, tell André to warm up."
"Are you sure you want to sub him in now?"
"I'm sure."
Hierro understood what Sánchez meant. At a critical moment like this, his every move would be magnified by those reporters. Bringing on a sixteen-year-old youth player while the team was trailing 2-0 looked like he'd already given up on the match. If the substitution had no effect and the match was still lost, the voices of doubt from the outside would only grow louder.
"Even though I know it's risky, I'll support you."
"Thank you, Miguel."
"You're right. You're doing what's best for Oviedo. I must support you."
"André, give yourself five minutes to warm up." Sánchez turned and came before André on the bench.
"Old man, are you talking to me?"
"Brat, is there anyone else in our squad named André? You don't want to go on? If that's the case, I'll call someone else."
"No, no, no! How could that be? I'm always ready."
"Then get lost and warm up!"
"Fine, fine, I'm going."
He immediately and happily scrambled off to warm up along the touchline. Looking at the grinning André, Sánchez's mood suddenly improved quite a bit. Since joining Oviedo, Sánchez had been responsible for André's daily training and extra sessions, while Hierro handled the tactical explanations. Thus, after spending this time together, the relationship between André and Sánchez had grown closer and closer. André had great respect for this stubborn and opinionated Spanish old man. Of course, once they became familiar, his words were naturally cheeky. The terms "Old Man" and "Brat" had already replaced their respective names.
"Boss, I'm ready." After warming up for five minutes, André came to Hierro's side, still bouncing on his toes.
"Once you're on, your task is to attack. Understand? With you as the focal point, you decide whether to shoot or pass. But you must remember what I told you: the simple and effective way is the best way. Do you understand what I mean?" Hierro said, gripping André's shoulder firmly.
"I understand, Boss."
"Good. You're replacing Joselu. Good luck."
"Yeah."
Then, taking advantage of a dead ball situation, Real Oviedo made a substitution: number 19, André Cristiano, replaced number 22, Joselu.
"A substitution? Who is this number 19?" Alcorcón head coach Julio Velázquez turned to ask his assistant coach.
"It seems to be that troublemaker from Castilla. The records only show his name, position, and age: André Cristiano dos Santos Cleto, Portuguese, sixteen years old. Position is forward."
"Oh, I remember now. It's that guy who punched a teammate and spat at the referee, right? I heard he's Cristiano Ronaldo's cousin."
"Yes, that's him. I heard he only got into Castilla because of Cristiano Ronaldo's influence."
"So does this mean Hierro's given up on the match?"
"What else can he do? He insists on his stubborn tactics, so here we are. This is what happens when you confuse playing with coaching. They're two different things."
Seeing Oviedo's substitution, Julio and his assistant coach both thought it was a sign of Hierro acting out of desperation. They both felt the outcome was already decided.
The rain continued to fall.
On the touchline, André stripped off his warm-up jacket and stepped onto the pitch.
His professional debut was about to begin.
Throw Some Powerstones For
Next BONUS CHAPTER at 200 powerstones