As it turned out, I was an unwelcome guest. But I didn't care in the slightest. Why would I bother reading the room? That was just the life I'd lived, adapting in foreign countries. The moment I signaled that I was ready, Coach Dudu immediately put me in with the U-16 team. Since it was a practice match, there didn't seem to be any particular restrictions.
"Hoo—!"
I swept my hand across the grass and ran onto the pitch. My heart was pounding and adrenaline surged through me. Yeah, this is it. The rush that sports give you. Never mind skill — I was just here to have fun for a day.
"Jino, fighting!!"
My father's cheer reached me from a distance. But I hadn't been told what role I was supposed to play. I looked around, and the player wearing number 11 pointed toward the far end. Taking the hint, I pushed up to the halfway line. I figured the message was to run free up front. I positioned myself between the opposing team's backline, which was pushed quite high.
With about 15 minutes left, the score was 5-0. At this age, a one-year gap is enormous. Naturally, it was the under-18 side leading. The moment I came on, the match resumed.
How long has it been.
When was the last time I'd played soccer? One thing was certain — I hadn't played in the US. Everyone there played football at school and basketball on the streets. Soccer may be called the world's sport, but that label didn't hold up in America.
But.
Brazil was different. Every street corner was swarming with kids playing soccer. I was on a futsal team, but I played regular soccer plenty too. And around the São Paulo area, there weren't many kids my age who could handle me. Not because I had flashy technique. It was a physical gap. Not hardware — raw athleticism. Back then, I could go on a rampage.
Thwap—!
I reacted to a long clearance from one of our defenders. Up against the U-18 side that had pushed all the way to our half.
Let's see if they're fast.
The moment I had the opposing goal directly in front of me, I pushed off the ground. Five meters. Ten meters. I instantly opened up the gap between myself and the defenders who had been level with me.
"Stop him!" "Why can't you keep up?!"
The opposition wasn't as fast as I expected. The bigger issue was that my dribbling was a mess. The soccer ball, which I hadn't touched in ages, rolled way out in front of me after just two touches. To make up for it, I instantly kicked it into a higher gear. I drove my legs into the turf hard enough to tear it up and sprinted like mad. And yet.
Damn…
The goalkeeper rushed out and beat me by a hair. So close. The defenders were still way behind, and I let that slip. As I jogged back into position, I stole a glance at Coach Dudu. He uncrossed his arms and seemed to mutter something under his breath.
Again.
Regardless of the result, I just wanted to score one goal. Even if I was going home after this, I didn't want to leave with regrets.
Tap-tap-tap!
I tried to stay sharp and keep moving. In a match with no real tension, I was the only one fired up. But even as time passed, I barely got a chance to touch the ball. The gap between the two teams was too wide — the under-16 side simply couldn't push forward.
Thwap—!
Then, finally, one of our defenders won the ball and played it out wide. With the U-18 side's line pushed so high, we were on the counter. A quick player broke down the sideline. To the winger who'd torn through the wide-open flank—
"Hey! Hey!"
I raised my hand and called for it. He glanced into the penalty box and struck the ball. Thwap! A slow, looping cross came sailing over.
A guy who eats and sleeps soccer…
I say "cross" — it was a garbage ball. How do you put up a kick like that when you're completely unmarked. The defenders had already gotten back in. I jumped with everything I had, straining to get a touch on the ball.
Vertical jump: 94cm.
Even among the football team I'd stood out for it, so I was a full head above the defender. All I did was put my head to the ball. But that was enough.
"Ah…"
There wasn't much time left and I hadn't done a whole lot, so it stung. I looked back over at Coach Dudu. He had his arm around my father's waist, pointing at me and apparently pouring out words. Was he only acting friendly now that it was nearly over?
Thwap, thwap! Thwap—!
About two minutes remaining. With no real exchanges going on and the ball just being recycled, I kept working hard up front. Time was almost up, and the opposition seemed to have let their guard down. The ball broke loose and I went into a duel with one defender. I thought using my hands might draw a foul, so I just drove my shoulder straight into him. Minus the protective gear, it wasn't much different from a collision in American football.
Quit the theatrics.
He went flying, but I had no time to worry about that. Near the halfway line. To avoid making the same mistake as before, I pushed the ball long from the start. The remaining defenders were busy chasing my heels, and it was an awkward distance for the goalkeeper to come out.
The ball rolled on and on before nearly stopping in place. It sat there like a holder had fixed it down for a field goal. I'd played all kinds of roles — wide receiver, quarterback, running back.
Boom—!!
But the position I was most confident in was always when I stepped up as the kicker. From beyond 50 yards (46 meters), a conversion rate above 65%. That's a top-level record even in the pros. And even if the mechanics are different—
Got it clean.
From roughly 26 meters out, the ball flew like a laser, trailing a white streak behind it. Between my futsal experience and adjusting power and distance with an American football, putting weight behind a soccer ball was no problem at all.
Swoosh!
The ball hit the net like it was going to tear right through it, then rolled down slowly. The stadium went quiet. I just clenched my fist and pumped it once in front of my chest.
That was fun.
For me, it was the best possible outcome. When would I ever score a goal in a place like this again. A moment later, the whistle blew sharp and clean. I turned my gaze toward the sideline. Someone else was standing with Coach Dudu. The coach of the Porto U-18 side had his arm around my father's shoulder.
"You're seriously fast." "Nice finish. Where have you been playing?" "Never mind that — the way you bodied that defender was unreal. Did you see him go flying? Ha!"
It may have been a low-stakes match, but I suppose the goal I scored was pretty decent after all. Players I'd never met before tapped me on the shoulder and back as they walked past. As I made my way off the pitch, Coach Dudu turned to me and said:
"I heard physical freaks all end up here, but you're something else for your age." "I'm not that special." "What's your sprint time?" "40 yards in 4.5 seconds? Something around there." "Say it in meters." "36.58 meters." "What? You're that fast? That's got to be low 11-seconds for the 100?" "I never had a reason to run that distance." "Same in soccer. Anyway, that body of yours is something else."
His attitude was nothing like when we'd first met. The near-compliment put me in a good mood too. Then Coach Dudu opened his mouth.
"I heard from your father that you're thinking about playing soccer?" "I was looking into something recreational near home." "No interest in going professional?" "Come on, I'm not on that level. Soccer's no joke."
Coach Dudu jerked his chin toward the man standing with my father.
"Go over there for a second." "Who is that?" "Youth team director."
Why do people keep getting added to this. As Coach Dudu said, I walked over to the man standing beside my father.
"Hello."
A young man with a polo shirt and noticeably dark hair extended his hand for a shake.
"Jino. Good to meet you. I'm Abraham Marcus — I manage the youth teams here." "Hi." "I happened to catch the match. You hadn't even properly warmed up, and it was still quite impressive." "Honestly, the defenders weren't pressing that hard, so…"
I gave an awkward smile and glanced at my father. He winked at me and sent some signal I couldn't quite read.
"So you've stopped playing American football?" "Yes." "And you have no background in soccer at all." "Nothing other than futsal. And even that wasn't with the goal of becoming a professional." "Hmm… Let me be straightforward with you. Based on what I saw just now — if that's all I had to go on, I would have asked you without hesitation whether you'd be interested in signing a contract." "Sorry? What do you mean… Really?"
That was unexpected. I'd come just to watch, and now a contract was being thrown around out of nowhere. FC Porto in Portugal — this was where every elite player in soccer came together. What exactly had the youth director of a club like that seen in me?
Just as I was letting myself think about the good things Marcus had said — Marcus looked at my expression and added:
"Physically, there's nothing to fault. I could tell from just a few movements. The speed, the physicality, the jumping ability. I'd believe you if someone told me your athletic ability was already at adult level. But… At first I thought you were just nervous and that's why your ball control was shaky. Then your father told me you haven't actually been playing soccer."
Marcus's brow furrowed as he replayed the match in his head.
"Sixteen. You could say that's young — but if you've been in sports, you'll understand. Starting later than everyone else is a critical disadvantage. You can't ignore the training and experience the other players have built up."
So the first part was just flattery. I was starting to understand what he was getting at. Or was he trying to say no, but just going about it in a very roundabout way.
"I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me." "The foundation is the core of every sport. Flashes of genius don't last. And on top of that, soccer has a stronger tendency than almost any other sport for technique to be formed and locked in at a very young age. Sixteen… The body will keep growing and getting stronger. Ha — it's a shame. I keep thinking, if only he were one or two years younger."
My father, who had been listening from beside me, finally spoke to me in Korean.
"What is with this man? Why does he keep changing his tune? When you were playing, he was going on about you like he was about to cry."
At that, the U-18 coach stepped in. He'd apparently been talking with Coach Dudu and noticed things going sideways over here.
"Marcus. That's enough. Stop trying to lowball the kid. Did you even watch the match properly? At that level, the worst case is you break even." "Well, that's the thing…"
Marcus trailed off. The U-18 coach pushed harder.
"That's the thing, what. You need to give them a straight answer — otherwise they'll just go to Benfica or Sporting. And if he ends up making it big someday, your head is on the line." "Coach, that's not what I—" "Hold on. Jino, I'm Luis Castro — coach over there. The decision is this man's to make, but I like what I see in you. Marcus, what are you going to do?"
With Coach Castro pressing him, Marcus looked cornered. At last, he spoke. It was a proposal directed at me.
"I have my position to consider too, so I hope you understand. But in exchange — let's do a proper trial. Is that alright?" "…" "You don't want to?"
Without answering right away, I took the business card Marcus held out. The card, embossed with the Porto crest, had his name and contact details on it. Coach Castro, standing across from me, gave my shoulder a light pat.
"It'll be a day when the first-team coach watches in person. If he has eyes, he won't overlook you — so just show what you've got."
I hadn't really thought about life as a professional player — but a trial offer from Porto. I wasn't stupid enough to kick away an opportunity like this. Especially when I'd been thinking hard about what I was going to do going forward.
Better than sitting around studying.
My father nudged my side. Reflexively, I said "yes." As we wrapped things up and turned to leave, all the sports I'd played flashed through my mind. The thought that maybe here too, I'd end up playing a supporting role.
But, even so. This could be the chance that changed my life.