I kept walking down the corridor with Marcus, and soon stepped onto a familiar ground. It was the main pitch at Jorge Sampaio — the same place I'd played on briefly the week before.
Thwap, thwap! Tha-thwap!
On the field, players split into several groups were doing 4v2 possession drills. I could see Fábio, who had been at the testing area earlier. And then Diogo Dalot caught my eye.
He was warming up with the other players, preparing for the match. Completely relaxed — not a trace of nerves about him. Even among the reserve team players who were mostly older than him, his confidence was unmistakable.
"Jino. Over here."
I'd stopped for a moment watching Dalot, so Marcus turned around and waved me along. Where he was heading was the opposite end from the reserve team. Fábio gave me a tap on the backside, and U-18 coach Luis Castro welcomed me over.
"You know what's happening from here, right? Coach Castro takes it from here." "Saw your numbers. Physically, you're at a level where you could genuinely compete in the first team right now. Tsk, tsk, a kid like this…"
Castro glanced over at Marcus.
"That's not — I was just being careful." "This guy. Taking a joke seriously again. Hey, Jino." "Yes." "Just the fact that Marcus has been following you around should tell you something. A lot of people are expecting things from you." "Understood." "Let me introduce myself properly. I'm Luis Castro, director of the youth teams." "Oh…"
It wasn't just the U-18 team. Castro was the man overseeing all of Porto's youth setup. He extended a hand toward me, his noticeably round belly making quite the impression.
"You can call me Jino." "Japanese? Doesn't seem Chinese." "South Korean." "Oh ho… Our first-team manager is going to pull a face when he hears that."
His positive impression of me was written all over his face — he couldn't hide it. Castro looked on with curiosity, breaking into a warm smile. But only for a moment.
He wiped the smile away and spoke in a low, serious tone.
"One chance. Today's match is all the test there is. The evaluation will factor in my opinion, Marcus's, the age-group coaching staff — and Coach Conceição's view as well. It'll be conducted fairly, of course."
Even with Castro's enormous influence over the youth setup, he couldn't just pick me on his own authority. I'd have to earn it cleanly with ability that matched up.
"Yes, understood." "Hold on a moment. Fábio! Come here for a second."
Castro called Fábio Vieira over. Small in frame — anyone could see that. Castro introduced him: 170cm, 58kg. In contrast, my measurements were 184cm, 86kg. I'd only just entered high school age, so I was still growing.
"He's the kind of player who proves that physical ability isn't everything."
The reason for bringing up Fábio was immediately obvious. And he seemed even more impressive than I'd initially thought.
"Just looking at his frame, you might laugh. But he's the finest technician in his age group right now. He has no trouble pressing through players bigger than himself." "Oh… I see." "So if you put all your eggs in the physical basket, you might get a nasty surprise. The point is, you have to actually be good at soccer itself. The higher you go, the less you can get by on your body alone." "I hear you."
Even so, when I looked at Fábio… He looked so fragile, like one collision might snap something. I pretended to knead his shoulder and pressed down on him with both hands.
"Ow!"
Fábio jumped in shock and spun around. He looked at me and said:
"Why are you hanging off me all of a sudden? You weigh a ton." "… Bulk up." "What are you on about? Didn't you just hear what the coach said?" "You've got the technique — add some size and you'd be even better. Honestly, these days, physicality kind of is technique." "What's the point of arguing? I'll show you on the pitch."
Fábio grinned. He's clearly got real confidence when it comes to soccer. Then Castro gently tossed a ball my way.
"Get a feel for it before the match."
Sérgio Conceição, the current first-team manager, had been a player who defined an era in Portuguese football. Coming through the FC Porto youth system before going on to the senior team, then Lazio, Parma, Inter Milan, and more — he was a star-turned-manager with a trophy cabinet to match, having played for a remarkable number of clubs.
56 caps for the Portuguese national team. Armed with that experience, he went on to manage Olhanense and Braga in the Portuguese league, and Nantes in France. He'd climbed the ladder from the ground up, and in 2017 he arrived at FC Porto — one of the most storied clubs in Portugal.
Having gone straight into coaching immediately after retiring in 2010, Conceição had never been away from the game. As a manager, he'd led many clubs and watched countless players come through. Which meant his standards for a trial were exacting.
This is a bit awkward.
But the request from youth director Marcus was putting him in a tricky spot. Evaluate an amateur who'd never played soccer. It was, frankly, an absurd ask. Did Marcus have any idea how many players were trying to get into Porto? The club was considered a "giant of the footballing world" — its player development operation was world-class. Only the most rigorously vetted players made it through the youth system and onto the professional stage.
"Coach, what do you think?" "Think of what? He hasn't done anything yet."
Marcus had appeared beside him at some point and was talking to him.
"Would you like to see the first-stage results?" "No need. If you've brought an amateur, the physical numbers are going to be what they are. Look at him — solid build, obviously gifted athletically."
Conceição answered flatly. The numbers weren't going to tell him anything he couldn't already see. A youth director worth his title wouldn't bring someone completely hopeless through the door. The reason Porto kept producing exceptional young talent was down to Marcus's work. They hadn't been together long, but his ability was something Conceição had to acknowledge. Still, today felt slightly different.
"Not bad, though, right?" "I genuinely can't tell yet."
A kid with a notably distinct complexion. Out there in front of Castro, running through the basics — trapping, passing, dribbling. A little rough around the edges, but handling the ball well enough.
"He's only done a bit over a year of futsal." "Looks about right. Even for an amateur, not being able to do at least that much would be strange."
Blunt as it was, what he meant was that the kid didn't look lacking. The real question was whether he could execute those basics flawlessly under match conditions.
"Apparently he played American football too." "Figured as much. Still, that's only a year or two, isn't it?" "About three years, actually. I looked into it — Lutheran High School in America, apparently quite a well-known sports school. His position on the team was kicker." "Kicker — so he kicks the ball?" "Yes. In soccer terms, think set-piece specialist."
Conceição looked back at Seo Jino more carefully. With some of the tension eased, the boy was showing off a bit of footwork — the kind you'd pick up in futsal. Rolling the ball with the sole, stepping over it. No defender on him so he was free, but there was a sense of feel to it.
"I'm a little curious now. He goes straight in?" "Yes. Oh, and — his nationality is Korean." "… 2002. That South Korea?" "That's right." "Give me the results sheet. I'll be completely ruthless about this." "Here."
Conceição looked down at the test results. One corner of his mouth twitched.
"Well, well."
He turned and signaled to the U-18 and reserve teams.
"Everyone, get ready!"
I'd done just about everything you could do with a ball. With nothing left to show, I was at the point where I might as well start doing tricks for Castro's amusement — when Conceição's voice cut through and I caught the ball with my hands. Almost immediately, Castro pulled together a handful of U-18 players.
"Fill in whatever positions are missing. Try to get the ball to the players being tested as much as possible. Right, first group — in you go."
In the second stage, the test players would be mixed in with the regular squad for a match. I was set to be the first one out on the pitch. The awkward thing was that every other player had a natural position they'd played since they were young. I didn't, really. Since I hadn't even submitted any paperwork for the trial, Castro asked me separately.
"Where do you want to play? Striker again, like last time?" "Anywhere is fine with me. Just put me wherever you think." "… This kid. Is that what you say right now? What is this, a kickabout in the park?"
The easygoing Castro had gone stone-faced. I'd meant it genuinely — I really didn't mind.
Futsal or street soccer — when I was a kid, wherever the ball was, that was my position. Either way, I wanted to show what I could do.
"I'll play goalkeeper." "… Look at this one. You're telling me you're annoyed, is that it?" "What? No, that's not—" "I like that. Yeah, you need that kind of attitude." "No, really, I—" "Forget the apology. Everyone else is a midfielder, so just go up front. Striker work for you?"
Striker. Yeah — if I was going to play soccer, might as well be the one scoring goals. All the spotlight on me too.
"Works for me." "This match isn't 11v11 — it's 8v8. I'm not expecting teamwork, so just go out there and do what you want." "Got it."
Same story on the other side. Reserve players mixed in with the trial candidates. Among them, Diogo Dalot — who could apparently play both fullback positions — was still sitting on the bench.
I want a go at him.
As I pulled my gaze away from Dalot, Fábio strolled over and spoke with his usual easy manner.
"Jino. I'll feed it to whichever foot you prefer. Right or left?" "Doesn't matter much, but if you can, left side?" "No problem. Let's make it count." "Hey, who's coaching the other side? The first-team manager is standing over there." "That spot's vacant right now. Coach Castro will probably take it over starting next month." "Busy man." "That's not what matters right now, is it? Get to your position." "Yeah."
Everything was ready. Fábio held out his fist. I bumped it naturally and jogged to my spot.
Tweeet!!
Kickoff.
Players settled into their positions. With only eight a side, there was plenty of space. I strode forward and lined up alongside the opposing back three.
Thwap! Tha-thwap!
Both teams set up with three defenders, three midfielders, and one forward. Formations are just numbers. The players moved with sharp, coordinated purpose — modern football.
They're fast.
The space didn't make it easy. The tempo was incomparable to last time. The trial players in particular were tearing around the pitch like their lives depended on it.
Both sides sizing each other up.
Fábio, in possession in the center, played the ball wide without a moment's hesitation. A low, rapid cross from the U-18 player bursting down the left flank.
"Run!"
Fábio's shout rang out at the same moment. The ball I'd been tracking with my eyes was played into my path. My mind snapped into focus. I moved my body to meet the cross cutting in behind the defense.
"Damn."
Was it desperation to pass the test? The defender who'd been grabbing at my shirt from the first minute fouled me again. Deliberately clutching my arm once more, but expecting a call from the referee felt like a stretch. I yanked his hand off hard and drove my shoulder inside first.
Goes down at the slightest contact.
Felt like barely a brush, but the defender lost his balance and went tumbling behind me. The ball was threatening to roll through to the center — I stretched my leg out to reach it.
Got it.
Successfully brought it under control. What came next was what mattered. Shooting was where I felt most at home. It was a long way out, but just like last time, I pulled my left foot back. Except it didn't end there.
Defenders were closing in from both sides, and the one charging from the right had already launched himself into a slide. I could feel it about to catch my leg. On instinct, I tucked the left foot I'd been about to shoot with back in.
Swoosh!
Sent one flying, then — conscious of the other player's tackle — a light touch with the outside of my right foot. I nudged the ball diagonally to the right, creating just a little separation from the defender.
"Pass it!" "Hey, too far!" "What are you doing there?! Play it over here!"
The other trial players were shouting from all directions. But the only voice that reached me was Fábio's.
"Hit it!"
Right foot instead of left. Didn't matter. My left was more accurate, but this one had the greater power.
Boom!!
My right foot crunched through the ball. It left the ground low and buried itself like a bullet into the top left corner. The satisfying sound of the net rippled through the suddenly silent stadium.
"Why?"
Silence blanketed the pitch. Was the shoulder challenge earlier a foul? I looked over at the coach acting as referee. He met my eyes — and only then blew his whistle with everything he had.
"Did you see that? Both feet." "…"
Castro walked over to Conceição, who was standing in the technical area. Conceição had no answer for him. The shoulder challenge — fine, that kind of thing happens. The feint to avoid the tackle — basic technique, acceptable.
But.
The shot had come from roughly 27 to 28 meters out. Far too great a distance for a beginner to attempt. And using both feet on top of that?
"The strike is something else. What about central midfield? Good build, and if he's hammering shots from deep, that'd be something. Or with the pace he has, maybe wide?"
Conceição shook his head.
"Passing to a player in motion is a different thing entirely. Same with crossing. No matter how talented he is, any other position is going to take considerable time. But… Dealing with a stationary target — a goal — that looks doable. Physical play is there too. If it were me, I'd develop him as a striker straight away."
He wanted to put him through a proper test. Conceição turned toward the bench.
"Dalot — get ready."