After Diogo Dalot came on for the opposing side, the match turned into a fierce back-and-forth. To keep things balanced, the reserve team had contributed no more than three players. The gap between the two sides wasn't that wide. If anything, as time went on, we were the ones pushing harder.
"Hold the line up front! Catch what's going out wide!"
Dalot, deployed at right back, tried to organize his team. The players in the trial were moving with sharp urgency.
Facing him — Fábio Vieira.
"Get around him!"
Small as he was, the technique was undeniable. He kept possession with a sureness that refused to give the ball away, stringing the build-up together. Passes going out without hesitation. The play unfolded like water finding its course.
Tha-thwap!
A pass arrived for me right on cue. Dalot had been sticking to me persistently from the start — almost annoyingly so. How do I shake this guy. A pattern I'd seen plenty of times in futsal. I glanced behind me and slipped the ball through my own legs.
Tha-thwap!
The midfielder who picked it up chose the right side. It was Castro's instruction — use the wide channels where there's space. A U-18 player stretched the play out to the flank and drove into the open corridor.
"Drop the line!"
Having seen my acceleration, they weren't willing to give up space in behind. Dalot pushed two defenders back and stepped up again to close me down as I surged into the center. Fábio had already told me Dalot's strengths. A player whose specialty was rapid transitions using his pace.
Worth a try.
Now that we were actually at it, he felt less quick than I'd expected. The gap between us was slowly opening. Dalot reached for my arm. Right then, a sharp, curling cross came whipping in. I knocked his arm away lightly and planted my foot to leap. I launched myself, splitting two defenders who rose with me.
Thwap!
And headed the ball down precisely with my forehead. The goalkeeper got airborne, but it was out of reach.
Tweeet—!
"That's it! Take a break!"
The coach who had been pushing the players hard for the test finally called for rest. I placed my hands on my thighs and bent forward to catch my breath. Everyone else had been rotated in and out — I'd been out there the whole time. It was a direct order from Conceição after I scored the first goal.
Over more than thirty minutes, the tally read three goals and one assist. The highest attacking output among the players being tested — but with so many goals going in all around, it wasn't a figure that carried enormous significance on its own.
"Hah… That was tough."
The physical test before this had already taken a toll, and my body was running low. On top of that, concentration pushed to the limit had compounded the fatigue. The weight of the test itself — the pressure and the stakes — had been pressing down on my shoulders.
"Wow. You're genuinely good, you know? And didn't you say left foot? That right-footed finish was something else too."
Fábio came running over and dropped down beside me.
"I said it didn't matter. I only use my left foot for football — American football." "So you're two-footed? Damn…" "But was I actually okay out there?"
Fábio tilted his head and scratched it, looking like he couldn't understand the question.
"You're brilliant." "… Really?"
Maybe soccer was actually my thing. It seemed like I was better at this than I'd expected. Last week's match had been against the under-18s, so deep down I'd thought it was manageable. The match had also been winding down by then, so the defending had been loose. But today was different. There wasn't a single player on the opposing side younger than me. Setting age aside, these weren't amateurs. They were players who had been professionally trained from a young age.
This actually works.
My body had been shaped by the tight spaces of futsal and the suffocating pressure of American football. The 8v8 format did allow for a bit more breathing room, that much was true. But that Dalot kid — If someone like him was the standout prospect of the squad, then maybe there was room for me here too.
"Let's have a quick word."
While I was resting, Conceição appeared at my side before I'd even noticed. He walked me over to one end of the bench, away from the others, and asked:
"What kind of level were you at in American football?" "Every position demands something different, so it's hard to say. I think I was roughly on par with the others." "At your age, you'd be the youngest, wouldn't you?" "Yes. But does that matter? It's competitive regardless of age. Still, as a kicker, I was starting from my very first year." "Already heard that. What was the standard of your school? The strength of the team, I mean."
He had a lot of questions. Conceição kept coming.
"The school had brought home the state championship more than a few times." "Winning a championship in a country that size isn't easy. And then playing well across multiple positions. First-choice kicker without question. Right?" "Yes." "And you played futsal when you were younger too. You were good at that?" "Back then I just did whatever I felt like." "Right. That's enough."
Conceição gave me a firm pat on the back and laughed quietly. The word "enough" felt like a confirmation. That I was genuinely decent at this. And a moment later, he got to the part I'd been wondering about. It was like hearing his honest assessment of what he'd seen today.
"Completely beyond what I expected. Looking at the first-stage results, I knew the physical ability was there — but the touch, the sense of the game, the finishing. All of it was well above what I'd anticipated." "Thank you."
"Not having been trained in soccer doesn't matter at this level. The futsal and American football you've done are related to soccer in the end. Put them together, and they've covered what soccer needs. What you can use right now — pace, physicality, shooting. That alone is enough for now."
It was almost too much praise. I said nothing more than a quiet "Oh…" in response. Maybe my reaction seemed underwhelming. Conceição added:
"We'll need to discuss the age group, but I'm going to put forward my recommendation that we bring you in. Of course, you can't base a decision on a single session. That said, my read is that you'd catch up to the current under-18 players fairly quickly." "Thank you."
"But there's one thing that concerns me. I heard from Marcus — the director. He said you came along just to watch and ended up taking the test. Is that right?" "Yes."
"That's what worries me. If you start this because you were nudged along by talent alone, it gets hard. I've seen too many players like that. You'll be seventeen next year, won't you? That can be an age for important decisions. You need a clear, unwavering goal — something to keep you going so you don't give up halfway."
Conceição's words pulled a long breath out of me. I weighed whether to tell him what I'd been through.
After my mother passed away from a long illness, I set foot in Portugal for the first time with my father. Life in Korea and life in a foreign country where you knew nothing were bound to be different. Waking up in the morning and eating alone at a table already set — that was how the day began.
I didn't want to resent my father. I knew that working day and night was for my sake. Even so, I was only nine. It would be a lie to say it wasn't hard. Different environment, food that didn't suit me — none of that was the real problem. The hardest part was the loneliness.
Should have started sooner.
Two years like that. Leaving Portugal, where I'd gone without any real friends, and heading to Brazil. That was when futsal came into my life. The sport itself wasn't what mattered. It was simply the joy of running around freely with kids my own age. I was good at it too. A lot of kids liked me.
But.
At that age, ability alone wasn't everything. The better I got, the more I felt uncomfortable stares. Yellow monkey. Chink. Eyes pulled back at the corners. People looking for a way to get at me. Honestly, even that was something I could bear. Racism from kids that age was nothing new to me by then.
What truly left a mark was the behavior of the adults there. In a sport that's supposed to teach fairness, they didn't play fair. They made me give up the position I was best at to another kid — and if I didn't, I was left out of the lineup.
I only found out later, but apparently there had been complaints from the parents of other players on the team. And so they told me: "You're good in other positions too, so go play there." Thinking about it still makes me angry. I was the best in that position — what the hell did they mean, go play somewhere else.
Brazil too, of all places.
I thought the larger Asian population would mean less discrimination — but it turned out to be no different. Would it have been different if I'd been in a place that judged only on ability from the start? That was also why I'd asked my father to move me to the competitive stream. Thinking that if I became a professional, maybe the discrimination would stop. In the process, my father talked me out of it with the words "unpopular sport." I know. Maybe that was his way of trying to make sure I wouldn't get hurt anymore. Either way.
Then came American football.
Unlike Brazil, it was close to level in terms of physicality. Not just size — I mean athletic ability. And as time went on, my game kept improving. Yet I ended up as a kicker, where there was almost no competition for the spot. The reason was the same. I didn't want a repeat of what happened in Brazil.
"A clear, unwavering goal."
I looked Conceição in the eye and said it.
"That's right. Players who give up young — there are loads of them. But having a goal at least gives you a reason to pull yourself back together."
I made up my mind. There was no need to drag out that whole story. I wanted to say what I honestly felt — short and straight. My dream here, in Porto.
"I want to be the main character of my own life."
Too plain an answer? Conceição smiled. I let the corner of my mouth lift too. Then he said:
"Simple. I hope you get there." "Thank you. There's something I'd like to ask, if I may." "Go ahead." "No matter where I'm from, no matter what I look like — can I be judged purely on my ability?" "What kind of question is that? Of course. I can't speak for other clubs, but here, a player's worth comes first. With the kind of money that moves through this game, ability is everything. Isn't it?"
One last thing.
"If I play soccer — do I have a real chance? Not right away, but if I work at it like someone possessed… Can I get close to the goal I'm dreaming of?"
I needed to know. Whether I had even the minimum of talent to stake my life on this.
"I'll tell you straight. You can grow into a main character at Porto." "Thank you for saying that." "I mean it. A number nine, at that."
Who knew a day could feel this long. The test that had been running since morning was finally over. I dragged my exhausted body home, and only when I was nearly at the door did it come back to me.
Oh right. Dalot said he'd get me back.
That was what Dalot had said after my second goal. His tone made it sound like he hadn't been giving his all — but the irritation underneath it was real. Whether he'd truly meant it or not, I genuinely didn't know. Either way, based on today's match alone, I figured I could hold my own against him. Though if it had been a proper 11v11—
I'd have had a better sense of where I really stand.
With a slight pang of regret, I opened the front door and stepped inside. An unexpected smell of grilled pork belly hit me the moment I walked in.
"Dad, you were home?" "Came back early today. Get ready to eat."
He'd have to be curious about how it went, but he said nothing. He always wanted the best for me but never wanted to put pressure on me. Still playing it cool, my father turned his back and tended to the meat on the grill.
"I'll go wash up." "Sure."
I took off my clothes and headed to the bathroom. I turned on the shower and went straight under the water. And standing there, I laughed quietly to myself. I wasn't quite sure why. It wasn't as if this was my first time doing sport — but this time was different. Not a single thought of failure or setback crossed my mind. A happy picture of the future formed naturally in my head. And at the center of that happiness, without question, were my father and me.
"Smells good." "How long does it take to shower? Come sit down. You've got things to tell me." "Are you curious?" "What kind of thing is that to say? I've been holding back from calling you all day. Looking at your face, it seems like it went well — tell me."
I was itching to say it too. I'd kept my mouth shut all the way home just to see the look on his face.
"I'm going to give soccer a go."
My father, who had been waiting for the answer, said nothing and picked up his chopsticks.
"Figured as much." "You're not happy?" "Of course I am. But this is just the beginning."
Words like that, but the hand gripping his chopsticks was trembling at the tips. This was different from the sports he'd done as a hobby until now. Porto — the club itself had chosen me. It was a different situation from back when I'd played sports just to escape the loneliness.
"I'm going to do this properly." "Don't get ahead of yourself. There are countless players above you. And the age group — U-16? U-17?" "They said they'd let me know after discussing it."
My father smiled and held out a piece of wrapped meat toward me.
"Eat up."