The setting sun dyed golden the abandoned field on the outskirts of Osaka, where the weeds insisted on growing among the faded markings. Kaito Shirogane, sixteen years old, took a deep breath of the humid afternoon air while adjusting his dirty socks. His worn sneakers - gifted by his grandfather last Christmas - crushed an empty pet bottle that served as an improvised cone.
Chuá!
The ball raised dust when it was dragged into a dry dribble. Kaito cut to the left, faked the intersection and, at the last moment, turned on himself like an enraged spinning top.
Tum!
The crossed kick puffed the pierced net of the rotten wooden goal, making the old rusty hoop moan.
- One more! - he shouted to the wind, his fists clenched.
There was no applause. Not even fans. Just the distant sound of passing trains and the occasional coasing of frogs in the nearby stream. And, of course, him.
Haruto Shirogane, seventy-four years old, sitting on a roared wooden bench with the upright posture of a general. Even retired a decade ago, the former scout of Japan's base categories kept his gaze sharp like a hawk.
- Repeat. - he ordered, throwing the ball back with a precise kick. - **This time, look at the corner before finishing. **
Kaito swallowed the protest. I knew that arguing was useless. The old man always had a hidden teaching, like those masters of old movies.
- Okay, okay...
While repositioning himself, his eyes landed on the scar on his right knee - a memory of a violent split in a school tournament. "Good warrior brand," the grandfather had said at the time, rubbing alcohol on the wound without mercy.
Tum!
This time, the ball scraped the crossbar before entering.
- Almost. - Haruto coughed, taking out a worn notebook from his pocket. - The CR7 at sixteen already finished with both feet equally. Do you really want to be the best?
Kaito rolled his eyes.
- I marked, didn't I?
- Marking is not enough. - the old man flipped through pages full of notes by hand. - It has to be perfect. Like Messi in 2005, when...
- I know, I know! - Kaito interrupted, kicking another empty bottle. - "Messi dribbled six and turned the ball over the goalkeeper in the U-20". You've told me a thousand times!
The silence that followed was more cutting than any reprimand. Haruto closed the notebook slowly, his gnarled fingers shaking slightly - a detail that only those who knew him well would notice.
- So show that you learned.
On the wall of the tiny apartment they shared, above the tube TV, hung a faded photo: young Haruto, in a suit, next to a skinny teenager with Kashima Antlers insignia.
- It was my greatest discovery. - the grandfather had explained once. - It could have been a legend, if he hadn't hurt himself.
Kaito never asked what had happened to that player. But every night, when the old man thought he was sleeping, he saw him cleaning the dusty painting with almost religious reverence.
That photo was a ghost. A reminder.
That in football, talent without discipline was just a tragedy waiting to happen.
- Shirogane! - the history teacher hit the chalk on the blackboard, making the class jump. - If you're sleeping again, go straight to the board!
Kaito lifted his head from the table, leaving the red mark of the coat printed on his face. Through the corners of the room, muffled laughter.
- I'm awake.- he murmured, rubbing his eyes.
In the open notebook, instead of notes on the Meiji Revolution, scribbles of tactical formations and a rough sketch of a crowded stadium. Always the same: **he, with his back turned, raising a glass for an invisible crowd.
- You're crazy, Shirogane. - whispered Ren, your only "friend", two wallets behind. - The director has already warned that if you pump again in history...
- I'm shitting. - Kaito intercepted a paper ball that flew towards him and threw it back without looking, hitting the nose of the baseball team's broken-in.
The scream of pain echoed through the room.
- SHIROGANE!
- Expelled. Again.— Haruto didn't look up from the newspaper when Kaito got home earlier than usual.
The smell of misoshiro boiling in the kitchen contrasted with the ice in the voice.
- The guy started! - Kaito kicked the closet, making the dishes tremble. - He keeps making fun of me all the time! **
The grandfather turned the page of the newspaper calmly.
- And what would your Father do?
Kaito choked. That was the most hateful question.
- He... he would ignore it. - he spat, reluctantly.
- Exactly. - Haruto pointed to the small TV, where a Premier League game was silent. - The big ones don't have time for picky things. They only have eyes for the goal.
Kaito bit his lip until he felt the taste of blood. I hate it when he's right.
At midnight, when the whole neighborhood slept, Kaito went down the fire stairs of the building and ran to the field illuminated by a single pole.
There, under the yellowish light that attracted insects like a lighthouse, he repeated movements until his legs failed:
1. One hundred finishes with the left (your bad leg)
2. Fifty zigzag dribbles between bottles
3. Twenty free kicks against the wall of the men's bathroom
All documented in a blue notebook with the inscription "Top 1 of the World" on the cover.
That night, however, something different happened.
When preparing for the last kick, he heard footsteps on the wet grass.
- Training wrongly only makes addictions worse.
Kaito turned so fast that he almost slipped. Old Sato, former coach of the Japanese youth team - and archrival of his grandfather - watched him from the shadow, with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
- Your grandfather is hiding you from me, huh? - the man lit a cigarette, lighting up his wrinkled face. - But the whole city already talks about the boy who plays as if he had the devil on his heel.
Kaito felt his heart speed up. Was it a compliment or a threat?
- What do you want?
Sato breathed the smoke slowly.
- Knowing if you're just another boy with a big dream... - he made a dramatic pause - or if you have the stomach to become a legend.
And then, he extended a yellow envelope.
Inside, an invitation with the Kashima Antlers seal.
Tests for the Base Categories. May 25. 08:00 a.m. sharp.
- Your grandfather doesn't need to know. - Sato turned around, disappearing in the darkness. - Unless you're afraid to prove him wrong about you.
Kaito looked at the invitation, then at the calloused hands.
At that moment, under the flickering light of the pole, he made the first truly selfish decision of his life.
He would go. With or without the grandfather's blessing.