It was the summer of fourth grade. The championship match of the local elementary school soccer tournament. Sitting on the bench, the boy looked down at the uniform he was wearing. Strictly speaking, it wasn't a soccer uniform. The chest bore the unfamiliar name of a school, and the back was emblazoned with the large number 72. It was a baseball jersey.
"Hey, wear this, at least."
The coach handed him one that had been left behind by another school's baseball team.
"Can I wear this to play soccer?"
"You don't have a uniform, so what else can we do? Are you going to be the only one out there without one?"
The boy stared at the uniform for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't mind." And so he put on the baseball jersey with his soccer cleats and stepped onto the field wearing the unfamiliar number 72 on his back.
Laughter erupted from the stands. That was where the players' parents were sitting. One man nudged the person beside him with his elbow and shook his head. "Look at that. He came out wearing a baseball jersey. Do they have a baseball player on the soccer team or something?" A few people nearby laughed along. The boy didn't particularly care. It wasn't as if he couldn't hear them, but only one thing mattered to him: where the ball would land. And how he would put it in the goal.
"The match is underway! Just as you'd expect from a championship match, both teams are pressing hard from the opening minutes!"
The whistle blew, and the ball rolled out from the center. The boy wearing No. 72 exploded forward down the right wing. For the first few minutes, the ball hardly came his way. His teammates crowded the center and left side, leaving his flank almost completely open. But the boy didn't stay still. He kept moving off the ball, outside the defenders' line of sight and beyond the goalkeeper's angle of vision. It was as if he had calculated everything before the ball even arrived.
And finally, one ball came over. A long pass from the central midfielder. The ball sailed high and dropped in front of No. 72.
"No. 72 takes control of the ball!"
The first defender came charging in. The boy didn't stop. He nudged the ball forward with his right foot. The defender pressed his body against him and followed. At that instant, the boy feinted with his shoulders to the left. The defender shifted his balance completely. Then the boy twisted his body and burst out in the opposite direction.
"Ah!" The defender sliced at empty air.
A second defender closed in. But the boy was already one beat ahead. He curled it slightly with the outside of his right foot, slipping the ball through the defender's legs with exquisite precision. Every movement flowed into the next in a single breath, without a break.
Got it.
He could see the goal. He was still more than 25 meters away. Even so, No. 72 didn't hesitate. His right instep struck the center of the ball perfectly. It flew low and sharply, grazing the goalkeeper's fingertips before disappearing into the corner of the goal.
"Goal! It's a goal! No. 72 with a perfect long-range shot from his very first touch! After humiliating three defenders, he finishes with a first-time goal! This is a highlight-reel moment, far beyond what you'd expect at an elementary school level!"
The stands erupted. The man who had laughed earlier was standing there with his mouth hanging open. The boy paused briefly and looked toward the goal. Then he turned away as if nothing had happened. But he felt something warm stirring deep in his chest. The ball seemed unusually clear to him today.
The second goal was even more overwhelming. The opposing defense had begun to mark No. 72 closely. Two defenders stuck tight to him from either side. But that was exactly what caused the problem.
The boy moved backward without taking control of the ball. Both of them are following me. In that instant, a huge gap opened in the center. A pass went to a teammate, and the boy immediately sprinted toward the empty space.
"He's making a run in behind! No. 72!"
The ball came back to him. This time, three opposing defenders rushed in. As soon as he received it, the boy dragged the ball back slightly with his right foot. The defenders charged in at once. At that instant, he switched feet and nudged the ball slightly ahead of his left foot. The defenders' eyes locked onto the ball. In that very moment, he hooked the ball sharply back to the right with his left foot. All three defenders went down at once.
"What is this?! It's a phantom dribble! No. 72 has pulled off a technique that children this age can hardly execute in a real match! All three defenders were completely fooled!"
The commentator's voice rose with excitement, and gasps burst from the stands. The boy glided through the gap. One touch. A second touch. Then a shot. The goalkeeper threw himself at it, but the ball had already rippled the net.
"It's in again! No. 72! That's his second goal of the day! This player's footwork is pure art!"
The boy clenched his fist. This time, he was happy. Just a little. But he couldn't hide the smile spreading across his lips. As he turned back toward the center, he muttered softly, "Not yet."
Second half. The score was 3–2. The boy's team was ahead by one goal. There were fewer than five minutes left before the final whistle. The opposing team launched one last furious attack. A defender barely managed to clear the ball. The lofted ball crossed the halfway line. The moment the boy saw it, he ran.
I'll get there first.
He was one step ahead of the opposing defender. The ball hit the ground. The boy brought it down perfectly with his chest. A defender chased him from behind. The goalkeeper rushed out. For a moment, he had plenty of options. He could have passed. But the boy looked at the goal. I can score. He pushed the ball forward once with his left foot. Then his right. From that distance—seemingly close, yet so far—
He shot.
"No. 72! He takes the shot!"
The ball curled through the air, passing precisely over the goalkeeper's head. For a moment, there was silence. It crossed the goal line before it even touched the ground.
"GOAL!!!!!!"
The entire stadium exploded. "No. 72 with a hat trick! Three goals all by himself today! The player who came out wearing a baseball jersey has completely dominated the championship match! Every one of his three goals showed technique and finishing far beyond what should be possible at this age!"
The boy spread both arms wide. His teammates came running and piled onto him. In that moment, he felt like the star of this field. But his gaze briefly shifted to the number on his back. 72. It was the first time he'd ever worn the number, yet for some reason, it didn't feel unfamiliar.
The match was over. 4–2. They had won the championship.
The boy left the field with his teammates after receiving their medals. The sweat-soaked baseball jersey clung to his body. He ran his hand over the number on his back once more. 72. The way it felt beneath his hand was unusually warm.
"No. 72!"
A clear voice rang out behind him. The boy stopped walking. A little girl was running toward him from the stands. She looked about first or second grade. Her short black hair bounced as she ran, and she wore a pink cardigan over a white T-shirt. A man who appeared to be her father called from behind her, "Wait! It's dangerous!" But the girl didn't listen at all.
The little girl ran right up to the boy, then stopped, panting. Her cheeks were flushed, and beads of sweat dotted her forehead. She looked up and stared intently at No. 72's face. Then she shouted in a loud voice.
"No. 72, big sis!"
The boy's face stiffened. Under normal circumstances, he would have immediately said, "I'm a boy." But in that moment, the words wouldn't come out. The girl's eyes were so clear, and somehow, the reflection of himself in that clarity looked perfectly natural. There he was, wearing a baseball jersey, wearing No. 72 on his back.
"...Huh?"
"You're so cool! I want to be as good at soccer as you, big sis!"
The little girl smiled brightly. A gap showed at the corner of her mouth where she had lost a front tooth. Her smile was bright enough to wipe away every other sound around them. The boy felt his face growing hot. He knew he had to say something, but no voice came out. Instead, the corners of his mouth lifted on their own.
"Ah..."
"I'll see you again next time! I promise!"
The little girl was called back by her father. "Let's go. We're really going to be late!" "Okay, Dad!" She waved energetically, then turned and ran away. Her pink cardigan fluttered in the wind.
The boy remained standing there. He watched the girl's retreating back for a long time. Then he slowly touched his own back. 72. It was the first number he had ever worn. Yet strangely, he liked it.
The boy muttered softly.
"...No. 72."
And without knowing anything, he left the field where that day's match had taken place. He had no idea how long that number would follow him throughout his soccer career. At the time, all that remained with him was the memory that he had enjoyed the match, and that although it was strange to be called "big sis," it hadn't felt bad. And he felt that the girl's bright smile, her pink cardigan, and the gap where she had lost her front tooth would remain in his mind for a long, long time.