Chapter Eight #3
Kenji, blonde-haired, his complexion a few shades darker than his teammates’, keeps silent, his face burrowed inside his hands.
Inside his head, he has been replaying in a loop the missed opportunity from before and silently cursing himself.
For the past two seasons, he has, without even a shadow of doubt, been the most prolific player on his high-school team.
In his final year now, he looked poised to get scouted by a top club and offered a scholarship to study and play football.
But despite all the success on the field, off it he continues to cut a sorry figure.
Bullied for his looks, scorned for his meagre means, ridiculed for his troubled family, his jealous teammates treat him like the exact opposite of the champion that he is on the field—like a reject.
‘This is why one can never trust a Hafu . One can never tell where their loyalties really lie. Neither here, nor there. Only a matter of time before they betray us!’
‘I swear, man! Why must we get punished for a mistake this dirty foreigner made?!’
‘Why are you sitting there trying to look guilty? Why did you have to show off and attempt that volley? Were you hoping to impress the scouts?’
‘He must’ve been trying to impress the girls! Dude, have you seen yourself? You’re neither fair, nor tan, nor brown, nor yellow. Think dying your hair will make you look like us? You’ll never be one of us …’
Kenji can feel the bile rising up his chest. His eyes are starting to well, and his cheeks feel hot.
This is nothing that he isn’t used to and yet, it stings every time.
Ever since he can remember, he has been the subject of scorn and the butt of jokes everywhere—initially, it was about his multiracial parentage, his peculiar looks, his mother’s profession of entertaining at bars, and his father’s drinking problem.
Later, when his Brazilian mother left their family and ran away, the taunts only got sharper and cut even deeper.
‘Are you deaf, you little hybrid dog? You think you are better than us if you don’t react? You think we have reached this far in the tournament only because of you? Is that why you thought you could show off at such a crucial point in the game?’
Kenji wants to point out that this was only the away fixture of the semi-final; they still had the home game to play.
And it’s not like they had lost the game; both teams shared the spoils.
But he knows it is pointless to open his mouth.
He clenches his jaw and grits his teeth.
Eyes shut, he tells himself that it’ll be over soon and hopefully end with the tongue-lashing.
The last time he had ended up with a bruised lip and black eye, and had had to borrow make-up from his cousin to conceal the latter at school.
‘Leave him be, man. He’s just a selfish konketsuji . An abomination—no wonder his mother ran away. Bloody mixed-race monkey …’
The boy is unable to finish the sentence as he is felled to the ground with a powerful headbutt.
With bloodshot eyes, Kenji looks like a man possessed.
The boys are slightly taken aback because they’ve never seen Kenji retaliate.
It takes them a few moments to gather their wits, but once they have, the burliest two of the lot step forward to tackle him.
Though much lighter, the nimble-footed Kenji is used to dodging the biggest defenders.
Kicking one of them lightly in the shin and elbowing the other in his stomach, he dances past them with remarkable ease.
Over the next ten-odd minutes, his body vents all the sixteen years of emotions that his equally young heart had kept locked up.
That evening, he went home with more than just a bruised lip and black eye.
But, years later, whenever he thinks of the day, it isn’t the injuries he remembers.
It would forever be the day he went from being the little boy who everyone would mess with to the big, bad boy whom no one ever dared to offend.
* * *
SEOUL, KOREA
‘Excuse me, sir? I have a question. May I?’
That Seoul Stealers FC had signed forty-year-old Rodrigo for the coming season even before the current season was over had been grabbing headlines on every newscast. As excited as local fans were to see a living Asian legend ply his trade in the K-league, critics were quick to point out the obvious—he was old and his legs much slower than before.
He had spent the previous season at an Indian club where the quality of football was not quite K-league 1 level.
Sure, he had been the top scorer in their domestic league and had almost single-handedly propelled his club to the knockout stage of the AFC Cup.
He still had the option to play one more season with them, and those close to him had been under the impression this would be his swansong.
That he would ease into retirement surrounded by the love and the cheers of 1.
2 billion people starved of decent football and half-decent heroes.
But to everyone’s surprise, he has just been unveiled as the new No.
9 at Seoul Stealers FC. Shockingly, he chose to pay a severance penalty to the club and leave.
Only a few weeks before the new season of the league commenced.
The K league 1 would be over in a couple of months and he would only be joining the team next season.
Add to that the fact that he picked Korea over his own birth country, Japan.
Reporters, pundits and fans alike were trying desperately to make it make sense.
Holding his hand over his eyes to block the lights overhead, Rodrigo squints a little, trying to spot the owner of the voice. With a little nod and half a smile, he gestures at the journalist to go ahead.
‘Annyeonghasaeyo! Naega dangshinyi fanimnida [I am your fan]. Big fan. I just want to know what took you so long to come here? We are neighbours, after all. We have waited so many years to see your handsome self and your unmatched skills!’
The room erupts in applause. There’s some whistling and hooting, too.
Smiling and blushing a little, Rodrigo looks visibly embarrassed.
Looking down, he smiles and strokes his chin strap as though it were a lover’s arm.
The emcee, trying to coax an answer out of him, turns on his aegyo and comically mimics a young female voice.
‘ Opppppaaaaa ! Tell us why you made us wait so long.’
More laughter. Rodrigo holds the mic close to his mouth but he can only giggle into it and make even the gents in the room grin like they’d just received Valentine’s Day gifts from their cheotsarang .
‘Wow, I’m forty years old and I can’t believe I’m blushing like a schoolboy.
Well, firstly, I’m sorry for making you wait so long …
’ Glancing sideways at the club president, he adds with a cheeky grin, ‘I wonder what took Mr President so long to reach out.’ The president, a serious-looking man in his sixties, in a stuffy suit, shifts in his seat, smiles uncomfortably and nervously wipes imaginary sweat off his brow.
With a friendly pat on his back, Rodrigo continues to speak, thus putting him out of his misery.
‘I was only kidding … um, life is all about timing. On the field or off of it. The perfect goal is perfect only because everything that leads to it happens at the right time—as it should, when it should. A second here or there, and you’ll miss the shot.
Same with life. The planets in my cosmos must have aligned themselves in a way so as to lead me here to this moment, right here, with all of you.
I tend to follow my heart when it comes to important decisions and this time it led me here. Hope that answers your question?’
‘You said your heart led you here … hoksi , could it perhaps be for a woman?’
A collective gasp.
Everybody is aware of Rodrigo’s chequered personal life.
Worshipped by fans across Asia for his meteoric rise as a professional and subsequent success as one of the handful of Asian stars playing in Europe, Rodrigo’s life is a dinner-table discussion in most Asian households.
Parents berate him for his antics off the field, while adolescents idolize him for the same.
But it’s fair to say his personal life has been in shambles for years now, and living in the public eye means his life has been an open book.
Chances are that if you are Asian and can read and write, you’d know what Rodrigo ate for lunch and who he showered with.
Though much is not known about his life before he started playing professionally—aside from the fact that he’d had a difficult childhood which included being brought up by a single father in Japan and running away from home at age seventeen—his life since has been no secret.
From dating a slew of beauties, including a Miss World, to reportedly fathering a child with an unidentified woman, his love life has always been fodder for gossip.
The latter bit of information, in fact, took quite a while to die down.
News agencies had launched an intensive search to unearth the identity of the mother and be the first to get their hands on photos of the child.
But Rodrigo had done a terrific job of hiding both, the mother’s identity as well as the child’s face.
Thankfully, for him and for his team, the noise died down once the media got busy trying to wrap their heads around Cristiano Ronaldo becoming a father to children born to his girlfriend and via a surrogate, only a few months apart.
But Rodrigo has been relatively quieter since, and after moving to India, not much had been heard about his shenanigans, barring a recent alleged tryst with a young Indian tennis star.
Most had assumed that age had probably sobered him.
So, naturally, now everybody is mildly horrified that the journalist might have touched a raw nerve with this latest salvo.