Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

Luca had been a football journalist for eleven years and he was still, at Thirty-one, the kind of person who could be genuinely annoyed at being woken before six in the morning for a story.

”The Third Division,” he said to Stefan, his local assistant, as they loaded their equipment into the taxi. ”I cover Champions League finals and I’m getting on a flight to Gelsenkirchen for the Third Division.”

”You covered the Under-17 World Cup three years ago,” Stefan pointed out.

”I was twenty-eight. Different context entirely.” Luca pulled the door shut. ”Airport.”

Stefan had been working with Luca for eight months and had developed a reliable sense of when the complaining was real and when it was performance. This was performance. Luca was already checking his phone.

”I downloaded the highlights,” Stefan said, holding the phone across. ”Since you’re awake anyway.”

Luca took it without looking grateful.

He was still watching when they reached the departures hall.

The first thing he watched was the lob - the outside-of-foot contact, the climbing trajectory, the drop at the apex. He replayed it twice. Then the La Croqueta sequence. Then the overhead to Benedict. Then the corner bending around Pierce. He watched the whole twelve minutes without speaking, and by the time the plane boarded he had said nothing for forty-five minutes, which was notable.

”Well?” Stefan said, settling into his seat.

”His basic skills are still being built,” Luca said. ”First touch is functional, not elite. Physically he’s on the light side for the Third Division, let alone anything above it.”

”But.”

”But the passing - the spatial reading, the weight, the timing, that’s not Third Division. That’s not even 2. Bundesliga.” He put the phone in his jacket pocket. ”The editor’s right to move quickly.”

Stefan nodded. ”I also checked the German Third Division official website last night. He’s on the homepage.”

Luca raised an eyebrow.

”Supernova - Beckham-esque debut, famous with one goal.” Stefan had pulled it up on his tablet. The photograph was Mateo mid-strike, side-on, the ball just leaving his boot at the moment of contact.

Luca looked at it for a moment. ”Get me as much background as you can before we land. Club, agent if there is one, previous clubs.”

”Dortmund released him five days before the match,” Stefan said. ”Before that, no professional history. He came through some kind of talent programme.”

”No agent?”

”Not that anyone can find.”

Luca processed this. No agent for a player generating this level of attention within twenty-four hours of his debut was a situation that wouldn’t last much longer than the week.

The flight took an hour.

They took a taxi from Gelsenkirchen airport and arrived at the main gate of the Schalke complex by eight in the morning. The gate was closed. The gatekeeper - a compact bald man of roughly sixty, looked at their press passes and told them the club was on a rest day and not receiving visitors.

Luca explained who they were and what they wanted. The gatekeeper was unpersuaded.

Stefan stepped forward, said something quiet in German, and produced a folded banknote from his jacket pocket. The gatekeeper looked at the money. Looked at the gate. Opened it.

”I’ll expense that,” Stefan said.

”Obviously,” Luca said.

The gatekeeper told them, with great helpful detail, exactly where Mateo would be - the far pitch, the one with the goals left out from yesterday. He’d been there since five-thirty. Couldn’t miss him.

They walked through the empty complex. The main pitches were damp with dew. The stands on the near side of the training ground were locked and dark. From somewhere ahead came the periodic crack of a ball struck against the goal frame.

Mateo was shooting at the empty net.

He’d set himself up at various angles - twelve metres, seventeen, straight on, oblique and was working through them in sequence. His form on the strike was improving and the improvement was measurable: the ratio of balls hitting the target had moved from roughly five in ten to six or seven in ten over the past week. Still not good enough to matter in a professional match without the passing overlay to tell him when to shoot. But the gap was closing.

He didn’t notice Luca and Stefan until he’d finished a sequence and turned to retrieve the balls.

Two people on the sideline. One with a camera already on a tripod.

He walked over.

”We’ve been filming for about ten minutes,” the one without the camera said. He extended his hand. ”Luca. EuroSport Report. I apologise - I saw you working and didn’t want to interrupt. If you want us to delete what we filmed, I’ll do it now.”

Mateo looked at the camera. Looked at the man. He didn’t love being filmed without being told, but the offer to delete it was genuine, he could see the man would follow through if he said yes.

He shook the hand. ”What do you want?”

”An interview. Your story to be exact - how you got here, how the match went yesterday, where you’re going.” Luca held his gaze. ”Just Twenty minutes. Less if you want it shorter.”

Mateo considered. He was behind on his training hours from the match day. But twenty minutes wouldn’t significantly change his schedule for the day.

”Now?” Mateo said.

”Yes, If you’re willing.”

”Give me five minutes to cool down.”

He drank half a bottle of water and sat on the ground for a moment. Stefan adjusted the camera angle. Luca reviewed his notes.

At eight-twenty they started.

Mateo was not a natural interviewee.

He answered questions directly, without embellishment, and waited for the next one rather than expanding every answer. But the material itself was unusual enough that direct answers were sufficient: the open trial, the Dortmund placement, the three months alone at the far end of the training pitch while the squad trained around him, the final day and the assist that Old Jes had seen.

”Old Jes brought you directly to Schalke?” Luca said.

”He stopped me at the gate. Said Schalke were training and I should give it a chance.”

”And Daniel took you on the same day.”

”After a training session, yes.”

”How many touches did you have in that session?”

Mateo thought. ”Two assists.”

Luca sat back slightly. ”And you signed a professional contract the same afternoon.”

”Yes.”

”Then five days later you scored a goal and three assists in your debut.”

”That’s right.”

Luca let that sit for a moment. On camera it would look like reflection. In reality he was processing the straightforward impossibility of the timeline.

”You mentioned Farfán earlier. Did he help you get settled when you first arrived?”

”He invited me to dinner the night before the match,” Mateo said. ”He told me not to rush. That the squad list meant Daniel trusted me enough to play.” A pause. ”He was right.”

”Where do you want to be in two years?”

The answer came without hesitation. ”First team.”

”Schalke’s first team.”

”Or somewhere that gives me the chance sooner. But yes - first team football.” He looked at the pitch behind Luca’s head, at the Garden Stadium visible over the rooftops.

Luca nodded. He asked three more questions and called it there.

Mateo was back on the pitch with his cones before Stefan had finished breaking down the camera.

Plz Drop Some Power Stones.

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