Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA. Three years — long if you think about it, short if you don't. I was packing my bags in a room that looked like it had been ransacked.
"This is so annoying."
I let out a sigh from deep in my chest and ran my hands through my hair. How many times had I moved now? And not just across town — across borders. Nine years in Korea. Then, following my father: Portugal, Brazil, and now the United States. Seven years of making a home in one place after another alongside my father, who worked in international sales. In between, I'd bounce back to Korea — but just when I'd start to settle in, it was time to move again.
"Jino, are you almost done?" "It's Mom's death anniversary today… How long are we going to keep living like this?"
I said it to my father, who had cracked the door open and was peeking his head in.
"Son, I'm sorry. The schedule just doesn't work out. But I can't leave you alone in the US, can I?" "Ugh… If you have to go somewhere, go somewhere new at least. Porto again?" "Yeah. If this deal works out, we can finally settle down. Just hang in there a little longer." "Don't you think that line is getting a little old?"
My father smiled awkwardly.
"If only we had some relatives back in Korea to leave you with…" "Forget it. This isn't anything new. Nobody does that kind of thing these days anyway." "Right? That's why I need to keep you close until you're an adult. Once you grow up, you're on your own." "Sigh."
Same conversation as always. It kept looping like déjà vu.
"Oh — did you say goodbye to your friends?" "Told them after the game last week."
My father was always busy, so from a young age I'd had no choice but to adapt to new places on my own. For me, sports were the fastest way to fit in with other kids. Except for that first lonely stretch in Portugal.
In Brazil, it was futsal. In the US, it was American football.
"What are you going to do this time?" "Haven't really thought about it. Maybe just focus on school." "School, sure. But you haven't mentioned anything about going pro lately." "You already know why."
Back in Brazil, I'd shown a real knack for sports. Even though I'd started late, I wasn't behind the other kids at all. It wasn't anything complicated — I just used my strength to bulldoze through, and people went flying. I knew I was good, so naturally I enjoyed it.
But.
As time went on, the stress outside of the sport started to pile up. The usual reasons that come with being a foreigner.
Where you're from. What you look like. And everything else in between.
I was twelve — young, but I understood it all. That's why I dreamed of going pro, where you're judged purely on ability. Every time I brought it up, my father would talk me out of it. He loved me, but he also looked at me with clear eyes. The problem was that I was too stubborn for my own good. And so my father said to me:
"It's not popular."
He went after futsal specifically. The way he'd kill my enthusiasm by calling it a minor sport was something else. It was only later that I understood. Futsal might not be popular in Korea, but in South America and Europe, it's a massive sport.
"Is American football too intense? If you're seriously considering it, do some research."
My father said it with an irritating grin.
"Wow… You talked me out of futsal when I was a kid, and now this." "You were too young back then. And is this really the same as the NFL?"
I stared at him in disbelief. I had nothing to say. This sport — American football — had truly humbled me. I'd been brimming with confidence across every sport, and then I stepped onto that field.
My first experience with American football here and — damn. The profanity came out completely naturally. No exaggeration — it was like everyone was a monster. After a few months, all that was left in me was spite and the burning will to win.
"If high schoolers are at this level, college and pro players aren't even human." "Really? The coach was actually saying good things about you — I mean it. If you want to pursue it, just say the word. We can go to Porto first, and then you could look into US options from there." "…There's a ceiling for me as a kicker anyway."
That was the role I played on the team. A specialist who kicks the ball far and accurately. "Kicker" sounds decent enough, but in the NFL, teams considered even spending a late-round draft pick on one to be wasteful. To put it more bluntly — it was the kind of position you could swap out mid-season, like a part-timer at a convenience store.
"What about other positions?"
I'd tried quarterback, running back, wide receiver — all of them. I wasn't bad. But when skill levels were close, it was only natural that they'd go with domestic players. I'd come to realize that here, too, I couldn't be the main character.
"It's fine. I have no regrets."
And I really didn't. Without a second thought, I went back to packing up what was left.
Porto — a beautiful city in Portugal. From the fifth-floor apartment near São Bento railway station, the city skyline stretched out before me like a panorama. Far to the left, the Porto Cathedral stood tall, and rows of red-roofed houses dotted the landscape. It felt like time had stopped somewhere in the Middle Ages. I was quietly taking it all in when my phone rang.
"Hello?" — What are you up to?
It was my father. He wasn't the type to call without a reason, so I wondered what was going on.
"I'm home." — It's been a whole week. Why are you cooped up in your room every day? "School hasn't started yet. I just want to rest." — What about sports? Have you looked into anything? "There's a soccer club in the neighborhood, but I'm not sure yet. Come home and let's talk." — Actually, about that — would you want to stop by the Porto youth team tomorrow?
That came out of nowhere.
"What, do I just show up and say I want to play, and they'll let me?" — Not exactly. Someone offered to let us have a look around. "Who?" — His name is Eduardo Ferreira Rodrigan… Oh, they call him Coach Dudu. He said he'd let them know we're coming. So, what do you say?
It sounded busy on the other end of the line. My father, who worked as a trading agent, had connections everywhere. Portugal, in particular, was practically his home turf.
"Do you have tomorrow off?" — Yeah. They have a general academy program in addition to the elite track, so if you like it, you could train there and make some friends. "There's a recreational program too?" — That's what I'm saying. So are you going or not?
FC Porto — I'd actually watched them play here when I was little. Back then and now, they were always considered title contenders. The only clubs in Portugal that could challenge them were SL Benfica and Sporting CP.
"But why are we suddenly talking about soccer?" — Met with a client today, and turns out his friend is a coach. So I mentioned my son played football in the US. "American football?" — No, just football. I said America, so he probably figured it out. Besides, we're just going for a look — it's not a big deal. "…" — So are you going or not? I need to let him know so he can reach out ahead of time. "Alright, I'll go."
I didn't think much of it. I had nothing else to do, and there was a general academy program — so why not.
The next day, I rode with my father and arrived at the Porto youth team facility. Estádio Dr. Jorge Sampaio.
"Dad, this is definitely all arranged, right? I'm nervous for some reason." "Come on, would I make that up? And it's just watching the kids train — not even the first team."
We passed through the entrance together. In the distance, someone who looked like a club official was walking briskly toward us.
"I heard you were coming through Coach Dudu. I'm Gabriel, a coach with the youth team." "Good to meet you. I'm Daniel."
Daniel — his English name. His Korean name was Seo Jeong-ho. That was my father's name, and his Portuguese was fluent. Since I'd lived here and in Brazil, I had no trouble with the language either.
"Hello. I'm Seo Jino." "Jino, nice to meet you." "Hi." "Right then — let me start by showing you around the facilities."
Gabriel led the way, guiding us inside. Past the entrance was a long corridor. Nothing too unusual, but the facilities felt almost too good for youth players. Then again, Portugal is known as a cradle of youth football — so I suppose it made sense.
"This is impressive." "This ground is used by every team at Porto except the first team." "Even the second team?" "Yes. They just finished renovations — it has everything you'd need."
I looked around, taking it all in — it was all new to me. I'd never been inside a facility run by a professional club before.
"Alright, let's head to the pitch to meet Coach Dudu." "Okay."
We did a full loop of the indoor facilities, then walked through the tunnel connecting to the pitch. And then it appeared — rows of blue and yellow seats, and beyond them, a vast expanse of green.
Oh.
It was nothing like the American football field at school. No artificial turf here. The fresh scent of real grass tickled my nose.
Thwap! Thwap—!
On that grass, players around my age were moving around with purpose.
"That's the U-16 and U-18 teams in training." "So there are teams for each age group?" "Broadly, yes. There are older age groups too. Players who stand out can skip levels. This way."
Gabriel led me toward a man with thinning hair. Lean build, sharp look. One glance and you knew he was the head coach.
"Hello, I'm Seo Jino." "You're the one who played football in Brazil and the US?"
Maybe it was the face. His tone came across as cold. He gave my father barely a nod in greeting. Whatever the case, it was clear he found this whole arrangement uncomfortable.
"…Ha ha."
And it was awkward for me too. What had been passed along was "football" — which had been interpreted as soccer. Both futsal and American football had been condensed into just "football." It wasn't the time to explain everything. We were just here to look around anyway, so it didn't really matter.
"Get ready." "Sorry?"
That caught me off guard. What did he mean?
"I don't want people dropping in like this again — so just have some fun and go. Gabriel, get this guy a kit and some boots." "Yes, sir."
The person my father had connections with must carry some weight after all. Out of nowhere, we were being offered the chance to actually play. His tone was still unfriendly, but still.
"Are you serious?"
Even so, I wasn't going to worry about appearances. I'd been in situations like this ever since the first time I set foot in a foreign country. This was a chance to play alongside players who dreamed of going pro. Another star might emerge here — there was no way I was passing this up.
"Here you go." "Thank you."
I took the kit from Coach Gabriel and, without thinking twice, pulled off my shirt. The marks left by cupping therapy were scattered across my bare torso. Murmuring broke out around me. Then I caught Coach Dudu's eyes.
"What's with that body? Looks like you've done some serious lifting. Pull up your pants and show me your thighs." "Sorry?" "Let me see your legs." "Okay."
I changed into the kit and exposed my thighs. Coach Dudu stroked his rough stubble.
"How old are you?" "Sixteen." "That body is practically a weapon." "To be honest — I played football. But not soccer. American football. In the US."
He told me to play, so I had to come clean. Better to say it now than to be exposed the moment I stepped on the pitch.
"American football?" "Yes." "How did the message get so mixed up?"
My father stepped in as things got awkward.
"Coach, it seems there was a misunderstanding." "Then what about playing in Brazil?" "Corinthians is correct." "The youth team? They said he played for over a year — is that true?"
Coach Dudu looked at my father with skeptical eyes. Not soccer. Futsal. I was starting to feel embarrassed on his behalf. My father answered in a shrinking voice.
"Futsal… academy." "…Fine. Hey, Jino. Warm up and let me know when you're ready. You've got some athletic ability, at least."