Real Oviedo had always played a 4-4-2 formation, but perhaps Hierro wanted to truly test André's abilities, so the substitute lineup was arranged in a 4-5-1 formation, with André alone up front.
However, after the match began, André found himself in an absolutely miserable situation. The substitute lineup strictly followed Hierro's pre-match instructions, constantly feeding the ball to André. This method, however, left him with unspeakable frustration. In both his past and present lives, headers were his weak point—very, very weak. Yet his bloody 1.9-meter height made the substitute players subconsciously choose high balls whenever they attacked.
Thus, in the first ten minutes after kickoff, whenever the substitute side had an attacking opportunity, they mindlessly crossed from the wings. Due to the limitations of the 4-5-1 formation, André was like the filling in a sandwich, squeezed between the two center-backs of the starting eleven. Even when he managed to win the first header due to his physical talent, the ball would either fly off target because his heading technique was too poor to direct it properly, or he'd win the header but no one would be there to fight for the second ball.
What made André even more uncomfortable was that the two center-backs, having taken their teammates' advice before the match, were constantly using dirty tricks—either pinching him secretly or digging fingers into his ribs. They used every trick in the book, with the simple goal of making him uncomfortable and provoking an emotional outburst.
The assistant coach, acting as referee, saw these small fouls but ignored them because of Hierro's instructions.
This resulted in André being the busiest and most helpless person on the pitch during those ten minutes of play.
"How is it?" Hierro asked with a smile.
"His heading is terrible, and many of his fundamentals aren't good either. Some of his movements are too cumbersome—that's a bad habit he's picked up. There are too many problems."
"Miguel, I'm not asking about those. What you mentioned is perfectly normal for a sixteen-year-old kid. Those can all be fixed through training."
"Then what do you mean?"
"Hey, Miguel, everyone outside says his emotions are prone to exploding, that he's a red card specialist who loses control if the opponent baits him even a little. But look now—Hernández and Cortuno are constantly winding him up, yet do you see him looking like he's about to lose his temper?"
"True. Didn't they say he has a terrible temper? Why hasn't he gotten angry even though Hernández and the others are provoking him like this?"
"Exactly. That's what I wanted to show you. Miguel, sometimes what you hear isn't true, and sometimes even what you see with your own eyes isn't the whole story. André is still a kid. He's growing up, learning."
While Hierro and Sánchez were discussing André, the player on the field once again left the two of them feeling incredibly excited.
Seeing that he'd made no progress, André had to make a change. He knew that if he continued to stand in the penalty area like a wooden post, nothing good would come of it by the end of the match.
He began to drop back, consciously closing the distance between himself and his teammates. The result of the 4-5-1 formation was that even though the substitutes were weaker than the starting eleven, they did have a numerical advantage in midfield. And his dropping back only expanded that advantage.
One of the two central midfielders for the substitute side, Jóhannsson, received a pass from a defender in the midfield. Seeing André drop back, he instinctively sent a ground ball to André's feet. With his back to goal, André knew the defender behind him was sticking close.
To be honest, no one expected André's next move. In everyone's subconscious, this guy was surely a clumsy brute with more brawn than brains. However, André's subsequent actions were completely different from how a body like his was expected to perform.
Leaning against Hernández, who he'd drawn out of the penalty area, André used the tip of his right foot to gently flick the incoming ball, and then his massive frame executed an agile turn. No, "agile" isn't quite the right word—it doesn't fit that body. At this moment, André's turn was like a Cummins heavy-duty lorry sneaking into an F1 race and pulling off an extreme drift while cornering.
Moreover, while turning, André took advantage of the referee's lapse in attention to give Hernández a subtle elbow to the stomach. He swore it was just a light nudge, but it nearly knocked the wind out of the other man, who naturally stayed rooted to the spot, helplessly watching the detestable giant speed away.
If the turn just now was a heavy lorry drifting, then what followed was exactly as Sánchez had said before: a tank taking flight. Hernández, chasing after André, miserably discovered that the distance between them was actually increasing. What on earth was this? Everyone said tall guys like this moved like Big Ben, so why was this guy so bloody fast?
Having shaken off Hernández, André reached the edge of the penalty area. The other center-back of the starting lineup, Cortuno, had to step up to meet him.
Then, everyone on the scene except Cortuno was completely stunned. Even the starting team's goalkeeper froze in place.
This man—the epitome of a clumsy brute in people's minds—faced Cortuno's interception and used a classic Cruyff Turn to bypass him like he was a training cone.
Then, entering the penalty area, André faced the goalkeeper and sent a low shot curling into the far corner of the net.
Hierro and Sánchez, standing on the sidelines with their mouths agape, turned to look at each other and simultaneously uttered a classic Spanish curse: "¡Joder!"
At that moment, everyone on the pitch was watching André, who had sprinted to the corner flag and was unleashing a flurry of wild punches at it in celebration.
Everyone felt this was definitely some kind of hallucination. The Cruyff Turn was always such an elegant move, so why did it look anything but elegant when this guy used it? It looked unconventional, violent, and awkward no matter how you looked at it. But you had to admit—from the moment André started dropping back to receive the ball until he finally bypassed Cortuno and sent the ball into the net—the ability he displayed instantly won over everyone on the pitch.
"I was wrong, I was wrong, I was completely wrong," Sánchez muttered, standing next to Hierro like he'd been struck by lightning ever since seeing that Cruyff Turn. "It turns out his fundamentals aren't bad at all—it's just his heading fundamentals that are poor. Fernando, we must sign him. We must sign him."
He suddenly grabbed Hierro's arm with surprising intensity.
"Easy, easy, Miguel. Don't worry. I will sign him. Now, let's watch the rest of the game."
Although Hierro only had a smile on his face, as if he'd known all this would happen, in reality, a string of curses was running through his mind. He was smiling on the outside but absolutely stunned on the inside. The only reason he didn't react like Sánchez was simply because of his responsibility as head coach—he had to maintain composure.
But bloody hell. What had he just witnessed?
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