A Million Headers

Two hundred and fifty was probably the number of headers he'd practiced today.

And that number trailing behind it — one million. He'd probably have to fill that up before they let him out.

Kim Hanbin sank to the ground where he stood. He didn't want to do any of it.

“Ugh, goddammit...!”

He had just pulled off a flawless K League debut, and it had felt like his dream life as a professional footballer was finally beginning.

And then this. Now he was supposed to smash his head a million times doing nothing but headers.

A million headers? Won't my brain cells all die off doing that and my head actually end up scrambled?

Punch-Drunk Syndrome — the condition boxers and other combat athletes suffer from repeated blows to the head: brain damage that leaves them staggering around like drunks, slurring their words, and losing their cognitive function.

A million headers was more than enough to cause it.

The ominous thought flickered through his mind, but another one quickly followed.

No, wait — maybe, like last time with the 100 million shots, all the fatigue and injuries will heal when I wake up.

But he wasn't in any state to weigh the odds right now. Everything about this irritated him.

So Hanbin simply flopped backwards and lay spread out on the wide expanse of grass.

Might as well get some sleep.

By his own reckoning, several hours had passed when he stirred. Sleeping on bare ground, even on grass, had left him stiff, and he dragged himself upright to check his phone again.

Time was still ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠frozen.

“Haaah...”

With a deep sigh, he finally had to accept it. He was trapped in this hellhole of a space all over again.

Well... at least it's not 100 million like last time — it's only a million. A million is one hundredth of a hundred million... maybe I can knock it out pretty quick...

He tried to force himself into a positive frame of mind, but it wasn't easy.

Either way, he couldn't just sit around. The first order of business was figuring out how far this space extended.

The first thing to check was the boundary of the stopped time. He walked over to the tall chain-link fence enclosing the training ground.

The training ground is obviously included... but surely I'm not supposed to live inside just this training ground?

If the boundary ended at this fence, it would be the worst-case scenario.

Last time, he'd been able to use the offices inside the stadium, the gym, and all sorts of other facilities, which had let him live like something resembling a human being.

If this time the boundary stopped at the training ground's fence, he'd be living on nothing but this patch of grass — an involuntary vagrant for at least a few years.

Come on! Open, damn it, open!

Praying desperately to himself, Kim Hanbin pushed the handle of the gate.

Creeeeak—

Thankfully, the gate slid open with a long creak.

“...It's open!”

A wave of relief washed over him — the worst-case scenario was off the table. He stepped outside and began making his way along the path.

Fortunately, he got into the clubhouse building without any trouble at all.

The interior, which would normally have been bustling with players and staff, was silent and deserted, steeped in an utter stillness.

Kim Hanbin wandered the building at will, mapping out the boundaries of the space.

After a good ten minutes or so of exploring, he had a clear picture of what was accessible and what wasn't.

The locker room and the weight room stood open, and he could come and go freely.

But the manager's office, the other offices, the lounge — all of them were blocked, as if a transparent wall stood in the way.

The stairways leading to the floors above and below were sealed off the same way, as though an invisible barrier refused to let him pass.

“They only opened up the spaces that are strictly necessary... So it's 'nothing but training,' huh.”

Kim Hanbin let out a hollow laugh.

Just in case, he checked the exits leading out of the clubhouse as well, but the result was the same.

An invisible wall, like an enormous dome, sealed off the entire space.

“Haah. If I have to do it, I have to do it. What else can I do?”

With a deep sigh, he muttered his resignation. He'd been through this once before. No one knew better than he did that struggling against it was pointless.

Kim Hanbin returned to the pitch where the footballs lay scattered.

Then he spent a long while glaring at that state-of-the-art cross training machine — the apparent culprit behind this whole affair.

But before long, he shook his head.

“No... you're just a machine, what did you ever do wrong? This is just my lousy luck.”

He gathered up the footballs strewn across the pitch and fed them into the machine's hopper, one by one.

Then he set it up for a corner-kick scenario, so the balls would arc high through the air toward the mouth of the goal.

Thus began the endless, mind-numbing repetition of training.

Thwump—!

The first ball rocketed out of the machine and sliced through the air. Hanbin leapt at exactly the right moment, but his header only grazed the underside of the ball and sent it flying off in a bizarre direction.

The second ball — this time he jumped far too early, and the ball sailed right past his head.

The third ball — he made solid contact, but with no real power behind it, and it dropped limply just wide of the goal, plop.

Being his first day, most of his attempts ended in failure.

Reading the exact spot where the ball would drop, timing the jump, the position of his body at the moment of impact, the control of his power — he was still clumsy at all of it.

Let's just do a thousand today. Getting a feel for it comes first.

Hanbin dutifully picked up the balls, fed them back into the machine, and repeated the cycle of jumping and heading, over and over.

Every so often he looked up at the scoreboard on the far side of the training ground. The number climbed steadily with each header attempt.

If I do a thousand a day... out of a million... that's, what, about two and a half years? And that's only if I do a thousand every single day without fail. That's insane.

He stopped doing the math. His head was starting to hurt.

Ugh, whatever. Nothing to do but shut up and grind.

Thankfully, this stopped-time space seemed to take thorough care of his mental state as well.

If it hadn't, he might well have gone insane long ago, back during the 100 million practice shots.

Grumbling all the while, he picked the ball up again. He knew better than anyone that there was no escaping this place, so the only option was to make the most of the time.

For all his complaining, Kim Hanbin's body never stopped moving.

Pick up the ball, load the machine, time the jump to the incoming ball, head it. Again. And again.

How many repetitions had it been? At last, the scoreboard read [ 1000 / 1,000,000 ].

“Whew... a thousand, and it's only now a thousand...”

Kim Hanbin collapsed where he stood, gasping for breath. His whole body was drenched in sweat, and his calves were trembling.

Wow... this is way harder than I thought...

The fatigue was on an entirely different level from the shooting practice he'd done last time.

Repeatedly exploding into maximum-effort jumps had put a brutal strain on his calves and thighs, and his muscles were stretched taut and aching. It felt far worse than the muscle fatigue that followed shooting drills.

On top of that, the endless headers had left his head groggy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and his stomach churning.

It felt like someone was shaking his brain around inside his skull. There was no doubt about it — his head had taken some serious damage.

This... it does all heal when I sleep, right? Like last time? Because if it doesn't... by the time I finish a million headers and get out of here, all my brain cells will be dead and I'll have turned into a genuine idiot.

Anxiety crept over him. But soon enough, he shook his head.

Back during the 100 million practice shots, this space had restored his body to perfect condition every time.

The place had at least extended him that much courtesy, so all he could do was trust that it would this time too.

He dragged his aching body to the weight room.

Just in case, he kept today's lifting far lighter than usual.

If there was no recovery function, an injury in this environment — where no treatment was available — would be a serious risk.

After the light workout, he laid his body down roughly on an exercise mat in the corner of the weight room.

It was a thin mat on a hard floor, but the crushing exhaustion pulled him under into a deep sleep almost instantly.

How much time had passed?

Hanbin opened his eyes to a familiar, refreshing lightness. When he sat up, the muscle soreness that had plagued him so badly was gone — vanished as if it had been a lie.

He tested his legs cautiously.

His calves and thighs had recovered completely; if anything, they felt lighter and springier than before. Even the buzzing ache in his head had cleared into perfect crispness.

“...Thank god.”

A sigh of relief escaped him on its own.

Good old effort-pays-off justice — still alive and kicking.

Thwack—!

The football struck Hanbin squarely on the forehead and, transformed into a ferocious power header, buried itself in the bottom corner of the goal.

He exhaled and wiped the sweat running down his brow.

“Whew...”

Then he slowly raised his head and looked at the scoreboard at the edge of the training ground.

One million. Just one header left.

Two and a half years... has it really been that long...

His sense of time had long since dulled, but he'd averaged over a thousand a day, so by rough estimate, that was about right.

More than a thousand headers a day, every day. It had been soul-crushing — but he'd made it here in the end.

The last one... it has to be spectacular. Nothing less will scratch the itch.

Just as his 100 million practice shots had ended with a shot from the halfway line, he refused to let this header training finish on something ordinary.

He walked over to the cross training machine and fed one final ball into the hopper.

Then he sprinted straight to a spot near the halfway line.

What he was about to attempt was one of the iconic moments in football history.

The Superman Diving Header — the goal Robin van Persie produced at the 2014 World Cup in Brazil.

Granted, there were no defenders here, no pressure, nothing comparable to a real match.

Even so, it seemed like a more than fitting way to crown the finish.

Kim Hanbin steadied his breathing for a moment and waited for the machine to launch the ball.

Thwump—!

The machine spat out the ball. Set to fly all the way into the penalty area, it carved a high arc through the air.

Kim Hanbin tracked the ball's trajectory with his eyes, predicting where it would drop.

Then, without a moment's hesitation, he launched himself off the ground and flung his body forward through the air.

And at precisely the right instant, the center of his forehead and the flying ball met in perfect contact.

It's... it's going in!

With the thunderous impact ringing through his forehead, Hanbin knew it instinctively.

The ball left his head, tracing a flawless parabola, and was sucked exactly inside the goal.

Shwaaaaak—!

The satisfying snap of the net rippling filled the air.

“YES!”

Kim Hanbin let out a short whoop as he landed.

Then he immediately turned his head to check the scoreboard.

It was finally over. A million headers.

Compared to the 100 million shots, it had been a short stretch of time — but it had been no easy training by any measure.

He brushed the grass off his body, gathered up the footballs strewn around the training ground, and began putting them away.

It was time to leave this place.

Stepping out through the chain-link gate of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠training ground, Kim Hanbin made his way along the path toward the clubhouse.

Like last time with the 100 million shots, barely any time had passed in the outside world?

Standing before the clubhouse door, he paused to gather his breath.

Fear and anticipation crossed paths in his chest. He took one deep, long breath and stepped through the door.

With a creeeak, it opened.

“Oh, Hanbin! Done with your individual training?”

One of the coaches passing through the hallway spotted Kim Hanbin and greeted him warmly. There wasn't a trace of awkwardness on the coach's face.

As if he'd been watching Hanbin train just moments ago.

“You really put in a proper sweat today. Good work. The other boys could stand to take a page out of your book and grind a lot harder in their individual sessions, honestly.”

With that, the coach gave his shoulder a couple of friendly thumps and headed off toward the office.

Kim Hanbin stood there in a daze for a moment.

Ah... I'm really back. I'm actually back.

Two and a half years. Through all that long stretch of time, the outside world had stood frozen, as if nothing at all had happened.

Perhaps because he'd spent that entire span doing nothing but knocking his head against footballs all alone, even that one-sided exchange with the coach just now felt overwhelmingly moving.

Just then, two senior players came walking up the opposite corridor. They spotted Kim Hanbin and paused mid-step.

“Huh? Hanbin, you... did you get a bit taller?”

One of the seniors asked, tilting his head.

At that, the other senior gave Hanbin a look up and down, also cocking his head.

“Now that you mention it? Well, he's at that age where he's still got growing to do. Height's the one thing that keeps growing even in the army, after all. Anyway — see you tomorrow!”

The two seniors waved casually and walked on.

Have I... actually gotten taller?

Kim Hanbin looked down at his own body. His field of vision did seem a touch higher than before...

Is it because I jumped nearly a million times? No, wait — jumping doesn't make you taller, does it?

It was a mystery.

Either way, taller is a good thing.

A smile playing at the corner of his mouth, Hanbin headed for the locker room to shower.