National High School Football Tournament: Round of 16 (1)

"What are you zoning out for? Take off that vest and get out here already!"

The ball had already rolled past the touchline. The assistant referee, board in hand, listened to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the coach's instructions, then flipped the numbers into place.

A player wearing the same kit design as mine, number seven on his back, came off the pitch. Only then did I stand up and pull off the training vest.

Baekhwa High's number seven, Lee Gwanghyeon — the only player to have scored for a side currently trailing 1–3. Position: left wing forward. Even as a high school senior, he possessed the kind of blistering pace and finishing ability that wouldn't look out of place among active K League professionals.

In pure talent alone he never surpassed me, but unlike the version of myself who never put in the work, he poured everything into the game — and eventually earned a call-up to the national team.

Feels like only yesterday I was watching his interviews on TV…

From my perspective, it really was yesterday. I'd watched him give post-match interviews as a Dortmund player on television.

And now that same man stood in front of me, palm extended.

"…Go do well."

He gave my back a couple of firm pats while I was still lost in thought, then walked straight to the bench and sat down.

I stepped forward. Onto a grass pitch I hadn't set foot on in years.

Peeep—!

Lee Gwanghyeon came off, and Seong Ian took the field.

"Pulling Gwanghyeon for number ten Seong Ian… unexpected."

"No choice. That's his one real weakness — he doesn't have the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stamina to go a full ninety."

A man and a woman sat in the stands overlooking the pitch, fingers flying across their keyboards. They were football reporters for Teens Sports Magazine — TSM for short.

The man in horn-rimmed glasses and a checkered shirt was Kim Jeonghwan, assistant to the short-haired woman beside him, Han Yejin. At just twenty-seven, Yejin was already team leader of TSM's football desk. Driven by the conviction that every article should be written from firsthand observation, she had covered nearly every major tournament for the past four years — and this match was no exception. She'd come all the way from Seoul to Changnyeong, Gyeongsangnam-do, for the Round of 16 of the National High School Football Tournament.

Seong Ian… I've heard that name before…

Yejin even mouthed the name aloud, trying to place it, but the effort didn't last long. The referee had blown the whistle.

The ball that had gone out of play belonged to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Baekhwa High. Number twenty-one, Jeong Inho — the left fullback — held it in both hands, glancing left and right, reading the angles.

Two teammates approached the ball-carrier; two opposing players tracked them. Inho threw the ball to one of the two.

"Jeong Inho… he's pretty solid, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Top-tier among players his age."

Number twenty-three, one half of the double pivot, collected Inho's throw with ease. He then drew in the two opposing players who had pressed up for the throw-in. Inho seized the opening and sprinted forward.

Having pulled both Changrim High players toward himself, number twenty-three slipped the ball through one of their legs with a light touch, threading a clean pass into Inho's path.

"Get in there!"

Inho took the ball in stride, touching it long and tearing up the flank in a flash. His shout to his teammates carried all the way up to the stands, reaching Yejin and Jeonghwan's ears.

"He's got quite a voice."

"That's a good thing. In real matches, crowd noise buries players' calls all the time. A loud voice means better communication."

Yejin was right. Several players reacted to Inho's call and drove into the penalty box. Positioned out wide, Inho now faced a decision: which of the two to cross to.

…No angle.

Both center-backs were marking the strikers, and Changrim's left fullback was tracking Baekhwa's right winger as he cut inside. Knowing any cross would be cleared, Inho held off. Then he checked his own speed.

The Changrim right fullback who had been nutmegged by number twenty-three recovered quickly and closed on Inho, but Inho shrugged him off with a light turn. The crossing lanes were still blocked, and worse, Changrim's midfield was about to drop back in support.

Right then, Inho played a cutback toward a player standing alone just outside the penalty area.

"Huh?"

Kim Jeonghwan made a sound of surprise. It was Seong Ian — the substitute who had just come on — collecting Inho's pass.

"What's he doing all the way over th—"

Before Jeonghwan could finish, Ian pushed the ball forward, took a short run-up, and loaded power into his right foot.

Bang—!

A sharp crack split the air. Then came not the slap of a goalkeeper's save, but the rustle of a net billowing. The ball bent on a perfect arc and buried itself in the top-right corner, just inside the post.

"Team Leader… that was…"

"…I remember now. Seong Ian."

The player who had claimed both the golden boot and the assist crown in the middle school league for two consecutive seasons. That kick just now was his signature — the same strike he'd shown so often in his middle school days.

Faster and more precise than back then… growing into his age, I suppose.

Han Yejin let out a small laugh and looked at the scorer — standing there dazed after a wonder goal, while ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his teammates charged toward him.

"That actually went in?"

Watching the ball suck into the top-right corner, I could only stand there, frozen. It was a better strike than anything I'd ever conceptualized or attempted before the regression.

I had a body like this and still didn't put in the work? Unbelievable…

A hollow laugh escaped me. But I could change it. Through this regression, I could rewrite my future.

In a situation like the one just now, a left winger — my position — had plenty of options. Inho was already sprinting up the left flank as fullback, so overlapping with him risked crowding the same channel. I could have slipped into the pocket between the defensive line and midfield. I could have received the fullback's pass and driven forward myself. I could even have crashed the box looking for a header.

But I hadn't gotten greedy. More than any hunger for a goal, I still couldn't quite believe I'd returned to the past — and that joy outweighed everything else.

Thud—!

I dug into the turf and sprinted right. The speed, the feel of it — night and day compared to before the regression. I'd never expected Inho, already high up the wing, to play it back to me. Even as the one who struck the ball, I hadn't imagined it would find the net from there.

But my body had scored. Instinctively I'd pushed the ball, hit it with the inside of my foot, and it had curled home.

Two more goals to go.

It didn't have to be me who scored them. All that mattered was giving everything in this match. The next one, and the one after that — each game approached with care, each one played to the absolute limit.

That was the vow I would keep for the rest of my life.

Peeep—!

The referee's whistle restarted play. Changrim High had possession, their two strikers exchanging short passes.

Today Changrim were set up in a 4-2-2-2: four defenders, a double pivot, two wide midfielders, and a pair of forwards up top. Essentially a 4-2-3-1 with the attacking midfielder pushed into the front line, it gave the second-line wide midfielders freer roles and more space. That meant most of their attacks would build between the double pivot and those wide midfielders.

But neutralizing just those players wasn't enough. You also had to watch for overlapping fullbacks and strikers dropping deep. And attacking them wasn't easy either. Count the midfield numbers alone — they had four, we had three. In possession they played 4-2-2-2, but out of possession the wide midfielders typically dropped, which is exactly what made the formation so difficult to break down.

At this particular moment, though, that strength wasn't showing — the classic drawback of a 4-2-2-2. It was the twenty-third minute of the second half, the point when the double pivot that had been anchoring midfield started to tire. I'd been on the pitch less than ten minutes. No matter how fit those volantes were, after this much running they would be gassed, and gaps would open.

…Bingo.

Their wide midfielder, trying to drive down the flank, was forced backward by Inho's press. The right-sided volante took a heavy touch under labored breathing — just a fraction too long.

Thud—.

I burst forward and snapped onto the ball.

"Jimin hyung!"

I launched a long pass toward our right wing forward, Jeong Jimin, who was already tearing upfield at full speed. He'd started the match and played the whole way so far, yet his legs looked completely fresh as he charged on without a word.

"Stop him!"

The opposing center-back yelled at his left fullback, but it was useless. Jimin beat his man with a casual elastico and cut into the box.

Changrim's center-backs, who'd been positioned centrally outside the area, scrambled across toward Jimin. The goalkeeper rushed out. Three defenders closed in. Jimin, legs coiled, chose not to shoot — he passed.

Tap.

A soft cutback on the left diagonal. Jimin stayed as the decoy to the last second, buying a few precious moments.

Our striker currently had the right fullback glued to him. As the ball came, he moved the opposite way, baiting the defender into a wrong-footed step. The Changrim fullback, his view blocked by the striker's broad shoulders, bought the feint completely and got caught on the wrong foot.

And of course — the man waiting there was me.

The moment I'd hit that long ball to Jimin, I'd sprinted. That was a forward's job. Seeing our number nine dragging the left-sided defender, I'd cut inside. When Jimin's pass arrived on a clean line at my feet, I struck it first-time.

Whoosh—.

The goalkeeper, having committed toward Jimin, left the left side of the goal completely open. I rolled it in. Three–three. Level.

"Seong Ian! Why didn't you start playing like this earlier?!"

"A brace off the bench — insane! Don't tell me you're going for a hat trick today?"

Number nine and Jimin hyung came charging at me the moment the ball hit the net. They ruffled my hair and wrapped me in a crushing hug. All I could do was hug them back, awkward and stiff.

Can't… breathe…