The Japan Match (2)
Japan had conceded an early goal and seen their morale sink, but the roar of the home fans gradually pulled them back toward their natural tempo.
The back line and a slightly dropped double pivot worked the ball through the build-up, carefully preparing their second attack. Their first had survived Korea's heavy press and even produced a shot, but the ball had ballooned high and sailed harmlessly over the bar.
Miyamoto Ryuji pushed the ball forward to a midfielder to keep the attack moving—and found himself locked in a miserable duel with his marker.
"Would you get off me already?"
"Don't feel like it."
Miyamoto ground his teeth and kept moving. He was about to snap something at Seong Ian trailing him when the flow of the ball broke down in midfield.
"Damn it…!"
He spun to recover defensively—only for a Korean midfielder to thread a lobbed through ball straight into his channel. It was a dangerous pass, but slightly overhit.
Still, Seong Ian's right here—
He tracked the ball hanging in the air, then dropped his eyes to find Ian again.
…Huh?
The spot where Ian had been a heartbeat earlier was empty.
Thud—!
Instead, the sharp crack of cleats driving into turf exploded from nearby.
It's fine. At this distance, there's no way he gets there.
As he'd already noted, the Korean midfielder's lobbed through ball was long—long enough that simply leaving it alone would send it over the touchline. Marking a Seong Ian who couldn't even reach the ball would be a pointless waste of energy. Miyamoto settled into a walk.
Just as he expected, the ball arced toward the line.
What he failed to account for was that Seong Ian was faster than he thought—
Tap—.
—and that his leap was extraordinary as well.
Ian launched himself high into the air and nodded the ball down with his forehead as if it were a routine header.
"What the hell…"
"Ryuji! Get over there and stop him!"
Miyamoto started running too late. Far too late.
Kick and rush. What Korean football called chigo dalligi—drive and run. Ian used his blistering pace as the foundation, knocking the ball ahead of himself in clean, measured touches. Then he turned his head right and scanned the box.
Three men inside it: Japan's two center-backs and Kang Seungwook.
He could have whipped a cross in right then and let Kang bury a header. Instead, Seong Ian killed the ball and stopped.
Two, three seconds later, Japanese players came streaming back to defend—Miyamoto among them. He still had no idea why Ian had stopped, but he decided the man in front of him came first.
Ian tapped the ball lightly with his right foot. Watching for the timing, Miyamoto lunged on the third touch.
Got him…!
He felt contact, solid and certain. But it wasn't the ball. The ball was already on Ian's left foot. Which meant the thing under Miyamoto's studs was—
Seong Ian's right foot.
"Aaagh—!"
Ian went down with a sharp cry, clutching his right foot and writhing in pain.
Peeep—!
The referee blew his whistle and reached into his pocket. He held a yellow card high for Miyamoto Ryuji to see.
"Do you need medical?"
"No…"
The moment Ian confirmed the booking was real, he got back to his feet. Miyamoto stayed sitting on the grass, listening to the referee tell him to get up and take the warning.
"Hey. Sorry…"
He looked over to apologize—only to find Ian winking at one of his own teammates.
That bastard…!
He wanted nothing more than to plant his studs in that face right then and there.
The referee awarded the free kick. Ian took a short run-up and struck it.
Whoosh—.
The ball painted a beautiful arc into the box and met Kang Seungwook's forehead cleanly—
Clang—!
—only to ricochet off the woodwork. A Japanese player desperately cleared it toward the flank, and the nearest man to the drop was Seong Ian once again.
He collected it and whipped a reverse cross back into the area. Jeong Woojun, still lingering in the box, got a foot to it, but the Japanese keeper's save left a loose ball bouncing inside the six-yard box.
"Clear it!"
The Japanese goalkeeper's voice was nearly a scream. He had thrown himself full length for the save, leaving the goal completely exposed. Anyone who so much as touched the ball would have an open net.
Bodies scrambled for possession until the keeper stretched out a long arm and punched the ball over the goal line.
"Ah—! Yamamoto punches it behind the line and Japan survive another scare…"
"Seong Ian is a genuinely dangerous player. Miyamoto Ryuji has to mark him tightly. In most situations, fouling him to break it up would be fine, but…"
"He's already on a yellow, isn't he? We probably won't be seeing those trademark aggressive tackles from Ryuji today."
The Japanese broadcast team worked through the match. Seated between the two commentators was Minamino Takumi—one of the most successful Japanese players of his generation, a man who had worn Liverpool's red. Mitoma Kaoru had later surpassed him in pure individual quality, but Minamino's Premier League title still stood alone.
For Japanese viewers, a living legend of their football was behind the microphone, calling the game alongside them.
"Korea's free kick… and it's Jeong Woojun taking it, not Seong Ian."
"This kid's delivery is razor-sharp too. Japan need to be careful—"
Whoosh—.
The ball sailed into the box again. A little high. A little long.
Minamino opened his mouth, certain it was going over the line.
"Too lo—"
Then he had no choice but to doubt what his eyes were showing him.
Thud—!
Seong Ian came flying in, driving off the turf and launching himself high into the air. The ball met his forehead—
Swish—.
—and the net bulged.
Barely twenty-three minutes into the first half—roughly twenty minutes after the opening goal—Korea had their second.
After the finish, Ian charged toward the broadcast booth and slid across the grass on his knees. As the slide bled off its speed, he raised both arms high: left arm stretched out on a diagonal, right arm bent halfway and held beneath his throat.
It was the celebration of Atlético's 1990s star Kiko—and the signature of El Niño, Fernando Torres.
Why Torres's celebration all of a sudden…?
Then the sound of applause drifted down from above the booth. Standing proudly in the VIP seats, Torres was clapping for him.
No way…
Minamino already knew. Seong Ian was half-Spanish, half-Korean—and by doing this, he had just announced that fact to everyone watching the broadcast. He also knew Fernando Torres was the head coach of Spain's youth national team.
"…This is going to get interesting."
"What is? Japan just conceded again…"
"Ah. Scores like this are exactly when things get fun. If Japan can snatch a goal while the other side is getting complacent…"
He changed the subject on purpose, wary of sparking controversy, but privately he thought: a few years from now, the World Cup was going to be very entertaining indeed.
I was subbed off at halftime.
I'd wanted a third goal if I could get it, but there was nothing to be done. This wasn't an official international, and it was a broadcast. They only had five substitutions, so they couldn't show every player—but they still wanted other faces on camera.
Well… I'd already achieved what I came for, more or less.
The Japanese right-back who'd tried to take me out—Miyamoto?—picked up a second yellow and was eventually sent off with a red. Somewhere in the stands a voice shouted something like, "Oppa! What are you doing?!" but other people's family business wasn't mine to overhear, so I moved on quickly.
As for the Japanese players who'd been mocking Korea earlier—they wore the faces of men who wanted nothing more than to be substituted off, forced to keep playing anyway.
And finally, the most important piece: Fernando Torres up in those seats.
Not long ago he'd invited me to join Spain's youth national team. I'd told him I would. I'd even squeezed something extra out of the deal—a guaranteed starting spot and at least forty-five minutes of playing time.
There had been executives at the Spanish FA opposed to the idea. Today he'd brought them here specifically so they could see my ability with their own eyes.
A single word: success. Torres was still human, after all—he seemed to be keeping his phone use discreet in front of the other executives.
I pulled off my jersey. I had a performance undershirt on underneath, so it was fine.
That was my last match representing the Republic of Korea.
Putting on a Spanish national team shirt was thrilling—and bittersweet. Through the tournament, through the broadcast, a thought kept circling: couldn't I do well for Korea's senior side too? Couldn't I go further and change the future?
The idea lingered, but I couldn't casually throw away an opportunity like this. My family had said they respected my choice.
I don't regret it.
News of my joining the Spanish national team would hit the press immediately. Reporters who already had the tip were writing their pieces right now, and plenty of gossip about my transfer was already floating around.
That meant Koreans might curse me for it. I'd already factored that in—and I didn't regret that either. Showing it with results: that, I believed, was what a footballer did.
The match finished 3–0. A complete win for us.
While the others headed back to Korea, I set off for England.