Chapter 61
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 61
Chapter Title: Park Si-hyun Says France is Easy. (2)
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Zidane narrowed his eyes as he gazed out at the pitch.
‘This isn’t good...’
The score was still 1-0.
France dominated possession. Their passes flowed smoothly, and Henry and Pires were shaking up the flanks, constantly creating space.
But the problem was that final touch.
Time and again, the ball stuttered to a halt at Trezeguet’s feet, only to be blocked by the Korean defense and Lee Woon-jae’s hands.
Zidane hadn’t placed much weight on this match to begin with.
Korea was a team they were unlikely to face in the tournament proper. Even if France came away with a less-than-ideal result today, it wouldn’t be a huge loss, he’d thought.
But Trezeguet’s arrogant remarks had changed everything.
‘If we lose like this? The mockery will all pour down on Trezeguet. But it wouldn’t just be his problem. The whole French team would be branded as arrogant. That wound would carry straight through to the World Cup...’
Zidane’s eyes grew cold.
‘We need to turn this around.’
There was only one answer: a goal.
The decisive blow to flip the momentum and reclaim the initiative.
And the only one who could deliver it was France’s captain, Zinedine Zidane.
Vieira shrugged off fierce pressure and slipped the ball sideways. Thuram poked it inside again, and in that instant, the ball flowed naturally to Zidane’s feet like water seeping in.
In a flash, two Korean midfielders charged at him.
But Zidane didn’t panic in the slightest. He lowered his body and lifted his left foot just a touch.
Thud.
It looked like an ordinary first touch, no different from any other player’s.
But the moment it met Zidane’s toe, the ball clung to his foot like it was magnetized.
And then came the follow-through—
‘Marseille Turn.’
The signature move named after Zidane himself.
As he nudged the ball with the sole of his foot and spun, his motion transcended mere soccer—it became art.
The first Korean player’s leg sliced through empty air, and the second, rushing in right after, could only chase futilely after his back.
“Waaaaaaaaah!”
The roar erupted anew from the French stands, which had quieted since the opening goal.
Zidane wasn’t just a dribbler. He was the conductor dictating the game’s rhythm.
That’s why people called him the Maestro.
Gesturing to his forwards from midfield, timing his passes—he orchestrated it all as smoothly as conducting an orchestra.
With a single pass, a glance, a gesture, he awakened his teammates’ movements, dismantling the Korean defensive line in an instant.
Ahead lay just one defender—and beyond him, wide-open space.
Zidane’s eyes flashed.
He nudged the ball sideways with the outside of his right foot, unbalancing the defender.
Then, a beat later, he dragged it back inside.
The futile tackle slid across the turf, and Zidane surged forward to the edge of the penalty box.
“He’s shooting...!”
There was no hesitation.
His left foot whipped back and curled around the ball.
Bam!
The ball traced a perfect arc over the defender’s shoulder. The keeper’s fingertips grazed it, but it slipped away, shaking the top corner of the net violently.
Whoosh—!
The French bench leaped up in unison, cheering, as the roar from the stands swelled like a wave.
Zidane, face impassive, slowly spread his arms wide.
Acknowledging the cheers, he lifted his head high, as if this scene were the most natural thing in the world.
He was Zinedine Zidane.
And in this moment, the world was reminded once again.
The man who always appeared whenever France was in crisis. This was the Maestro’s class.
The first half ended with Zidane’s picture-perfect goal.
The score was 1-1.
We headed into the locker room.
You’d think the mood would sink after conceding the equalizer, but the players’ eyes burned sharper than ever.
We’d given Zidane one clean shot, but our game plan was clearly working.
Trezeguet had been rattled the entire half, unable to muster a single proper shot.
His collapse after those two simple words—“It’s easy.”—was etched vividly in everyone’s minds.
And Lee Sung-min, taking on a major role for the first time today, had exceeded expectations.
The leadership role Hong Myung-bo always handled.
Organizing the defensive line and locking down the back door—it wasn’t easy for anyone to nail it perfectly from the start.
But he was astonishingly calm, his instructions to the defenders timed with the precision of a veteran’s gaze.
Sure, we conceded to Zidane at the end.
But that was unavoidable.
Asking someone new to the role to completely shut down the ‘Maestro’ Zinedine Zidane was borderline impossible from the outset.
In fact, aside from that one moment, Lee Sung-min had done his job flawlessly.
Ending the half at 1-1 wasn’t luck.
“Ha... France really is on another level.”
Lee Chun-soo let out a deep sigh as he spoke.
Seol Ki-hyun wiped the sweat from his face and nodded.
“Yeah. No gaps at all. Even when you try to break through, the cover’s right there.”
I nodded too.
‘France is France, no doubt.’
I couldn’t help but feel it throughout the half.
Their defense wasn’t just individual skill—it moved like a single organism.
Lilian Thuram, Juventus’ ironclad defender.
He completely sealed the right flank with his powerful physique and relentless tackling.
Marcel Desailly, Chelsea’s captain and World Cup winner.
He didn’t just block—he orchestrated the entire back line like an orchestra conductor.
Bixente Lizarazu, Bayern Munich’s left fullback.
Small but sturdy, with insane stamina, he locked down the flank completely. Not a moment’s breather.
‘This is top-tier European defense.’
They didn’t just stand in the attackers’ way.
Before we could even move, they’d already cut off our next options.
Cover play, pressure timing, situational awareness.
It was leagues beyond the third-division German defenders I’d faced.
Honestly, the fact that I only scored once in the first half wasn’t because I lacked skill.
I just needed time to adapt to this new level.
‘I’ve got your levels locked in now.’
Even the best players need matches against worthy opponents to stay sharp.
I’d spent a long time in Germany’s third division.
With weaker opposition, I didn’t need to bring my A-game, and yeah, I’d gotten a bit rusty.
But now? It was different.
Facing world-class defenders like Thuram, Desailly, and Lizarazu was awakening the instincts dormant inside me.
‘Yeah. This is soccer. You need that thrill of breaking through to awaken a striker.’
And it wasn’t just me awakening.
The guys around me—everyone—was growing on this stage.
And the one pulling that growth even further? Coach Hiddink.
The locker room door opened, and Coach Hiddink walked in.
All eyes turned to him in the suddenly hushed room.
Hiddink slowly scanned the players, then spoke in a low, firm voice.
“Everyone, that wasn’t bad at all. Compared to before, we went toe-to-toe with France. That means we won’t get steamrolled by any so-called ‘favorites’ anymore.”
The players’ eyes lit up.
Hiddink wasn’t one to praise lightly.
That’s why his words hit hard.
But what came next reminded us he never handed out praise cheaply.
“But parity isn’t enough.”
A tense silence gripped the room.
“Honestly, if we keep playing like that, we can probably snag second in the group. But is that all you want?”
His gaze pierced each player in turn.
“We’re up against powerhouses like Portugal. We can’t just play even with them—we have to win. Top the group. That’s when the world will really notice us.”
The air in the locker room grew taut with tension.
Truth be told, some players had been quietly satisfied inside.
They’d forged a 1-1 with France and utterly dismantled Trezeguet—they’d felt a subtle relief.
But Hiddink’s voice stabbed that complacency.
“Trust my eyes. And more than that, trust the sweat you’ve shed. Your efforts aren’t light enough to settle for second place.”