Chapter 71
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 71
Chapter Title: Even Korea Without Park Si-hyun Is Easy for Portugal
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Park Si-hyun was absent, but Portugal still figured Korea would be easy.
"Hoo... I can't believe it."
Coach António Oliveira's hoarse voice echoed through the team lodging's conference room.
No one dared to lift their head.
Figo quietly set down the water bottle he had been holding, while Costa covered his face with both hands.
Vítor Baía stood with his arms crossed, staring blankly at the wall without a word, and even Pauleta had completely lost his usual confident smile.
The air was heavy.
The Portugal national team's lodging felt like a funeral home.
They all knew it.
That the current situation was utterly ridiculous.
No, it was hard for them to believe it themselves.
Just a few weeks ago,
the whole world had called them Europe's golden generation.
A dazzling lineup where hearing names like Figo, Rui Costa, Simão, or Pauleta alone was enough to intimidate any opponent.
This was the very team that had held firm against France at Euro 2000, earning praise that Portugal's era had arrived.
World ranking: 4th.
Undisputed favorites to win it all, no matter who you asked.
When they drew Group D, their reaction was unanimous.
"Who'll make it to the round of 16 against us?"
Preliminaries?
Why worry about qualifiers when you're Portugal?
No matter what outsiders called it the "group of death," that was someone else's problem.
America? They only showed strength on their home turf anyway.
Poland? Sure, they were tough, but FIFA ranked 38th—heaven and earth compared to Portugal's power.
And Korea?
They didn't even know exactly where it was on the map, let alone feel the need to study it.
Instead, they spent their time researching contingency tactics against potential round-of-16 foes like Italy, England, or Argentina.
But now, Portugal was paying dearly for their arrogance.
Portugal sat in third place in the group.
The Korea they had dismissed was dominating first place.
If they lost to Korea next, the powerhouse Portugal—World Cup favorites—would instantly become the group stage exit team.
And even a win offered no guarantees.
If second-place America beat fourth-place Poland, Portugal would drop out on goal difference.
In other words, they could lose even if they won.
Portugal calculating scenarios in a World Cup? It had never happened in their history.
That was for the weak.
Assuming defeat and leaving their fate in others' hands...
No powerhouse would ever think that way.
Any normal coach would have realized it by now.
"We've been arrogant. Time to snap out of it."
And they'd pour every remaining minute into studying Korea.
Analyzing their tactics, marking their ace Park Si-hyun.
There had been plenty of time to figure out Korea's style and prepare counters.
But—
António Oliveira.
He was different.
He still believed he was right.
He was the kind of man who clung to that one conviction: that he had built Portugal's golden generation.
From 1996 through Euro 2000, he had always run the team with the same system.
And it wouldn't change for the 2002 World Cup either.
Figo-centric tactics.
Every Portuguese attack started and ended with Figo.
Defense grabs the ball? Pass to Figo.
Then Figo dribbles, crosses, finishes.
That simple route had worked until now.
But every team knew it by now.
"Block Figo, and Portugal stops."
It was obvious.
Yet Oliveira didn't see it as a tactical flaw.
There was only one conclusion in his head.
"Figo underperformed, that's why we lost."
"We fed you everything... how could you not win?"
"After all I've built this soccer around you."
Oliveira muttered that to himself as he slowly paced around the table.
And—
Bang!
He slammed his palm on the table.
"You all need to reflect! I built tactics to draw out every ounce of your strength, and you ruin it like this?"
Oliveira's voice boomed through the conference room.
His gaze flicked to Figo, then swept over the other players.
Luís Figo.
The team's symbol, its absolute star.
A player whose stature even the coach couldn't directly criticize.
But his eyes said enough.
"This is on you."
Luís Figo understood perfectly.
"Do you think losing to America makes any sense? And 0-2 at that! America is just bugs that get strong on their home patch!"
A few players' faces twisted.
Rui Costa bowed his head, while Vítor Baía bit his lip hard.
Heavy silence pressed down on the air.
At that moment, Figo slowly raised his head.
"Coach."
His voice was low, but weighty.
"I don't think this is something we can pin solely on us."
The air froze at those words.
The coach's eyes locked straight onto Figo.
"...What did you say?"
"Coach, our tactics have been completely read by the opponent."
Figo was careful.
He stuck to the facts, trying not to provoke the coach's temper.
"The ball always ends up with me. I dribble and cross. The whole world knows that pattern now."
"Shut your mouth!"
Bang!
Oliveira pounded the table with his fist.
A water glass toppled, spilling across the table.
But Figo didn't look away.
He was speaking sincerely for the team's sake, convinced that dialogue would make even Coach Oliveira understand.
However, António Oliveira was a man riddled with inferiority complexes.
To him, Figo's words weren't advice—they were an insult.
"Figo, what do you know about tactics to spout that nonsense? I got you this far! We conquered Europe! And now it's my fault?"
Figo's expression hardened.
Rui Costa quietly pressed a hand on his arm.
"Enough, Luís..."
But Figo didn't stop.
"Coach, what we need now isn't anger—it's answers. We need change. In tactics, and in mindset."
Oliveira's face stiffened.
His eyes wavered, jaw muscles twitching faintly.
"...Are you trying to teach me my job now?"
He stroked his chin with a trembling hand and growled lowly.
"Fine. If you're so smart, handle the next game yourself. That Korea you mentioned? Go smash them personally!"
Figo narrowed his eyes.
Oliveira added one more barb.
"If you can't, then it really is your fault. Luís Figo."
Silence.
Not even breathing could be heard.
The assistant coach cautiously spoke up from the side.
"Coach... pushing them like this will break the team—"
"Shut it!"
Oliveira's shout exploded like lightning.
"The team's crumbling isn't on me! It's because these guys got weak!"
Figo rose slowly from his seat upon hearing that.
His chair scraped back with a metallic screech.
Without a single word, he walked toward the conference room door.
Portugal was already crumbling from within before the match even kicked off.
[Friday, June 14, 2002, 8:30 PM—Munsu Stadium in Incheon. The South Korea vs. Portugal match is about to begin! Over 50,000 fans have packed the stands today!]
[And that's not all. Seoul's Gwanghwamun is already bursting at the seams with street supporters. Incheon is awash in a sea of red too.]
[It shows just how hot the national excitement is. Korea's momentum in this World Cup is beyond imagination.]
[Exactly. Korea has practically locked in the round of 16 already. But beat Portugal tonight, and they'll advance unbeaten.]
[Portugal's situation is desperate, though. Lose to Korea, and group stage elimination is certain. Even a win might not save them if America beats Poland—goal difference could knock them out.]
[Here come the players!]
As the cameras swept the stadium, a spectacular clash of red and green unfolded.
[Luís Figo! João Pinto! Rui Costa! And goalkeeper Vítor Baía! The golden generation assembled!]
[But we're no slouches! Spider Hands Lee Woon-jae in goal, midfield anchors Yoo Sang-chul and Park Ji-sung, attackers Hwang Sun-hong and Ahn Jung-hwan! And on the bench warming up, Korea's new prodigy—no, the world's best player—Park Si-hyun!]
Then the national anthem rang out.
Under Inchon's sky, tens of thousands of voices united as one.
[At Munsu Stadium right now, the 17th Infantry Division band is playing, with tenor Jang Won-sang leading the anthem!]
Park Si-hyun was out of the starting lineup.
The moment Portugal fans confirmed it, they were certain.
They had this one in the bag.
But they didn't know.
That from the instant they arrived at the stadium, Coach António Oliveira and Luís Figo hadn't exchanged a single word.