Chapter 72
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 72
Chapter Title: German-Made Park Si-hyun
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‘I wonder just how much weaker Korea is without me.’
I glanced at my teammates on the bench, stretching and loosening up.
Their eyes burned with determination, the atmosphere electric with heat.
But my own heart was strangely calm.
The Portugal match was one we could win even without me.
That wasn’t the only reason I’d taken it so seriously, though.
Back then, everyone had been blinded by the thrill of qualifying for the main draw, deluded into thinking we’d beaten Portugal.
They couldn’t see that Portugal had collapsed on their own.
The day before the game, Portugal’s starters—Sergio Conceição, Fernando Couto, Rui Costa, and Vítor Baía—had skipped training to go out drinking.
And that sloppy mentality showed up plain as day on the pitch.
They charged in aggressively with no structure, no philosophy.
Just football propped up by their reputations.
The turning point was João Pinto.
He planted a two-footed tackle on Ji-sung hyung and got sent off in the first half.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
Even after clearly fouling, he charged the ref and punched him in the gut.
‘What an idiot. Pissing off the ref in the first half.’
No matter how impartial refs are supposed to be, they’re human. Would you give a team a fair shake when one of their players just clocked you in the stomach?
In the end, they had no choice but to judge harsher.
That’s just human nature.
And that one tackle nearly ended Ji-sung hyung’s career.
‘Thinking about it pisses me off. If it’d been me instead of Ji-sung hyung, I would’ve jumped in and crushed his legs to paste.’
Damn, what a missed opportunity.
Anyway, back to the point—if it’d just been João Pinto’s red card, Portugal might’ve held on with individual skill.
But in the second half, Beto caused more trouble.
Forgetting his earlier yellow, he laid a rough tackle on Young-pyo hyung.
The result was predictable.
Second yellow. Red card.
Down to 11 against 9.
Lose two players, and tactics crumble. Gaps widen between players, space fragments, rhythm shatters.
Against any decent team—not some pushover—that numerical edge should lead to a blowout.
Yet somehow, Korea couldn’t capitalize fully on that dominance.
Final score: 1-0.
Of course, that one goal became legendary.
‘Ji-sung hyung’s chest trap, right-foot touch to beat the defender, left-foot shot... honestly, it still gives me chills every time.’
That wasn’t soccer. That was art.
But coldly speaking, it overshadowed the fact that Korea’s overall performance wasn’t great.
‘If Portugal had sobered up and played properly, we could’ve lost—no, we definitely would’ve lost.’
That’s why I was curious now.
Different tactics, different players from back then.
How much had this national team evolved?
The 2002 World Cup wasn’t just any World Cup.
It was Korea’s last real shot at winning the whole thing.
After this, corruption, connections, and federation incompetence would rot everything.
‘Put up at least three goals. Even without me.’
If they scraped by 1-0 again?
Frankly, that kills the championship dream.
I could drag us to the final alone, but Brazil? No chance.
Ronaldo right now is on another level—even I’m impressed by his frenzy.
Every movement, every touch, every finish.
The kind of play even I’d think, “Yeah, that’s how I’d do it.”
‘My style is the gold standard, so if Park Si-hyun would’ve done the exact same in that situation, it means that was the perfect answer.’
If Ronaldo called me his rival now, I might pat him on the head.
Cute kid.
Desperate enough to grow like that just to beat me.
‘Was gonna smack that cocky head of yours in the final, but I’ll hold off, Ronaldo.’
I looked up from the bench at my teammates.
Players scattering to their positions,
their breaths, the tension, and that oddly rising confidence.
‘Score three or more, or you’re in for it, hyungs.’
My lips curled into a grin.
‘If it’s not a satisfying game, then forget the nice Korean Park Si-hyun on the national team. I’ll go full German psycho who doesn’t care about age or rank and swings first.’
Don’t want that? Then score.
Brrrr—
“Ugh, what the hell? Sudden chills...”
Ahn Jung-hwan brushed off the goosebumps prickling his skin.
“Nerves?”
He muttered to himself.
Today, he was starting up top for the first time in ages—part of a two-striker setup.
Hiddink’s choice: 4-4-2.
With Hwang Sun-hong and Ahn Jung-hwan leading the line.
‘Whew... time to show what I’ve got.’
Ahn Jung-hwan took a slow breath and lifted his head.
His gaze naturally drifted to the bench.
Park Si-hyun sat there, legs crossed, wearing a relaxed expression and a smile that seemed to say, “Go get ’em, sunbae.”
Seeing that smile eased Ahn Jung-hwan’s mind a bit.
‘Yeah, that guy’s rooting for me.’
Of course, it was a delusion.
He barely knew Park Si-hyun—talented, a bit weird, but polite enough. That was it.
If he’d known about Park Si-hyun’s German life—or even asked Lee Chun-soo once—he never would’ve thought so innocently.
‘Alright, my turn to shine.’
Blissfully unaware, Ahn Jung-hwan felt the bench’s gaze again and took it as encouragement.
Then he turned to Portugal’s formation.
‘Coach Hiddink called out Portugal’s weakness as Figo, but their strength is Figo too.’
The meaning was simple.
A team where every attack starts and ends with Figo.
Naturally skewing their buildup to the left flank.
The right side? Vulnerable.
Ahn Jung-hwan scanned their lines closely.
‘Huh? What? Am I seeing this wrong?’
He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
‘...No, Coach. You said the right’s weak, but to me, the whole damn team looks weak.’
They were just standing there, but the spaces yawned wide open.
‘Have I leveled up?’
He chuckled to himself.
‘Coach Hiddink really planned everything. Just watching Park Si-hyun made me grow this much.’
Another delusion.
This was Park Si-hyun’s butterfly effect.
In a World Cup without Park Si-hyun, Portugal was still riding high.
Figo silently led despite the coach’s stubborn orders, defeat unthinkable.
But now Korea had Park Si-hyun.
Global media hyping him, his mere existence pressuring defenders.
It planted doubt in Figo about losing, leading to his first direct challenge to the coach.
That sparked a full clash. Figo skipped training, drank with key starters, went out.
Result: Today’s Portugal took the field tactically and organizationally gutted, ace-less.
Formation loose, lines stretched.
All because—
Figo got drunk the night before and didn’t rally the team.
Ahn Jung-hwan, of course, had no clue.
He just eyed the gaps and muttered.
“Portugal looking this weak...”
A faint smile.
“Maybe... I’m world-class?”
His misconception deepened, slow and steady.
Oliveira dropped his tactics notebook to the floor.
‘What... what match am I even watching right now?’
It felt like an illusion.
This wasn’t the Portugal soccer he knew.
Even with sloppy prep and half-assed tactics talk, it was their usual system...
Always the same: attacks built around Figo, flanks unlocked, crosses finished. Perfect.
Why were they getting dominated like this?
‘Damn it... Figo, get your shit together!’
Oliveira’s hands trembled.
Bad passes, failed dribbles, no leadership, no shape, no goals—all Figo’s fault.
‘If that guy just did his job, this wouldn’t be happening.’
He ground his teeth, repeating it inwardly.
‘Damn... what do I even say?’
His mind was already full of post-match interviews.
Halftime not even over, and he was imagining defeat.
“Sorry, I’ll reflect on my shortcomings.”
Lame excuses wouldn’t cut it.
Because—
The scoreboard erased any “next time.”
3:0.
Still only the 20th minute of the first half.
The stands surged with red waves like burning tides, Korean chants swallowing the stadium.
Portuguese fans? Frozen corpses.
Oliveira clutched his forehead.
‘Damn... what do I tell the press?’
“The players lacked focus today...”
No, too cliché.
‘Should I just spill it? Why we’re falling apart... blame Figo.’
He simulated the presser in his head.
As if the game was already lost.
That was Portugal’s reality.
A coach assuming defeat mid-match, scrambling for excuses.
That was the real reason they’d crumbled.
Oliveira himself couldn’t see it.
He just glared at the scoreboard, gnashing his teeth.
His eyes no longer a leader’s.
The ugly instinct of a man blaming his disciple to survive.
And in that moment—
Another roar erupted from the pitch.
Waaaaaaaaah!
The scoreboard flickered.
4:0.