Chapter 75
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 75
Chapter Title: Park Si-hyun's Mistakes Hurt
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Park Si-hyun's mistakes hurt.
First touch.
Simply stopping a flying ball or dropping it exactly where you want it.
But this one basic skill is what separates the elite players from the rest.
The better the striker, the softer the first touch, with the ball sticking right to their foot like glue.
With that single touch, they boost their goal-scoring instincts and flow seamlessly into acrobatic shooting poses.
Meanwhile, players with shaky touches are a different story.
The ball bounces even a little, their balance crumbles, and crucial chances slip away.
In the end, that's why some players look elegant even in the same dribble, while others seem clunky. It's all down to the first touch.
And what I'd just shown wasn't just a good first touch.
It was the pinnacle: jumping into a floating ball and pinning it perfectly with the tip of my toe, pulling it straight into my rhythm.
A fantastical touch that only true pros could pull off once in a blue moon.
Not even flashy dribbling—just controlling the ball—and yet the crowd was roaring, and even one of the world's top defenders, Nesta, had flashed a startled look for a split second.
'Why does something suddenly feel off?'
A 3-back formation is structurally looser than a 4-back by nature.
The Italian coach knew that but stuck to it, trusting his defenders' skills.
Cannavaro, Nesta, Maldini—their names alone were a solid wall.
It might've been the right call against anyone else, but not Park Si-hyun.
'You should've gone 4-back against Park Si-hyun.'
I smirked.
I could've scored right then, but I had something even scarier in mind.
A way to rattle the defense's mentality without even scoring—like I'd already put one in.
I tapped the ball forward lightly with my toe.
This was the moment true defenders separated from the pack.
Bad ones just charge in relying on physicality.
But that only works on average attackers at their level.
Even in the second divisions of Europe's top four leagues, that kind of defending gets shredded.
Good ones are different.
Like Nesta right now—reading the ball's path, adjusting steps and angles, predicting the breakthrough route, and gradually closing the gap.
Tying up the attacker, squeezing their space until they force a mistake.
Against that, dribbling through isn't easy for the attacker.
The flashy breakthroughs we see on TV? Those aren't beating defenders like this—they're exploiting ones who close in after the attacker’s already got momentum.
That doesn't fly against this patient, angle-narrowing pressure.
So my choice? Instead of forcing a dribble, plant an extra option in their heads for next time.
'Like this.'
Bam—!!
My right foot whipped back hard, sending the ball spinning viciously from mid-range.
Thwack—!!
A heavy thud smashing the crossbar.
It sailed just over, but that one shot flipped the atmosphere completely.
An unsignaled blast from a blind angle.
Just an inch lower, and the net would've ripped.
Now the Italian defenders got it.
Giving Park Si-hyun space meant conceding.
No room for even a single step's gap or a moment's hesitation.
"Hey, if you don't close up next time like a coward, I'm putting it in for real?"
I smirked at Nesta.
That's why 3-back is easy.
Teams with wide gaps between defenders get torched by long shots if they hang back—and once they press, I just carve them up.
'Talking about it makes it sound way too simple.'
But if it were that easy, soccer wouldn't be loved worldwide like it is.
That's why pulling off plays like this perfectly is so damn hard—and valuable.
Hard enough that players who create these moments rake in big money and etch their names in history.
"Tomasi, what the hell are you doing?! Watch the runs!"
Nesta's shout echoed across the stadium.
His voice, laced with fury and frustration, laid bare the Italian defense's crumbling balance.
But even Nesta knew it.
This wasn't just about Tomasi failing to track Korea's infiltrations.
The real issue was Christian Vieri, completely isolated.
Vieri had bagged four goals in qualifiers alone—Italy's absolute attacking spearhead.
Overwhelming physicality, monstrous stamina, post play bullying defenders into submission.
His game was always hailed as Italy's perfected attack.
Trapattoni's tactics always boiled down to: get it to Vieri.
But right now, Vieri was just another spectator on the pitch.
One reason only.
A smaller Korean player in 21, not looking physically imposing, had Vieri totally shut down.
Twenty minutes into the first half, and Vieri hadn't mustered a single proper shot.
His beastly physique was fading into irrelevance.
And that's when it hit.
As Nesta glanced over,
Another nightmare approached from the opposite flank.
Korea's number 9, Park Si-hyun.
He was dismantling the midfielders with the ball, relentlessly smooth and menacingly so.
"Maldini, help me out! I can't handle him alone!"
Nesta yelled.
Italy's pride—their trademark pressing by narrowing angles—meant nothing now.
Hang back without closing, and Park Si-hyun unleashes a long-range rocket.
If his shots sucked, no big deal.
But they didn't.
Pinpoint accuracy sucking them into the net, unwavering power and speed from distance, that heavy thud promising the frame would rattle.
Faced with that threat, Italy's backline couldn't afford distance anymore.
His shots weren't warnings—they were kill shots.
The only reason the score was clean? Gianluigi Buffon guarded the goal.
If it weren't Buffon, Italy would've leaked two or more already.
But the problems didn't stop there.
Park Si-hyun wasn't just a power shooter muscling long bombs—he dribbled like a demon too.
Perfect balance from raw athleticism, explosive first step, uncanny timing sense.
Even Italy's ironclad defenders tensed up instinctively facing him.
'That's why people call this kid Ronaldo's rival...'
Nesta finally got it.
Why this unproven prospect, nowhere near first-division glory, was hailed as a rival to the world's best, Ronaldo.
"Hoo... This won't do."
His breathing grew ragged.
People called Nesta the 'elegant defender.'
Cool judgment, flawless prediction, clean tackles.
His challenges were art—smooth and precise.
But right now, elegance meant squat for victory.
"Don't let him through anymore. If you can't, grab his jersey and drag him—stop the run at all costs."
That was a declaration of abandoning pride.
Even the world's best defender, Nesta, admitted it.
Textbook defending couldn't contain Park Si-hyun here.
And from that moment, the game devolved into a dirty, brutal war.
[Ah... the game's getting rougher. 32nd minute of the first half, Francesco Totti picks up a yellow. In the tussle with Kim Nam-il, he raised his arm too high and caught him in the nose.]
[Hey, ref! You call that a yellow?! You messing around here? This is South Korea—you think you'll walk out alive?!]
[...Calm down, it's live.]
[Whew... sorry. Lost it for a sec. Tsk... Anyway, Kim Nam-il's coming off injured. Lee Choon-soo replaces him. Looks like Hiddink's doubling down on attack. Just a nosebleed for Totti—]
[Anyway!!! Hope Kim Nam-il's injury isn't serious. Replay shows the arm was intentional—honestly, should've been a red. Ref's been lenient today...]
[Lenient? He took a payo—]
[Gah! Stop it! Live broadcast!!]
"Fuckin' fourth-place losers acting all high and mighty?"
Resorting to fouls the second things went south.
How could they be so petty?
Guys with strength and organization, now just rabid street thugs.
The corner of my mouth twitched up.
'Times like this? I've got a counter.'
What makes soccer so fun is every play has a response.
Senior Yoo Sang-chul shook the press and fed me the ball.
I trapped it, shrugged off the oncoming midfielder, and pushed forward.
"Si-hyun! Pass!!"
I saw Ki-hyun hyung breaking, but flicked my eyes sideways.
Fabio Cannavaro charged like he was about to body-check Ki-hyun hyung. Pass.
Thud!!
Crack—!
A weird hush fell over the stadium.
"Guhk—huhk... heh heh huh..."
I slowly turned my head.
Even I couldn't laugh at a guy clutching his jewels with both hands, hopping around.
'...Damn. Aimed for the face, but he read it as a pass again.'