Chapter 9
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 9
Chapter Title: If You Can't Believe in Yourself, Believe in Park Si-hyun, the World's Best
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If you can't believe in yourself, then believe in Park Si-hyun, the world's best.
Back in 2001, the term "Marseille Turn" was unfamiliar even to people who weren't into European soccer.
Zidane's signature move, the Marseille Turn, wasn't even properly known by name in Korea at the time. To soccer fans there, Zidane was just vaguely remembered as "a classy player."
But Kim Hyung-jun was different.
Playing the same central midfielder position, he had obsessively studied videos of Zidane's games from overseas, breaking down and analyzing every single movement.
And now, the turn unfolding right before his eyes.
This wasn't some clumsy imitation. It was a perfectly calculated motion—balance, foot placement, rotation timing, all flawless.
Hyung-jun recognized it instantly.
This wasn't just a simple skill. It was Zidane's Marseille Turn, executed at a highly proficient level.
'How is a high schooler...'
The second duel followed right after.
As soon as Park Si-hyun received the ball, he charged at Lee Sung-min without hesitation.
The moment Sung-min stepped back to gauge the distance and angle—
Tak, tak!
Step-over.
The move that was called a "dummy step" back in 2001.
Ronaldo from Brazil loved using it—the classic feint, now being pulled off so naturally by a first-year high schooler.
Left foot, right foot.
Crossing over the ball to disrupt the rhythm. The ball stayed still, but the opponent's balance kept wavering.
'Left? No, right...'
In that split second as Sung-min's judgment lagged—
Park Si-hyun sharply twisted his direction and dragged the ball back with the instep of his foot.
Kuuk—
An explosive burst of acceleration in an instant.
Sung-min desperately lunged, but the timing had already passed.
Park Si-hyun burst forward and unleashed a powerful shot right in front of the goal.
Bam!
Kim Hyung-jun, in goal, dove for it, but the ball flew past his fingertips—faster, higher—shaking the net.
"Damn... how do you even stop something like that?"
Hyung-jun muttered, sprawled on the ground.
In the three 1-on-1 drills that followed, Lee Sung-min never once touched the ball.
Flip-flap.
Elastico.
Rabona.
In 2001 Korea, even the names of these skills were unfamiliar, moves no one had properly tried before—flowing effortlessly from Park Si-hyun's feet like water.
As if a player from a generation ahead was on the field.
The training ground was filled with proof of a gap that transcended mere skill difference.
The pitch fell silent afterward.
Like the stillness after a fierce storm had swept through.
The silence was broken first by the civilians watching from beyond the chain-link fence.
"...Hey, what the hell was that just now?"
"Insane, I don't even know what it was, but it looked so cool. Like a real European pro."
"No way they're filming a movie, right?"
But in stark contrast to the excited civilians, Lee Sung-min was drowning in massive frustration.
'I... couldn't even touch the ball.'
That was the hardest part to endure.
He was someone who even got compliments like "you're good" from semi-pro teams.
He had some pride, some confidence.
And now, to a first-year high schooler—just 17 years old—
Not once, not even once.
He hadn't gotten his foot anywhere near the ball.
Sung-min looked up.
Park Si-hyun still had that relaxed expression. He wasn't even breathing hard.
'If it was just physical... it wouldn't have been this bad.'
Yeah. If he'd just been overpowered physically, he could've accepted it. A size difference could be overcome.
But that wasn't it.
Park Si-hyun hadn't even used his body.
He had overwhelmed him purely with the ball and precise, leisurely footwork.
And in that moment, he remembered what he'd said before the game.
'You should at least do some light stretching. Pros warm up for a reason.'
How ridiculous must that "advice" have sounded?
Twenty-eight years old.
A life of missing chances over and over, barely clinging to a semi-pro uniform.
That was the soccer he'd desperately held onto.
And today, a boy had appeared to teach him, body and soul, what true talent really was.
'Guys like him are the real pros. Me... this is as far as I go.'
"Ten-minute break, then we'll film the next training."
Jang Do-yoon's voice came from afar.
That's when Park Si-hyun quietly approached and offered his hand.
Sung-min hesitated for a moment, but grabbed it.
'Can't look ugly in defeat.'
As he stood, Si-hyun said calmly,
"Don't get discouraged."
"...What?"
"I'm the best player in the world. Of course you lost to me."
It was said so calmly and confidently.
No awkward bravado, no empty words. It was as natural as saying "the sky is blue."
Sung-min let out a wry chuckle.
"Yeah, the world's best... I hope that's true."
It was a response he could give because he knew there was no mockery in Si-hyun's words.
"Players who don't believe in themselves stop there."
"..."
"Skills can be learned, stamina built with training. But if you don't believe in yourself, you're already beaten before the ball even comes."
Si-hyun paused and looked at Sung-min.
"You've got talent, sunbae. I guarantee it."
"What?"
"If you can't believe in yourself, believe in me—the world's best."
With that, Si-hyun walked toward the camera.
Sung-min stared blankly at his back.
'I've... got talent?'
A seventeen-year-old telling a twenty-eight-year-old like him that he had talent.
Thirty minutes ago, it might've pissed him off.
But now—
For some reason, it felt reassuring.
The monster who'd just crushed him had said he had talent.
'If a guy like that acknowledges me...'
Maybe his soccer wasn't over yet.
"Whew~ Si-hyun, the footage came out great. But what'd you say to that player? You two were chatting away. Did you preach the Park Si-hyun Style?"
Jang Do-yoon asked while checking the recorded video.
"I just told him he has talent and not to get down about it. Losing to me is natural."
"Huh... kid, you..."
Do-yoon stopped mid-sentence.
Thinking about how the guy in front of him was his one and only client, the partner he'd share his fate with for years to come.
'That'd piss anyone off hearing it.'
Do-yoon sighed inwardly.
"That sounds bad to other people."
"That's why I prove it. That I really am the world's best."
"Yeah, you do that..."
Do-yoon nodded and picked up the camcorder.
"Anyway, take a look at the footage first."
Park Si-hyun watched the video Do-yoon showed him and was impressed.
'Whoa, they really filmed it well.'
His expression during attacks, the defender's face, and the stark contrast when he broke through—all crystal clear.
Especially the Marseille Turn: the ball never leaving his foot as he rotated smoothly, captured perfectly in slow motion.
And Sung-min losing his balance in panic.
"Looks good."
"Right? If we add footage next time showing target-man style with physical play, German clubs will go nuts. 'A monster's appeared.'"
"Obviously."
"Oh, but does he really have talent? He's twenty-eight, from what I know."
"He really does. Honestly, I don't get why he's still semi-pro."
It wasn't pity—he genuinely thought Lee Sung-min had incredible talent as a defender.
Talent for defenders comes in many forms.
Physicality, positioning, tackle timing, man-marking, split-second judgment.
But the one I consider most important is "the eye."
The eye to read the flow.
The ability to anticipate what the opponent will do a beat ahead, then move your feet and position accordingly.
That's not something you easily train.
The eye is instinct, and instinct is talent.
Lee Sung-min had that eye.
When he tried to track my dribbling path, those moment-to-moment reactions—
Calculating where to plant his feet,
Judgment to not fall for my feints,
Gaze reading my center of gravity.
Even when I broke through with the Marseille Turn and he nearly stumbled, it was because my technique was too fast—not because his read was wrong.
Same with the Elastico.
The instant it looked like I was going left, he was already guarding the right.
My ankle's snap just outpaced his reaction speed.
It didn't make sense for a player like this to be stuck in semi-pro.
This was exactly the problem with Korean soccer.
They don't properly recognize talent, and players don't know their own worth.
"If you say he's that good, why's a player like that still semi-pro?"
Do-yoon tilted his head.
"Lack of confidence. He doesn't know what he's capable of."
Park Si-hyun said matter-of-factly.
"Couldn't land a pro contract, age keeps climbing, people around him say 'quit already.' So confidence drops, play suffers more."
Park Si-hyun glanced at Lee Sung-min in the distance.
He was talking with teammates, but his expression still looked complicated.
"Hmm, I see..."
"Well, if he believes me and works harder, maybe we'll see him on the national team. Can't help him if he doesn't believe me, though."
Do-yoon let out a hollow laugh.
"Man, you're hilarious. Listening to you talk, you don't sound like a high schooler—you're like some retired legend."