Unapologetic Faces
They had boldly declared their aim to win it all, but objectively speaking, Argentina wasn't rated all that highly. Of course, compared to Korea, it was like night and day. Even so, the Argentina brand carried weight—they weren't on the same level as Korea.
But if you asked whether they were genuine title contenders? That came with a big question mark.
The deciding factor was their lackluster performance in the previous age-group Copa, the official CONMEBOL U-17 Championship, where this generation had competed. It hadn't left much of an impression.
Argentina's coaching staff and players had taken that to heart, a wound to their pride that wouldn't heal until they proved themselves on the scoreboard.
This tournament was their shot at redemption, and the first step was right here against Korea.
This guy's their striker, huh? Looks like a kid.
Ángelino, the defensive midfielder in Argentina's 4-3-3 formation, eyed the Asian player he was tasked with marking, his gaze sharpening.
In soccer, it was skill that mattered, not skin color. He had no intention of underestimating the guy just because he was Asian. None at all... but...
He looks like a damn girl.
He seemed far too frail.
It was inevitable. To Ángelino—a burly man with a thick beard and hair already starting to thin, nicknamed the "second Javier Mascherano"—the opponent looked like a fresh-faced rookie with barely any fuzz on his cheeks.
Too fragile for the rough, macho style of soccer he planned to unleash... but no helping it.
Back home, the kid might be some hotshot dribbler and goal-scorer, but that was Asian standards. The world stage was a different beast.
Coach said to keep distance and delay him...
Did he really need to?
The moment the ball connected to his man, Ángelino charged in.
...Huh?
In truth, ever since awakening in Jo Se-jin's body, Rodrigo hadn't truly gone all out. He'd always held back. Partly because the body wasn't fully conditioned for his style of play, and partly because he'd paced himself deliberately.
His passion for soccer burned hotter than ever, but going full throttle against high schoolers? That would've been ridiculous. What fun was an emperor of soccer rampaging through kids?
So up until now, he'd coasted. But today was different.
For one, the opponents were Argentina.
And...
Ugh... weird. Asian kids usually look so cute I almost feel bad, but these Argentine punks? Not cute at all—just gross. Makes me wanna mess 'em up...
They were supposed to be peers... peers... right?
Grown accustomed to Korean faces, Rodrigo couldn't bring himself to call the bearded marker a "peer." How could that mug belong to someone his age?
So he'd made up his mind.
These guys? He wouldn't feel sorry for them one bit.
The match kicked off with Korea's kickoff. One minute in.
Ángelino timed his lunge perfectly as the ball reached Rodrigo through a few passes.
Too eager.
With his heightened focus turning the world sluggish, he spotted the studs at the edge of his vision. A subtle drag of his ball-touching foot pulled his body around the guy like a pivot, spinning gracefully.
The Argentine's foot swiped empty air, and a wide-open pitch unfurled before Rodrigo as he accelerated.
"Go in!!"
Baek Do-hyeong's shout rang out, and Korea's players surged into Argentina's half en masse.
Argentines peeled off to mark them, crumbling their once-solid defensive block.
"Spread wide! Create space!!"
The coach's orders came a beat late, but it didn't matter.
This was all part of the plan.
Starting with Rodrigo's press escape, Korea's players pierced their lines just as Argentina's defense scrambled to respond.
That was when Korea's trap sprang.
The counter pattern they'd drilled relentlessly.
"Return!"
Rodrigo's pass found Bae Ji-ho, the wide attacker left unmarked. As the charging Argentine's eyes flicked toward him, the ball zipped back.
A textbook 2v1.
Desperate Argentines tangled their runs, freeing Rodrigo's sightline to goal.
A bit far.
But that made it an even better chance.
Especially now, with them fixated on passes over shots.
His plant foot slammed the turf, unleashing a thunderclap as the keeper leaped.
Ooooh—
Shock and cheers clashed across the stadium in an instant.
Rodrigo's strike, curving precisely into the top corner, had been punched away by the keeper.
Regretful sighs mingled with gasps.
Tch. Balance off a touch.
Rodrigo turned away without a second glance.
Plenty more chances. The game had just begun.
Meanwhile, Argentina's coach Rodrigo—lounging casually on the bench moments ago—began pacing the touchline.
"Press hard!! Don't give that striker space!! He's the key—the number 9!! Mark number 9!!"
Korea's ferocious attack had sunk his heart. It all stemmed from their striker.
Instant press escape, fluid link-up play, and a heart-stopping long-range shot.
Couldn't let him roam free.
Alarm bells ringing in his head, Rodrigo ordered intense pressure. His players complied fiercely.
For a moment, it seemed to work.
"Stay calm! Build like in practice!"
Korea's players, shoved back by Argentina's ferocious press, dropped their line incrementally.
The line receded, the ball lingered at the back longer—whether turning play or fending off attacks.
"Keep drawing them in! You're doing great! Stay focused!! Focus, focus!! What are you doing—pick it up!!"
Jang Gi-tae bellowed nonstop, but holding off Argentina's relentless pressure—regardless of stamina—was no easy feat. Just preventing goals pushed Korea's players to their limits.
Yet their aggressive press lowering Korea's line also exposed vast space behind Argentina.
Baek Do-hyeong, snatching a desperate clearance from his defenders scrambling against Argentina's assault, spotted Rodrigo streaking into that void.
The long ball arced over Argentina's defense, now pushed up near midfield, toward their back line. Rodrigo's sprint ignited from a matching position.
He exploded forward at blinding speed.
Even from afar, his dominance was obvious. Leading Argentines were caught, then distanced.
Anticipating a 1v1 with the keeper, one Argentine lunged recklessly—earning a booking—but Rodrigo vaulted over in a jumper, his trailing foot volleying the ball skyward mid-air.
It bounced once, then dropped perfectly on target. The desperate keeper charged out.
Crouched low with arms spread wide for a ground ball, he lunged as Rodrigo bore down—only for the Korean's foot to delicately chip it instead.
The keeper, convinced it was a shot, twisted too late and crumpled. Rodrigo glided past as the ball rolled lazily.
Too slow for a shot, plenty fast for a pass.
The keeper flailed on the ground, a last-ditch Argentine diving desperately—but
Beep, beeep!!
Already over the line.
8th minute of the first half.
Korea's opener.
When Rodrigo's first shot exploded just a minute into the match, everyone watching was stunned.
Experts especially so.
My God. 25 meters? 27? Definitely under 30. That distance, that precision, that power...
Miquel Merino of Spain's El Mundo Deportivo was one of them.
Elegant ball touch, control, and shooting. Silky trapping, vision and body positioning on receipt, flashes of genius—he has all the makings of a new Asian soccer star. And above all, he carries the Barça DNA—
Commonly called Mundo Deportivo, it was one of Spain's oldest and most storied outlets, a bastion of pro-Barça coverage. Miquel Merino was a reporter there.
Bold move. That sequence was a meticulously prepared team tactic. Penetrate instantly to create overloads, scatter the defense, then exploit the gaps for goal. Brilliant. But above all...
Merino's eyes locked on the player amid the pack.
Superb first touch to secure position, an elegant turn to shake the press. Terrifying burst acceleration, elite ball control, natural ankle strength. Korea's got a gem.
True talents reveal their class in a single moment.
And soon after, as the first goal rippled the net, Merino's instincts kicked in.
Europe-bound before long.
In the eyes of a decades-veteran soccer scribe, he could already see the scouts fidgeting.
Hertha Berlin's Frank Haberth, Chelsea's Erikson Dappel, Getafe's David Sancho...
Came for Argentina... but this match might turn into Korea's showcase.
His fingers danced across the laptop balanced on his knee.