The Kid with Glasses is Smart
Immersed in his brilliant performance, Rodrigo was still just a player lacking stamina.
It would be strange if a kid who'd only seriously started playing soccer half a year ago had good endurance. Normally, he'd barely be building the basics by now.
Of course, the self-proclaimed soccer emperor Rodrigo was different.
He knew things without being taught, like Jesus himself—which explained why Eastern Confucianism lost out to Western Christianity. How could a philosophy that prized learning over innate knowledge compete?
Rodrigo simply excelled.
Ball control, physical battles, passes and shots, feints—even the tiniest bits of know-how. Whatever it was, he nailed it. It was an innate talent that defied any other explanation, a heavenly-born instinct.
Stamina, however, was the exception.
Endurance wasn't forged by talent alone, but by rigorous training.
That's why pros and amateurs differed most in stamina.
A player didn't lose technique or tactical understanding upon retirement, but slack off on training, and stamina plummeted fast.
It was a realm where effort made all the difference, demanding absolute time investment regardless of talent. Naturally, the more gifted you were, the better the results—but that went without saying.
Anyway, it all boiled down to talent.
And Rodrigo's body had plenty of that.
Even without proper workouts until that short span, he'd dragged it this far. Credit to his brutal self-discipline, sure, but impossible without physical gifts. Still, full ninety minutes remained a stretch.
If he'd devoted half a year solely to stamina drills, things might differ—but then why play soccer instead of marathons? Soccer players needed match time.
Balancing game prep meant essential conditioning management.
You couldn't wring yourself dry the day before a match.
Facing this reality, the coaches—only two so far—faced a choice.
Build stamina long-term, or exploit him short-term?
The outcome was obvious.
Stamina mattered, of course. In modern soccer demanding forwards press and defend, no room existed for the unfit. But a stamina-deficient goal machine? Different story.
Forwards' prime virtue was scoring, defensive duties be damned.
Put away goals reliably, and you stayed useful despite fatigue.
That birthed his current role.
"Jo Se-jin!! Don't follow back! Get forward! I said don't drop that deep!"
A classic scorer, movements strictly limited, laser-focused on goals.
Hat-trick in the opener against Argentina, yanked immediately after seizing control. Same in this Nigeria match: minimized defensive load, maximized scoring chance.
A poacher—rare in modern soccer, the goal hunter.
At Jang Gi-tae's shout, Rodrigo halted, abandoning the mark, hands on hips.
A sigh escaped unbidden.
His passion for soccer reignited not just because his legendary feats faded.
That was the biggest reason, sure.
Soccer was Rodrigo's everything—sole friend, soul's refuge, the slum orphan's path to glory.
He'd dreamed of the pinnacle, claimed it.
Now someone outdid him at soccer? Unbearable, above all else.
Undeniable prime motive for returning—but ultimate goal.
What gripped him now: soccer's evolution.
Witnessing, learning, living advanced play he loved? Pure joy. Yet lately... it grated.
'Stuck like this, what's the difference from the old days?'
No—less fun than before.
In the playmaker era glorifying classic number 10s, Rodrigo had owned center stage. Being pinned upfront as pure scorer? Not his taste.
'Pro leagues will change that.'
He reined in his urge to rampage.
Coaches limited him due to stamina. More training time would...
'Nah.'
No, that wouldn't cut it.
This spry teen body surged fast short-term, but pushing harder risked breakdown.
Pro debut was the answer.
This tournament mattered for that.
First... score.
Rodrigo lowered his stance.
His veteran instincts whispered: opportunity imminent.
'Now.'
Weight shifting forward snapped backward.
The Nigeria marker, shadowing Rodrigo sans ball, stumbled chasing, balance lost. The pass found Rodrigo breaking wide.
The late-tacking marker hung back, wary—lessons from Argentina etched deep.
But,
'Sloppy.'
Rodrigo surged, ball glued.
Spotting the marker's desperate lunge, he nutmegged through the legs and bolted. Brushed off a jersey-grabbing hand risking cards, cut central.
Not full throttle, yet flawless dribble at speed. Step-over feint fooled the rattled center-back into collapse; Rodrigo slotted past, straight to shot.
No excess—a play unfolding perfectly as planned.
Swish—
Goal.
The curling strike grazed the diving keeper's fingertips, rippling the net.
Then it hit him, striding past the shaking net sans fanfare.
Dorky glasses, messy twin-tails, plain sweater. Yet undeniable beauty, vast... generous heart. That girl's face.
Last call: interview chaos, community frenzy.
Her solemn solution—do this celebration to fix it. He'd promised, amused.
'What was it? Something... silly. Jump like this?'
Mid-stride post-goal, Rodrigo U-turned, dashed to the stands, leaped high.
Impressive hang time, arms crossed wide mid-air, bellowed roar:
"Siuuu!!"
...Right?
He'd heard some player did it... but what kinda goofy celebration was this?
Grousing inwardly, teammates mobbed from behind.
"You punk, undercover Ho-dongsaeng!"
"Explains the Messi hate!!"
"Damn, but that timid Siu? Next goal, do it with me. I'll show you the real one."
Group stage match two, versus Nigeria.
Fourth minute: opener struck.
Stern-faced on the sideline, Jang Gi-tae fought twitching lips.
'One player upending tactics. How'd Korea produce this monster?'
His creed—genius lone wolf trumped by eleven synced averages—washed away long ago. Now he got why top coaches craved billion-won stars.
This was it.
This rush.
Jang Gi-tae chuckled hollowly.
'Tactics? He's a one-man army shredding them solo.'
She hoped for tactical subtlety, but unleash a free-roamer—how bind him to schemes?
Pressing, defending, partial tactics? Pointless. Feed the ball; he handled the rest.
Tactics served victory. Higher win rate sans them? Ditch tactics, never sacrifice wins for dogma.
There—another goal.
This time, leaping with teammates, picture-perfect.
Distant "Siuuu~~" chants pulled one from Jang Gi-tae's lips too.
The world was Ho-dongsaengs.