Clockwork Orange's Moment of Doubt
Yerdi Schouten, head coach of the Netherlands U-17 national team, skimmed the headlines splashed across the newspapers piled on his desk.
Tsk. A sharp click of the tongue escaped Yerdi Schouten's lips.
"The media, always like this."
"That's why they're the media. You know better than anyone how much buzz it's generating these days."
He couldn't argue with his assistant coach.
Korea had been the hottest topic lately, after all.
Asia was still dismissed as a soccer backwater, despite its progress. For an Asian team to reach the final of a FIFA tournament—even an U-17 one—was shocking enough. But to have a player shattering records left and right, setting new benchmarks in real time? Unheard of.
"Thirteen goals and three assists in five games... It's absurd."
Thirteen goals, three assists in five matches—over three attacking contributions per game. Yerdi eyed the fresh-faced Eastern kid dominating the front page of a top Dutch daily. Too delicate for his taste. A real man needed a proper jawline beard, at least.
"The girls are calling him a heartthrob, apparently. Sweeping them off their feet."
Tsk. "He looks like a thirteen-year-old boy."
"But his play is more seasoned than a thirty-three-year-old's."
"That's exactly what's baffling."
The Dutch analysts prepping for the final had stumbled on something eerie: Korea's star showed veteran savvy far beyond his years.
It wasn't just elite dribbling, passing, trapping, or finishing—those could be chalked up to talent, albeit overwhelming talent.
No, this was deeper. Cunning, world-weary craftiness that talent alone couldn't forge. Experience was the key ingredient.
Yet the kid had barely a year of pro soccer under his belt.
Incredible enough that a rookie with less than a year in the game was dominating like this. But displaying such tactical maturity on top? Mind-boggling.
"I can't wrap my head around it. Is he even his real age?"
"Korea's not Africa. And even if he fudged a year or two, that baby face... Asians age well, sure, but no way he's in his twenties. Nineteen might be pushing it, and even that doesn't explain this level of polish."
"I know, I know. I'm just... it's too ridiculous."
Yerdi wasn't clueless.
"Think simple. Like Lamine Yamal."
Lamine Yamal.
A prodigy debuting for Barcelona's first team at just fifteen. Not just a debut—he shattered La Liga's youngest goal record and countless others, then lit up Euro 2024 at sixteen, claiming the tournament's youngest-ever goal and MVP honors.
And he wasn't alone. Kylian Mbappé, Ansu Fati—teens exploding onto pro scenes. That was modern soccer.
"Can genius leapfrog even experience? Talent is a scary thing."
"Soccer's been upside down for years. Now Asia's joining the madness."
The coaching staff's eyes locked on the Eastern prodigy in the headline.
A talent that baffled even these elite veterans.
"He'll be in Europe soon enough."
"Sure. But not yet. He's still got some cute, naive edges."
The analysts had pinpointed a weakness amid the enigma.
A sliver of humanity in the freakish genius.
"Get ready for training."
Yerdi grinned.
Given a year—or even six months—it might've been tough. The kid was a monster. But Lady Luck favored the Dutch.
Argentina, Venezuela, Brazil—blistering displays against South America. Nigeria, Mali—same dominance over Africa.
All told, Jo Se-jin's individual brilliance was untouchable among peers.
One-on-one marking? Useless.
But what about team pressure?
Korea's sole loss in the tournament? Against Germany.
Curiously, they'd swept South America and Africa but fell to the one European side they faced. Sure, it was without key starters, but Korea's limp performance there was worth noting.
I'll admit it. The kid's an outlier, miles beyond his age group. Growing this fast in half a year? He might outshine even Yamal. But that's precisely why his team play lags. Everything's solved by raw skill, so tactical awareness suffers. The blind spot of every genius.
That's why Yerdi was certain of victory in the final.
Exploit the inevitable flaw of genius, and even he couldn't cope.
Deny him the ball with coordinated pressure.
Can't stop him with it?
Then don't let him get it.
Luckily, he was weak in the air. With the Netherlands stacked with tall lads, crosses were no threat.
Occupy space first, choke off passes to his feet, and he was done.
"This final hinges on team cohesion above all. We'll win through pure organization."
I'll show you. What real soccer looks like.
This match would humble the arrogant prodigy. Teach him soccer was an orchestra of eleven souls.
And on the day of the final...
"...Huh?"
Yerdi Schouten's jaw dropped as he watched the match unfold.
* * *
As Rodrigo emerged from the tunnel into the stadium, a conversation with Yu Seo-rin from a few days back flickered in his mind.
She'd started calling to check if he was studying amid national team duties. Somewhere along the line, it became post-training chats.
Rodrigo played it cool, ignoring the innocent flirting. It was cute.
He'd dated plenty, but this girl? A first.
No demands for cash or gifts. No flashy makeup, no interest in booze, guys, or parties.
Always the same: thick glasses, baggy sweater, messy pigtails, peering around curiously.
That pure charm had started tickling his heart. And the unfamiliar flutter intrigued him.
Romantic spark? Or just fondness for a sweet girl's overtures? Unclear.
Like a daughter he'd never had? Nah. Niece, maybe, with the age gap. Or the girl next door?
Whatever. One thing was sure:
Listening to her chatter was downright enjoyable.
Unlike with other women.
Oh, one more thing.
Another way she stood out:
She was a die-hard fan of that weirdo celebrator.
Rodrigo felt a twinge of annoyance.
Fine when she didn't know his skill. But after his displays? Still simping for that oddball Siu guy?
What the hell?
Some Ronaldo dude—a prolific scorer, he knew that much. Nothing else.
I've scored this much and it's not enough? Fine. Time to unleash my real specialty.
That was why he'd trained—er, guided—Kim Tae-jin.
The coach's request? A minor factor.
And—
"Huh? Korea's formation...?"
"Why's their number nine dropping so deep?"
Soccer insiders who'd flocked to see Korea's record-shattering supernova blinked in confusion.
Rodrigo's movement looked normal at kickoff.
Then, the whistle blew—and everything changed.
"Escaping pressure? Receiving deeper? Decoy role?"
"No. That's a false nine."
Rodrigo's truest home wasn't the tip of the spear.
It was just behind. The 1.5 line, freelancing as playmaker—orchestrating, assembling every attack. No "false nine" label back in his day, but that's what it was.
The play of Soccer Emperor Rodrigo de Silva.