Proof (2)
[Today's Gimpo Green UTD vs. Cheonan Skies match. A somewhat shocking 2-0 result.]
[Yes, even at kickoff, no one imagined such a quick, one-sided scoreline.]
The broadcast screen panned to the Gimpo players trudging back to the locker room, their faces bitter.
[Exactly. Even with Gimpo's ups and downs over the last two games since the opener, no one dreamed they'd collapse like this.]
[Right. With Paulo back from the flu that sidelined him after the opener, Gimpo must have had some expectations.]
[Agreed. Coach Nam Suhyeon showed confidence too, so ending the first half like this feels disappointing.]
[Maybe some tactical changes in the second half?]
As the caster mentioned it, the camera cut to Coach Nam Suhyeon pondering on the sideline, eyes fixed on the pitch.
[If I were Coach Nam Suhyeon, I'd swap in Olmunt and Miguel from the bench.]
[Miguel's been slumping hard since those transfer rumors to Japan, right?]
The commentator and caster traded barbs, ripping into Miguel without mercy.
And who could blame them? A foreign player in the Korean league phoning it in because he wants to go to Japan? The media firestorm was inevitable—even if it was just the second division.
[Even today, he ignored passes to Paulo and botched a corner defense, gifting them a goal. Lately, he looks completely checked out. Flashes of brilliance, sure, but zero chemistry with the team.]
[Alright, that's halftime...]
Amid the broadcasters' chatter, faint supporter chants echoed: "Fight on, Gimpo!"
The shell-shocked Gimpo players filed off, Paulo among them with a frustrated scowl. Miguel trailed far behind the group, heading to the locker room alone. No one approached him, and he made no move to join them.
Leo sat on the bench, watching impassively as they entered—then bowed his head briefly. As if steeling himself, he clenched his fist and shot to his feet, striding into the locker room.
Is this the messiest Gimpo game I've ever seen?
I've decided Miguel's getting a smackdown soon. If I let that guy slide, I'll die of frustration first.
Leo took slow, deep breaths as he walked to the locker room. This match meant something special to him. Cheonan Skies alone would have made it personal, but layers piled on top.
The coach's face was grim as he entered—not raging, but resolute.
Seeing that sparked memories of their meeting days ago.
"What? I'm only subbing in at halftime? Why? Why am I on the bench?"
"Heh, didn't know your Korean was this good..."
Yeah. Leo started on the bench for the Cheonan game—exactly 45 minutes in the second half.
Coach had explained the reasoning.
His role: Miguel starts the first half, Leo takes over the second, highlighting the clear difference between them.
Truth be told, Leo had already outshone him by miles—what more "difference" was needed? But back-to-back subs would sway public opinion hard his way, right?
Fans and the club still eyed him warily, wondering when "last year's Olmunt" would resurface.
That doubt fed into the club's tug-of-war with the Japanese side over Miguel's transfer fee.
According to Coach, Gimpo was playing hardball: no rush to sell this season, and if not, they'd placate him enough to keep him.
So they had to flip this game. Coach's position, Leo's future—and hell, maybe Gimpo's whole season—hung on it.
Win, ship Miguel to Japan, pocket the cash, snag reinforcements in summer. That seemed to be the plan.
A heavy burden he hadn't asked for, but somehow, he felt up to it.
Playing more, his body was adapting to its shifted center of gravity. Soon, he'd dazzle with flashy tricks alongside quick turns and deceleration.
"Leo, you listening? That damn Miguel took a shot when I was wide open!"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Didn't see that coming."
"Whatever. Guy wants Japan, fine. But ignoring me? Hasn't even read my texts lately."
Aigoo, when did I zone into Paulo's whining?
He'd been lost in benchside reflections, emotions running deep before his sub.
Time to snap out of it. Cheer up Paulo too.
Paulo looked sharp for a return match, but Miguel's wastefulness had him fuming.
More childish than I thought. Leo glanced over—Miguel stared blankly at the wall, his usual sulky mug on.
Coach roasted him good? Not that I pity the guy. Self-inflicted.
Leo clapped Paulo's still-heaving shoulder with brash confidence.
"Second half'll be different. Quit huffing and follow me."
Time to show 'em. But hadn't he already? Having to prove it again.
Beep!
The ref's whistle kicked off the second half. Leo passed instantly to Paulo and surged forward.
Paulo linked with deep-lying midfielder Yoo Dojin and pushed into enemy territory.
Cheonan's backline faltered at Paulo's movement—Dojin exploited the gap, firing the ball Leo's way.
Leo spotted the closing defender pre-touch, twisted his foot, and accelerated down the left flank.
That pulled Eunsang—trailing the fullback—into overdrive, shattering Cheonan's line moments after restart, before focus returned.
Eunsang whipped a low, driven cross through the wreckage. Leo controlled it cleanly, body-checking the late-arriving defender.
As the guy lunged, Leo pivoted masterfully, nutmegging past.
"Urk!"
Ignoring the defender's slip-and-slide groan, Leo fed the onrushing Paulo.
Ting!
Paulo's shot grazed the keeper's gloves, cannoning off the post. Close, but it rattled Cheonan—they'd underestimated Gimpo.
Eunsang stomped in frustration, then locked eyes with Leo; thumbs up exchanged.
Eunsang was on fire lately—top-three second-division winger material. His knack helped, but Cheonan's marking of Leo and Paulo freed space. Should work awhile.
Leo checked the clock. Three minutes in, stadium buzzing—plenty for two goals in 42.
He dropped back, eyeing the next chance.
"Argh, block something for once!"
A sky-blue-clad man in the Cheonan supporters' section wailed.
Yoo Yonghyuk, diehard Cheonan Skies fan.
"They're nutmegging us now?"
He groaned at Cheonan's players dismantled by Leo's solo magic.
Yonghyuk loved soccer, but his hometown Cheonan lacked a pro club—gut-wrenching for a local fanatic.
Then, two years back, Gimpo went pro—and so did Cheonan Skies.
Yonghyuk jumped for joy, becoming their biggest booster.
The hook? Inaugural signing Yoon Jongmun: Korea's top prospect, genius felled by injuries.
His sub appearance in that first game was electric.
"Here comes Yoon Jongmun! Silky smooth! Dribbles past three—threads it through to Choi Donghyeon!"
"Choi receives—shoooot!"
"Goooal! Yoon Jongmun works magic right off the bench!"
"Super sub Yoon Jongmun puts Cheonan up 2-1!"
Those flashy turns, elegant press resistance, elite vision—real deal.
Injuries were a blemish, but he'd drag Cheonan to the first division. Even after his first comeback relapse.
Three games, one goal, three assists—then half-season gone.
Five more in the second half—season over.
Eventually...
"Not Yoon Jongmun with another injury?"
Yonghyuk turned bitter. He hated cursing injuries—even knew it crushed the player most.
But Yoon's were relentless: 25 games over three seasons before death. Mostly subs; starters? Four-ish?
Still, Cheonan fans remembered. Five minutes or fifty, his tricks dazzled.
Yoon Jongmun: love-hate legend. "If only you'd stayed healthy." Ten games a season, but points every time. Retired earliest, died youngest.
Today, watching Leo, Yonghyuk felt that tangled nostalgia—not quite the memorial sadness, but live-wire thrill from Yoon's games.
Problem: the trigger wasn't a Cheonan player, but Leo tormenting their defense.
(Of course Leo was Yoon Jongmun—but Yonghyuk had no clue.)
When Leo pinged that pass to Eunsang early, Yonghyuk just thought: Wish our merc did that.
Full déjà vu hit with double-team: Two on him—swarm!
Leo feinted right, phantom dribble whirled left. Defenders bamboozled.
Yonghyuk's gut twisted differently: That's Yoon Jongmun's move...
Every Cheonan fan live or watching shared it.
They clung to sanity, though. Leo evaded presses silkily, slotted precise shots keepers couldn't reach, carved chances with flair—like Yoon.
Peaked at that backheel assist to Paulo.
But still 1-0 down. Play pretty? Victory trumps all in sports—soccer included.
Momentum favored Gimpo, score 2-1 Cheonan. But by 80', balance cracked.
Paulo, tireless all game, sparked it: held Yoon Chaewoo's long ball, shrugged pressure, fed Eunsang wide.
Eunsang, fullback closing, la croqueta—phantom dribble—ripped left flank.
Cross to box-crashing Leo. Awkward left-footed runner from right-footer Eunsang.
Brief relief...
Leo volleyed it viciously. No time for tussles.
Stealth run: unmarked. This season's Leo sniffed those gaps.
Smack!
Rooooar!
Gimpo away fans in green roared faintly.
"Insane..."
Yonghyuk froze as it rippled the net.
Then Leo's muted celebration: pointing to number 37—Yoon Jongmun's.
Yonghyuk collapsed, choking back sobs. All game, he'd sensed Yoon vibes.
But that goal? Pure what if—healthy Yoon Jongmun unleashed.