Opening Match (3)
In recent years, some of Korea's top fan-favorite teams have suffered relegation. Last year, it was Suwon Red Motors. The year before, Incheon Pelicans. Sad news for their fans, of course. But the result? A surge in interest for the second division.
What used to be shocking only to a niche crowd a few years back now sparks decent buzz.
Olmunt had always been meme fodder—beast-like physique clashing hilariously with his technical shortcomings. But as the first half wore on, the mockery morphed into outright shock.
"Alright, Olmunt's got the ball. Defender right in front—whoa, he glides right past him!"
"What in the world is happening here? Olmunt's physicality is unmatched, no question, but his technique's always been the weak spot. Today, though? In this match at least, it's like technique and physique fused into a complete player!"
Unaware that everyone watching was stunned, Olmunt sank into his own worries.
I can say it with confidence: right now, I feel like the heart of Man City, that Belgian midfielder everyone's obsessed with. Are my passes that strong? Strong enough to kill scoring chances? Nah, doesn't seem right. Just earlier, I shook three guys and whipped in a perfect cross. But Lee Eunsang spat it out from point-blank range.
"Ah... sorry."
Now he's apologizing to me and throwing thumbs-ups. I'm sick of it. I'm not a thumbs-up collector.
It's driving me nuts all around. With this momentum, we need another goal to settle things—and rack up an assist while we're at it. Bucheon hasn't quit hunting for goal despite the shift in momentum. Our vets are holding firm so far, but you never know. A two-goal lead feels safer.
That's when Eunsang—who'd been flawless except for that one goal—suddenly blew past their fullback. Jun Kyung-senpai and I locked eyes. He immediately looped behind me into the center. I slipped right as planned. In that split-second distraction on Jun Kyung-senpai, a gap opened. Tiny, but there.
I didn't miss it.
"Hey! Hey!"
I shouted, slicing diagonally into the box. Eunsang spotted it and lofted the cross. Yoon Jongmun might've found it a tad high. But now? Perfect height. I launched up, feeling Bucheon's defenders scramble late. My timing was absurdly good—no chance for them.
I hung in the air and nodded it viciously into the upper corner.
Splat!
Bucheon Metros Stadium fell silent. Gimpo's no crowd-pleaser, sure, but was it because I scored? Whatever.
I jogged to our sparse away fans and bowed.
"Olmunt! Olmunt! Olmunt!"
They chanted wildly, clapping like mad. The cheers hit different—addictively so, after so long without.
As I headed back, Miguel tapped my shoulder.
"Good header!"
His smile looked forced, urgency flickering underneath. Everyone else flying high, but no highlight for him yet? Still, I figured he'd hold it together. Until we slipped up.
"Oh, Song Yejun—long touch! Sorae intercepts!"
"Lee Donghyeon's open ahead—Bucheon's counter!"
"Donghyeon... shoots! Gooooal! Bucheon finds their lifeline!"
"Bucheon Metros won't go down easy at home."
This ain't good. Yejun, who'd been shaky all game, blew it in under 30 minutes. Prime sub time, yeah, but... Coach's face from the bench was grim. Flow shattered by a dumb error.
Yejun stood dazed, getting chewed out by Dojin-senpai. Still a prospect, though. I patted his back and headed off. Hope he bounces back. One of our few near-first-team squad kids can't crumble like that.
Eventually, Park Geunhyeong-senpai subbed in for him. Nothing I could do. Best I could offer? Win the damn game. Ease his guilt a bit.
Post-concession, the game turned sluggish. Bucheon's spark returned, but our internal issues didn't help.
"Huff... huff..."
Miguel panting like that? Exhibit A. His impatience grew obvious. The early pressing spirit? Gone, possessed by greed.
"Miguel!"
Eunsang yelled desperately into open space ahead. Miguel didn't hear—or care.
Whiff!
A wild shot sailed wide through the left channel.
"Crazy bastard..."
Korean curse slipped out. No one heard.
Eunsang stormed over, pissed. I clocked Miguel's brewing storm too and stepped in, smacking his head from behind.
"Ow!"
He whipped around, fury flashing—then checked it was me.
"Olmunt... never mind."
Still had some sense. Good. I leaned in and whispered:
"Yell now, no assist in second half. Apologize to Eunsang now."
Miguel froze. Worked? He spun back, faced me.
"I'll believe you for real."
Flashed two fingers with a grin, then apologized to Eunsang—who blinked, surprised, but accepted.
Two goals, huh? Ridiculous. That face, that personality.
Miguel refocused, tension eased. Coach's red face cooled. Halftime: 2-1.
No rage from coach—just "stay sharp, finish strong." Side-eye mostly at Miguel and Yejun, though.
Heading to second-half spots, I glanced at Miguel. He beamed idiotically at me. Kinda creepy.
Beep!
Second half kicked off. Miguel's shift was a relief—goal-hungry but pressing smart, dropping when needed. Greed vs. aggression: thin line, but he toed it right. Training him every game? Headache incoming.
Then eyes met Miguel's—he'd just fed Jun Kyung-senpai forward. Serious nod, thumbs-up, gone.
Time for his gift. Not Santa, but good boys get rewards. Goals count.
Geunhyeong-senpai stole it with Dojin-senpai, passed to me. Boom—perfect timing, Miguel bombing forward, flapping hands like "pass here!" How's he that fast in that stance? Outpacing chasers anyway.
My gift: vicious backspin long ball. It arced far, then died perfectly at his feet. Defenders stuttered.
Splat!
Miguel tapped it in easy. He bolted to me, grinning ear-to-ear.
I smiled back for the celly, but:
"Olmunt, if I make it big in Japan, sushi's on me."
Unease hit. What do I do with this golden boy?
3-1 now, we dominated. Switching drills paid off—Jun Kyung-senpai added one. 4-1 final.
Solid debut. Self-assessed: 1G 1A. Not bad.
Grinning, off to fans.
"Wooooah!"
"Olmunt! Olmunt! Olmunt!"
Bucheon stadium corner erupted. Few, but their presence? Gold. Past life cheers like this? Post-injuries? Zero. Eyes welled up.
"Whoa, kid's crying!"
Chaewoo-senpai ruined it. Teammates and fans ribbed me. Dojin and Donghan-senpai shoved me forward. Cheer captain handed the megaphone:
"Today's star—MVP Olmunt!"
Brain freeze. What to say? How to sound broken-English Korean? Thoughts raced.
Then fans' eyes—clapping, approving. Decided.
Grabbed it, bellowed:
"Thank you... for coming... so far. We'll... fight with... all our breath... for victory!"
"Wooooah!"
Cheers and relief. Broken speech is hard work.
"Kid's got fire."
Eunsang clapped my shoulder, laughing. We'd torn Bucheon up together—bonded a bit. Words only go so far; shared pitch seals it.
Beyond Eunsang, more senpais felt closer. Olmunt life settling in.
Bus back: pure party. 4-1 over Bucheon? Worth it. Glanced at Miguel—fitting in fine. Texting furtively sometimes, but one worry down.
Damn.