The Mouth Soccer Apocalypse Begins
Football had collapsed. I collapsed right along with it. I'd kept my mouth shut, thinking someone would eventually get it, but it all went to hell anyway. A war that invaded football culture. This is on you bastards—you started it first. Now I'm living a second life through regression.
The national team's Champions League qualifiers kicked off. At the bottom of the screen, viewers' real-time comments boiled like a furnace.
On the sports channel Agar i Focus, main panelist Park Hamsu rested his chin on his hand, smirking. That smug little smile of his looked like he'd unlocked every truth in the universe—arrogant and leisurely. Park Hamsu had zero experience as a footballer, coach, or even a football major. His one true expertise was pinpointing the public's boiling rage and scratching it just right. That's the fame the masses knew him for, but to me, he was just a money-grubbing agitator. Why the fuck couldn't you people see it? Or at least, why were we the minority? Smart people are always the minority. It's an eternal truth, a law of this goddamn world. You can't argue against it. You know it. In a society where smart folks are rare, assholes like Park Hamsu—and the idiots watching him—run the show. That's why these mouth-breathing fuckwits who couldn't properly touch a ball to save their lives bitch and moan no matter what happens. They're the reason he's just a demagogue in my book. Throw around some jargon, and the public thinks you're an expert. Hell, it's the same with the creepy basement-dwellers jerking off to twisted fetishes—the ones our society protects under Article 1, Paragraph 1 of the constitution, the so-called Cultural Respect Right, letting their "culture" fester. It's that collective stupidity our society breeds.
Then that grating voice echoed from the channel. The moderator cautiously broached the topic.
"Yes, Mr. Park Hamsu. Yesterday's third-round qualifier ended in a 2-1 win. It was a tough match, but they pulled it off..."
Park Hamsu cut him off with a scoff, like it was the dumbest thing he'd heard.
"A win? Moderator, to football-loving fans, that game was a loss."
The studio lights focused on his face, and he instinctively sensed the ratings graph ticking up.
"Let's cut to the chase. Our team—Coach Myeongbak's team—lacks the basics. Why pass backward? Why defend tightly? Why sweat without delivering emotion? They won 2-1, but the game was boring as hell!"
Park Hamsu jabbed his finger at the camera.
"Football is war. In war, you charge—no exceptions. Coach Myeongbak? He's just too chickenshit, in my book. Ditch the tactics, throw in seven forwards, and go all-out. That's what'll satisfy the people. Right, Mundre?"
The young panelist next to him, Mundre—who'd been glued to his smartphone tracking chat sentiment—looked up. He ran the internet Lekka YouTube channel Anger King Mundre, with 2.5 million subscribers, the biggest rage-consumption cult in Korea. Or more accurately, 2.5 million lunatics.
The country's fucked for real. I muttered to myself and tuned back into the channel.
"Yes, Mr. Park Hamsu is spot on," Mundre said.
Park Hamsu clucked his tongue.
"Our channel's poll shows 98% public dissatisfaction with Coach Myeongbak's slow football. He's playing it like shit. Even non-fans know: forget tactics, just run!"
"What a load of bullshit," I yelled, rage surging.
"Of course you'd get 98% in a poll of your 2.5 million dipshits."
Go ahead, say 98% of whipped cream tastes like milk. Or rice tastes 98% like rice. Or claim 98% of Koreans eat kimchi and call it stats. The real problem is society eats up this demagogue's crap like gospel.
Coach Myeongbak stared at the tactics board in his office. They'd scraped a precious 2-1 win away yesterday, securing three vital points. But echoing in his head was Park Hamsu's rant on Agar i Focus about seven forwards.
Knock knock. The door opened, and Association President Kim Myeonggyu's secretary entered.
"Coach, orders from President Kim Myeonggyu. For the next match, actively reflect public opinion on tactics. He says you need to show at least some sincerity."
"What the hell does that mean? Sincerity?" Coach Myeongbak's voice rose.
"We're top of the group with nine points. Is that not enough sincerity?"
The secretary adjusted his glasses.
"Football's entertainment before it's a sport, right? The public wants spectacle and a scapegoat to hate. You're that scapegoat now. Might as well play to the people's will, per the president's orders."
Coach Myeongbak nearly laughed at this exhausting reality. The science of football, tactical logic, players' blood and sweat—all crumbling under "boring."
His mind already pictured the public's future: Win and they bitch, lose and they explode.
Scapegoat for the masses' rage...
Like finding salvation, he smirked crookedly. He grabbed a pen, erased every tactic, and scrawled a massive number in the center of the A4 paper.
7
"Got it. Next game... we'll do what the people want."
His worries vanished in an instant. Despair faded from his eyes, replaced by a bizarre sense of liberation.
I could observe every event leading to football's collapse, like replaying a match. Yeah. That All-Out Attack Tactic with seven forwards? That's when it all went to shit.
Five minutes before kickoff in the locker room, Coach Myeongbak surveyed the players. They were stars from Europe's big leagues or K League aces. Now facing history's most absurd 2-1-7 Formation.
Seven attackers, one midfielder, two defenders, one keeper—not a tactic, just madness. Seeing their dazed faces, the coach forced a smile.
"Coach... you really mean we go out like this?"
Captain Bong Hyeoksu asked, puzzled.
The coach laughed weakly.
"Yeah. What the people want. Poll says 98%. No backward passes. Charge forward. Seven forwards, go wild. That's what those mouth soccer fuckwits demand."
He wrote huge on the whiteboard with marker: 'Attack is the only answer. Defense is on your conscience.'
"Go out there and don't apologize. You're not wrong. Football's end comes not from you, but from the people's mouths and this country's collusion."
Rebels? That's what I thought back then.
The players trudged out, blank-faced. Their opponent: Asia's powerhouse Iran, tactically polished.
Kickoff whistle blew, and chaos erupted instantly. True to plan, Korea's seven forwards surged Iran's backline.
Iran hesitated at first, errors popped up, Korea seemed dominant—the crowd went wild. But football's a physical grind. Iran and their coach realized: this wasn't serious.
The entire central midfield and flanks lay wide open.
13th minute. Iran's midfielder lofted a long pass, unmarked. Korea's two defenders glanced at each other, missed it. Keeper An Seongmin let in the first goal pathetically.
The Agar i Focus studio was a party. Park Hamsu cheered.
"See? All-out attack begins! Iran's panicking! Early goal? That's Coach Myeongbak's genius psych-out to ignite fight!"
Mundre, phone in hand mid-broadcast, screamed at subscribers.
"Folks! I told you—go hard! Epic comeback incoming! Hit 50k likes, I'll live-curse Iran's coach!"
While I was busting my ass running, you fucks were lounging in the studio, cheering.