Middle East Away Doubleheader: Lee Junyoung's Dilemma
The Taeguk Warriors, summoned by Coach Yoon Seungwoo, started gathering one by one in Kuwait. My condition was at its absolute peak after ripping Wolverhampton apart at the Etihad.
The moment I arrived at the training ground, what hit me harder than the sandstorm was the vicious verbal barrage from my teammates.
I was unpacking my gear and about to start a light jog when a snarky voice piped up from beside me.
"Hey, Ryu Rion, what the hell was that farming fest against Wolves?"
It was Lee Junyoung.
"Bullshit. Farming my ass—it was a crucial performance in a 2-1 loss that flipped the mood when we desperately needed it."
"Wolves are relegation fodder."
Lee Junyoung cackled.
"Then what does that make Hyeoksu hyung, you prick? Chelsea drew with Wolves too."
Bong Hyeoksu, who had been rolling out his foam roller nearby, froze dead in his tracks. Chelsea's recent slump was like touching his reverse scale.
Lee Junyoung's face drained of color in an instant.
"Ah, no... hyung! That's not what I meant..."
I drove the wedge in without mercy.
"This fucker's been subtly shading Hyeoksu hyung for ages, right? Hyung, isn't that true?"
Bong Hyeoksu slowly stood up, staring straight at Junyoung with a low rumble.
"Yeah. Junyoung-ah, you got something against me?"
Junyoung flailed his hands in near-mad panic.
"No, hyung, really not!"
I shook my head exaggeratedly for all to see, chugging my water bottle. Junyoung's frustrated wail echoed across the training ground, instantly shifting the chaotic national team vibe into one that only I was enjoying. Who gave a shit about the association this or the ministry that, Yoon Seungwoo staying or going—teasing these idiots was the ultimate refresh here.
Even in Kuwait's sticky heat, training didn't stop. Coach Yoon Seungwoo demanded intense pressing and quick transitions, and the players sprinted across the pitch, gasping for air.
During a brief water break, I wiped my sweat and casually asked Lee Junyoung next to me.
"By the way, Junyoung-ah, I saw that Celtic link popping up—what's the deal? You heading there this winter?"
Lee Junyoung pulled his water bottle from his mouth and shrugged.
"Yeah, feels like it's really happening. My agent's saying talks are getting pretty concrete."
Tak Go-gang, stretching nearby, perked up and chimed in.
"Hyung, Celtic's solid, right? It's a big name club."
"It is. League title's basically in the bag, great atmosphere too. But I'd love to play some Champs League if possible..."
I swallowed a dry chuckle inwardly at his scratched-head addition. Champions League—the dream stage for any player, the debut everyone fantasizes about. Guess even Junyoung had that itch befitting a pro baller. I knew that feeling all too well, so his dilemma made perfect sense.
Celtic FC.
Historically, undeniable legends. In 1967, the so-called Lisbon Lions crushed Inter Milan to lift the Big Ears—the first British club to win the European Cup, a badge of pride they still wear.
Of course, that's black-and-white TV era stuff.
Celtic's recent Champions League horror show is brutal to watch. They dominate the Scottish Premiership like gangsters, snagging CL tickets yearly, but once in the group stage, they turn into punching bags for Europe's giants, leaking points like a sieve.
The stats explain why Junyoung brought it up. Post-mid-2010s, they've got some group stage phobia—no breakthroughs, not even scraping a single win most years.
Celtic Park's atmosphere is electric, but away games? They crumble under mass concessions, a nasty jinx.
Recent form sucks too: 2022-23, 2 draws 4 losses, bottom of the group; 2023-24, 1 win 1 draw 4 losses, same story. Home CL wins? Over a decade drought until a fluke recently. And now the format's changing. If you're just happy hearing the anthem, fine—but to actually shine, better look elsewhere.
I shot back at Junyoung's innocent grin with a sly jab.
"Champs is great. Think it over. Who knows? Maybe you ball out in this away doubleheader and rack up more offers?"
"Right? Might wait a bit longer."
"But can you even get minutes with Mo Chanhee blocking?"
"Ah, you prick stirring shit again."
Lee Junyoung barked, and I cackled, turning back to the pitch. Wherever you end up, fighting, buddy.
While we sweated under Kuwait's sandstorm, a fierce battle of their own raged in some Korean studio. The soccer lekka heavyweights, Park Hamsu and Mundre.
Mundre fired first, glaring at the live chat and slamming his desk.
"Brothers, the ministry's basically screaming for heavy sanctions, and these association fucks drop a rebuttal? If the country's calling out the problem, at least pretend to listen! Quit being stubborn and get the fuck out already!!"
BAM!
The screen shook from the shotgun blast of a sound. Mundre ruffled his hair, still fuming. Beside him, Park Hamsu adjusted his glasses, his calm gaze sharper than a blade as he fixed the camera.
"The Kim Myeonggyu regime is effectively done. They just don't know it—or pretend not to."
Park Hamsu pulled up data screens.
"President Kim Myeonggyu ignores public eyes entirely. He's obsessed with his fourth term and clinging to power. The association under him has lost all sense of fairness. Coach appointments? Administrative flexibility? Don't dupe the public with word games."
He paused, sighed dramatically, then pierced the lens.
"The national team isn't the association's private toy. It's the nation's pride, a state asset. Yet to protect one president, they're holding Korean soccer hostage, threatening FEFA sanctions. Is this a normal organization? President Kim Myeonggyu, your era is over. Time to take responsibility and step down. Stop dragging Korean soccer into the mud."
Mundre pounded the desk again in agreement.
"Exactly! Brothers, our players are out there in Kuwait fighting for the country despite this shit, and these clowns pull that from behind? If you've got any conscience, get out!"
Jaber Al-Ahmad International Stadium. Game day against Kuwait.