No Stars on My Pitch
As the North-Central America Asian 2nd Qualifier against China loomed just around the corner, the off-field public opinion war grew hotter than the actual soccer matches with every passing day.
Football Association headquarters, 7th floor president's office. Kim Myeonggyu, the association president, stared coldly at Baek Ho-dol across the heavy mahogany table. His hand tapped rhythmically on the sports newspaper atop it.
"Baek Coach."
Kim Myeonggyu called him politely, but the suppressed anger was plain to see.
"Speak, President."
"Congrats on the 3-0 win yesterday. Heard the media calling it a tactical masterstroke."
"Thank you."
"But here's the thing." Kim leaned forward, furrowing his brow. "Did it have to be that way? 43rd minute. Just two minutes shy of halftime. You could've swapped him in the locker room, but no—you dragged Mo Chanhee off in front of 50,000 fans."
"From the 40th minute, the team's balance was crumbling. Two more minutes, and we'd have conceded."
Baek Ho-dol didn't flinch.
Kim loosened his tie in frustration. "Baek Coach, you're missing the point. Mo Chanhee—he's Korean soccer's icon! Know who brings in 40% of our sponsors' investments? They come for number 11—Mo Chanhee!"
He shoved the newspaper aside roughly.
"The clip of him kicking the water bottle on the bench went viral. Fans are rioting. Who's gonna take the hit for tanking A-match ticket sales if you publicly humiliate a star like that? Fans aren't coming for your tactics. They're here for Mo Chanhee goals!"
Only then did a faint smirk curl Baek Ho-dol's lips. He spoke slowly.
"Ticket power? Sure, it's important. But..."
Baek Ho-dol stood and walked to the tactical board on the office wall.
"Did you see Mo Chanhee's stats from yesterday? 4km covered. Just two sprints. Loses the ball? Stands there, hands on hips, pointing fingers at the young sub who ran back exhausted. Defensive duels? Zero involvement."
He turned and fixed Kim with a piercing stare.
"Opponent fullback treating his flank like a highway, and our star? Whining to the ref about no foul. Not a form issue. Arrogance."
"What the hell's wrong with you? You're just interim."
Baek Ho-dol cut him off firmly. "Interim or not, a cancer rotting the team gets cut. Players who think they're kings? Not on my squad. Not even Mo Chanhee."
"You bastard! So a 3-0 win makes it all good? Smearing the association's face for one victory?" Kim slammed the desk.
"President, the sub who replaced Mo Chanhee filled the gap perfectly. The other two goals came from high press. With him on? It would've been a slog."
Baek Ho-dol added in a low voice,
"Stifled games against weak underdogs, stars who can't shine—fans pay for faces, sure, but only if they score and perform. Tank the team, and that 'ticket power' dries up."
"You teaching me? Interim's gone to your head? Was gonna keep you on, even give you the full team gig, and you fuck it up like this? Your days are numbered—forgot?" Despite the blatant threat, Baek Ho-dol pulled gum from his pocket, popped it in, and turned for the door.
"Do what you want. But remember this."
He gripped the handle and glanced back.
"On my pitch, there are no stars. Just players who sweat—and spectators who don't. I don't play the watchers."
"Stop right there, Baek Ho-dol! You—"
Bang.
The heavy door shut. Kim Myeonggyu glared at it, face flushed, but Baek Ho-dol was already striding down the hall. A triumphant glow seemed to linger on his back. He knew it too—interim was his limit. This country would hire a foreigner anyway. He'd taken the firefighter role willingly. For Korean soccer. For Korea. For the next generation dreaming through those stars.
The day before the North-Central America Asian 2nd Qualifier against China, Baek Ho-dol stood at the official press conference. Meant for tactics talk, but no such questions came. The 43rd-minute sub controversy and feud rumors packed the room with more reporters than ever. Camera flashes filled the space like white noise.
Baek Ho-dol sat stone-faced at the podium, eyeing the first mic-grabber.
"Rumors say Mo Chanhee was agitated post-sub and skipped training today. Beyond player feud—team discipline crumbling?"
Baek Ho-dol paused. Then zeroed in on his principles, not the hook.
"Mo Chanhee is our top attacking asset. Scoring prowess unquestioned." He scanned the reporters.
"But national team games are 11 players in organic sync—a promised play. Grant one privilege, the system collapses."
Flashes erupted.
"In the Singapore match, I saw our frontman ignore agreed defensive duties sans ball—instead blaming others, tanking morale."
"I'll field players who bleed for the Republic of Korea badge, not personal glory. No exceptions. That's my way."
His words froze the room. Even the obvious wasn't obvious to the judgment and "collective intelligence" of the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans.
Same time.
Paju NFC training ground.
As Baek Ho-dol preached principles, Mo Chanhee erupted in fury in the corner locker room.
Crash!
A mirror shattered in his secluded spot. Amid players hurrying out, his choking rage leaked through.