Interview Sniping the Little Rat and the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans

Our teammates crowded around me, worried sick.

"Rion, you okay? Can you get up?"

Captain Bong Hyeoksu asked urgently.

I grimaced like I was in pain and slowly lifted my head.

"Ah... hyung? Of course I'm fine."

"Thank God, really thank God...."

Of course I wasn't hurt. It hadn't even grazed me.

But I pretended to stagger as I leaned on Bong Hyeoksu to stand.

The Chinese player number 18, who was being sent off, glared at me with tears welling up in his eyes from injustice.

I hid my face behind Bong Hyeoksu's shoulder and smirked just for him to see.

Then I mouthed it clearly, syllable by syllable.

'Sick, bitch.'

His face turned redder than his uniform.

Now we had the numerical advantage.

The rest of the time wouldn't be soccer—it'd be a massacre.

I limped back onto the pitch like I was hurt.

Chants of my name echoed from the stands.

"Ryu Rion! Ryu Rion!"

Fuck off, you red devil bastards—weren't you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cursing me out yesterday? When the media had you riled up, I was the scum ruining the national team, but now that I'm scoring, I'm your Rion? Most of those assholes were calling me a thug poisoning the squad just yesterday.

Win and you're a hero, lose and you're scum—that's the game. But seeing them flip that fast gave me chills.

Of course, some might be genuine fans cheering for real. But bandwagon fans are bandwagon fans. Not all of them, but with a nickname like 50 Million Bandwagon Fans, most are.

Anyway, they were boiling over in a good way right now, so whatever. After getting my patriotism stripped away by those pot bastards in my past life, I just tuned them out and focused on soccer.

The pitch felt huge with one player sent off.

Eleven guys packed tight doing kung fu was intimidating, but ten-man China? Not even a tiger without teeth—just a neighborhood mutt missing its bite.

Plus, they'd lost all fighting spirit.

With the ref glaring and fiddling with his cards, they couldn't pull any more dirty tricks.

They had to play actual soccer, and if they could, they wouldn't have resorted to kung fu in the first place.

We added one more goal, ending it 4-0.

This was China's dreaded Korean phobia.

The match ended 4-0. A complete victory for us.

China, infamous for rough tackles and Shaolin soccer, crumbled without touching the ball properly once Ryu Rion, Tak Go-gang, and Bong Hyeoksu swept through midfield like maniacs.

Our relentless pressure from the first half had their midfielders gasping, and we pinned them down for the full 90 minutes.

Sweat-drenched, we entered the mixed zone, where reporters swarmed like hyenas spotting prey, thrusting mics at us.

The questions were obvious: all about ace Mo Chanhee's absence.

"Ryu Rion! You notched a goal and an assist today in a stellar performance. With Mo Chanhee's sudden injury withdrawal raising concerns, how was the team atmosphere?"

I wiped sweat from my face with the towel around my neck and grabbed the mic casually.

"Concerns? Our guys didn't have any."

"Pardon? But he's the team's main gunner and star player?"

I stared straight into the camera lens at the reporter's follow-up—like locking eyes with that guy probably watching from his hospital bed on his smartphone.

"Soccer isn't about name tags. You saw the game today—no kings needed on the pitch. Just 11 teammates ready to run till they drop."

Typewriter clacks from the reporters sped up like machine guns.

"Today's midfielders logged 1.5 times their usual distance. Wasn't that tough physically?"

"Tough as hell. Breath right up to my throat. But it was fun."

I paused, then dropped the killer line.

"Less tiring when no one's playing star and strolling around. No more covering holes from one slacker with ten guys busting ass. That's over."

I should've stopped, but my mouth kept going. "Today's win proves the team is greater than any individual. At least no one was strutting around thinking they were Lionel Messi."

The mixed zone buzzed. Anyone could see it was a clear shot.

After my bombshell interview, I showered and came out to see Baek Ho-dol's press conference live on the lobby TV.

The room's vibe was weird. Reporters who'd been ready to devour him pre-game were now mute as clams.

"No more questions? Then we're done."

As Baek Ho-dol stood, one reporter shot up his hand desperately.

"C-coach! Today's tactical shift was a huge success. The second-line rotations were impressive. Was this Plan B for Mo Chanhee's absence?"

Baek Ho-dol chewed his gum and looked down at him.

Mauling Baek Ho-dol was the press and those 50 Million Bandwagon Fans. If we'd lost today, he'd be barbecue. Reporters prep questions assuming defeat—it's their job, but Korea's different. They probably wrote theirs hoping we'd lose just to trash him.

But we won—flawlessly without Mo Chanhee. No ammo left.

"Plan B? Come on, that's hurtful. This was my Plan A all along."

"But star Mo Chanhee..."

Baek Ho-dol cut him off.

"One cog thinks it's too big to turn—think the whole machine spins?"

He never said Mo Chanhee's name, but everyone knew.

"You saw Ryu Rion, Tak Go-gang, Bong Hyeoksu today? They don't wanna be stars. They wanna win. Off-ball runs, defensive shifts, covering teammates. That's my principle."

He sipped water and continued calmly.

"Same principles ahead. Name value doesn't score goals. Wanna wear the taeguk on your chest? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Run till your soles burn. Can't? No spot on my team. That's it."

He walked out without a backward glance. A giant's aura.

Baek Ho-dol as coach is what Korea needs.

The communities exploded thanks to my interview and Baek Ho-dol's firewood. The 50 Million Bandwagon Fans must've been thrilled. Up close, it was soccer fans awed by the play clashing with Mo Chanhee's deified toxic fandom, the so-called ChanheeMoms.

Just made me laugh. Players who ran with and without Mo Chanhee know best how the game felt. This star Mo Chanhee fandom is for real...