Ssam Hyung Takes Over Korea
The organizer of the Coupang Play series couldn't hide his satisfied smile as he watched the real-time chat window lighting up with "I hate China" messages.
The chat was completely flooded with Ssam Hyung.
Back in the locker room for a quick breather, my phone sure as hell wasn't resting. Kim Jinu was stuffing it full of real-time updates.
"What's this Ssam Hyung bullshit?"
I chuckled and shook my head. Couldn't deny it, though. From now on, Aspas would be like the friendly neighborhood big bro to Korean fans.
Truth be told, Celta Vigo wasn't the kind of team that usually got this treatment.
A mid-tier club from Spain's Galicia region. Always scraping mid-table or fighting relegation.
But shit changed fast once I nailed down a starting spot.
We sank Barcelona at Camp Nou, went toe-to-toe with Real Madrid in a slugfest, and bulldozed through Atlético's swamp soccer.
We shattered La Liga's big three dominance, built a four-way food chain, and became Champions League regulars.
That's when Celta Vigo's status skyrocketed in Korea.
To Koreans burning with manic national pride high—not gukppong, patriotism—Celta Vigo might as well have been our team.
Fans memorized not just the starters' names but even the subs' full dossiers.
Plenty wanted to wave Taegukgi flags in the stands, but I politely shut that down.
I'm a Celta Vigo player first, South Korean national team second. Respect the team.
Thanks to that plea, the crowd rocked sky-blue Celta flags instead of Taegukgis.
Mature fan culture. Ryu Rion fans stay winning. People clump with their own kind—there's an eye for who gets it and who doesn't. Some folks listen to words; others never will. That's how the world spins and bonds form.
The halftime whistle blew, kicking off the second half.
Celta Vigo yanked most of the starters except me to the bench. Aspas and Minguza headed off for rest too.
The K League All-Stars made massive changes as well.
One name jumped out.
Jang Kangcheol. Felt it from the lineup intros, and his weird pre-game greeting stuck in my mind. But...
No matter how hard I racked my past-life memories, no big-name player named Jang Kangcheol.
Sure, this life's diverged in subtle ways from my regression point—no biggie.
And making K League All-Star means his skills are legit verified.
Let's see what you got.
I retied my laces and stepped onto the pitch.
50th minute.
I took the ball in midfield and bolted down the left flank.
Jinu, who'd hounded me all first half, came charging again to block.
"Hyung! Not breaking through this time!"
His eyes blazed.
But this was a friendly.
No need to slice through clean and quick.
The crowd wanted a show.
I feigned slowing down and started flashy footwork over the ball.
Body feint. Step-over.
Whip. Whippity-whip.
"Ooooh—!"
The stands erupted as my feet danced over the ball.
Jinu flinched at my fake-out.
In that split second,
I pretended right, then flicked left and ghosted past.
"Ugh!"
Jinu lunged desperately, but I was already by him.
Perfect breakthrough.
Wide open field ahead.
Our young attackers swarmed the box.
I whipped in a cross without hesitation.
"Someone gobble this up!"
Whoooosh—
The ball arced high—then someone exploded up from the penalty spot center.
Jang Kangcheol.
High trajectory?
He outjumped our forwards by a head, headers it clear.
Thwack!
Heavy thud—ball sails high out of the box.
Drop zone: awkward, right between me and Jinu.
"Mine."
I launched for second ball control.
Jinu charged too, no backing down.
I had the edge on distance.
Could possess and reset for another shot.
Then,
As we jostled shoulder-to-shoulder, Jinu whispered urgently in my ear.
"Xiao xiao xiao xiao."
"...?"
My brain short-circuited for a beat.
Xiao?
Halftime show.
Her shaking my jersey.
Sweat-glistened collarbone from wild choreography.
Flushed white cheeks from excitement and heat.
That provocative wink straight at the camera.
Xiao's afterimage sparked wildly in my head. From ancient tales, peerless beauties were called nation-topplers; another likened Yang Guifei to a face that could tilt empires. The woman in my mind was no different. Her graceful form, smooth as silk, shamed even willow leaves brushing the wind. One smile calmed lake ripples; a slight bow hushed lanterns on pavilions. Flipping through classics, the faces rising between lines must've been like this siren. Spring blooms in full couldn't match her lifting her head—the world's always been this unfair.
She was gorgeous...
No, snap out of it.
"Huh?"
In that trailing-thought instant.
My foot sliced air.
"...Ah."
The ball barely grazed my toe, bounced softly to Jinu's feet.
Bullshit foul.
Mind games. I muttered at Jinu's receding back, farther and farther.
"You... fucking punk."
Jinu shattered my focus with two syllables—"Xiao"—and stole the ball.
Normally I'd blaze after him, eyes aflame, and tackle hard.
But friendly match.
I jogged casually after, no need for a sprint burst.
Jinu, hyped on his solo dribble chance, tried flair in front of a Celta defender.
Body feint, body feint.
Hey, that's my move from earlier.
Defender didn't bite, closed gap—panicked Jinu blasted a long-range shot.
Wham!
Way too much power.
Ball rocketed not to goal, but second deck stands.
Home run.
I doubled over laughing.
"Aigoo, you idiot. What a clown."
Could see Jinu clutching his head in shame from here.
But game ain't over.
68th minute.
Subbed-in Borja Iglesias snagged the ball at the penalty arc front.
Defenders backpedaled to wall off the big man—
Borja flicked a casual ankle-powered shot.
Swoosh—!
Ball knifed straight like a clothesline into the far corner.
GOOOAL! Borja Iglesias!
K League All-Stars weren't done—took the lead back only to fight hard.
80th minute. K League corner kick.
Kicker floated it high to the six-yard box. I was marking Jinu outside the area for the clearance—then someone leaped.
Jang Kangcheol?
That guy.
Barely any run-up, but vertical explosion insane.
Coiled like a spring, he hammered a towering header down.
Thud!
What the hell? Never seen him before. Level like that, he'd have been national team locked.
I clicked my tongue in awe.
89th minute. Right before full time.
Our Sarraga shredded the flank, cut back a pass.
Defenders' eyes glued to the ball—I ghosted into the gap like a specter.
Ball arrived at my feet.
No hesitation—inside of the right foot, rolled it into the far corner.
Splash.
Tweeeeeet—!
Final whistle blew right after.
3-2. Celta Vigo win.
Win or lose, the crowd gave a standing ovation for the thriller.
Panting hard, I jogged over to Jinu.