La Liga vs Premier League: Lion's Phantom Rampage
Caicedo from La Liga versus the Premier League, with Bong Hyeoksu right on his tail.
A do-or-die moment.
I froze for a split second, as if time had stopped, then swung my upper body hard to the right.
Caicedo's center of gravity shifted.
In that instant, I twisted my ankle and nudged the ball diagonally left again.
Phantom Dribble.
Caicedo's foot sliced through empty air, and his path collided with Bong Hyeoksu charging from behind.
Thwack!
While the two tangled, I slipped leisurely through their encirclement.
The crowd erupted in screams bordering on shrieks.
"Waaaaaaah!!"
"Insane! He broke through that?"
"Ooooh!"
Ryu Rion! Ryu Rion! He's weaving magic! Neutralized both Caicedo and Bong Hyeoksu at once!
Whoa... chills. That composure in such a tight space! Sangam Field is flipping out right now!
An open chance in the blink of an eye.
Vast space yawned open in front of me.
Chelsea's defensive line panicked and backpedaled.
Cucurella rushed to close the center, but it was too late.
I hit the accelerator.
My heart pounded like mad.
This is the thrill.
The rush of shredding a jungle packed with giants using nothing but skill.
I could see Cucurella's hair whipping his ears as he charged, but in my eyes, only the goal beyond him burned clear. At the edge of the penalty box, I raised my right foot high.
As if I were about to unleash a shot.
The entire Chelsea defense flinched—some lunging, others spinning away.
But instead of smashing the ball, my foot scraped it with a shot fake, sole dragging it deeper in.
With elegant flair, I turned two defenders into fools.
Now it was just me and the keeper.
I caught my breath.
Time to etch into their minds exactly who owned this glittering stage.
Robert Sanchez narrowed the angle and charged out.
His massive frame filled my vision, but my mind was simple.
Left? Right?
No.
I stole his timing with a half-beat quicker toe poke.
The ball I tapped flicked sharply through Sanchez's armpit.
Swish—!
The net rippled and shook.
For a moment, the stadium held its breath in stunned silence.
"WAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
Then an earth-shattering roar exploded, threatening to lift the roof off Sangam Field.
I bolted straight for the corner flag.
The lump in my chest burst open.
Mid-stride, I leaped high, twisting my body.
Landing, I thrust both arms out wide.
"Siuuuuuuuuu!"
I wasn't alone.
The crowd—no, everyone who'd cursed me yesterday—united in the cry.
Siuuu!
Electrifying.
This is a star's life.
Ryu Rion! Ryu Rion! Toyed with four Chelsea defenders and blasts in the opener!
Did you catch that controversial Siuuu celebration? The crowd's copying it! Shut down yesterday's drama with pure skill and showmanship. Born star material!
33rd minute of the first half. Score: 1-0.
Celta Vigo leading.
But Chelsea was Chelsea.
Did my goal bruise their pride?
The blue jerseys sharpened their eyes and swarmed.
At the center: Bong Hyeoksu.
"Up the tempo! Push the line up!"
With Bong Hyeoksu's bellow, Chelsea's press intensity jumped two levels.
39th minute of the first half.
Our team's Mingueza was trying to build up when Bong Hyeoksu ghosted in, cutting the passing lane.
Rough but dead certain interception. Every time I play soccer, I feel it—instinct exists.
"Oh man, that one's going in."
Oh, Bong Hyeoksu! Perfect positioning! Shut down Celta's attack flow completely!
Bong Hyeoksu didn't hesitate with the ball.
Before I could press, he lofted a diagonal long ball to Noni Madueke slicing down the right flank.
The ball streaked like a clothesline.
Madueke cushioned it softly on his chest, shrugged off a defender in a flash, and whipped in a cross.
2002-born prodigy Cole Palmer, surging centrally, planted his left foot.
Thwack!
Straight into the corner of the net.
1-1.
Cole Palmer turned and sprinted to the corner flag. He clasped his hands in front of his chest, shoulders shivering slightly as he rubbed them. Like breath fogging in winter chill.
"Ptoo. Freezing my ass off."
A clean goal sparked from Bong Hyeoksu's toe.
The stands buzzed with Bong Hyeoksu praise and fans mimicking Palmer's celebration.
Bong Hyeoksu high-fived teammates and shot me a look.
'You do it, so I will too?'
That was the vibe.
I smirked and gave him a thumbs-up.
Some folks judge soccer like this. Bong Hyeoksu? Yeah whatever, so how many goals and assists? They think goals and assists define a player, end of story. Ryu Rion? Yeah whatever, goals? Assists? Hits me too, as an attacking midfielder. Mo Chanhee outscores us. His assists match ours sometimes. To those clowns, Mo Chanhee vs. Bong Hyeoksu, Mo Chanhee vs. Ryu Rion—it's simple: goals? Assists? They ignore the 90 minutes of blood, sweat, and grind to create those. Brains stuffed with highlights and 1-minute shorts. If that's all they want, why watch full games? Just clip penalty-box shots. But nah, they'd cry "not soccer." Sure, some rack goals/assists on raw talent. That's why identical stats don't make players equal. No one undervalues Chelsea's Hazard for "low" goals/assists among those who played with/against him. But stat-blind "soccer experts" cosplayers call him a bubble, water rocket. Funny fact: 99% never watched a full game awake. No wonder mouth soccer thrives.
The match heated up.
43rd minute of the first half.
Midfield was a flat-out warzone.
Caicedo yanked my jersey, blocking rough. This prick always pulls this card-magnet shit. But today,
the ref let it slide. Preseason leniency.
I gritted my teeth and held firm. Midfield tug-of-war, no ball—scout positions, fake retreating while guarding it. Eyes locked with infiltrating Iago Aspas.
Celta Vigo's king. Aspas.
One look in his eyes told me everything.
I poked the ball through Caicedo's legs.
Timing Aspas's surge, I threaded a through ball into the sliver between Chelsea center-backs Wesley Fofana and Levi Colwill.
The ball glided across the turf.
Magnet-drawn to Aspas's left foot.
Ryu Rion! Killer pass! Perfect gap between two defenders!
Whoa, see that tiny gap? He served up a full banquet!
Aspas doesn't miss chances. He's Celta Vigo's king.
Sanchez rushed the angle, but Aspas calmly curled it into the corner.
Goal!
2-1.
Aspas charged me, wrapping me in a bear hug.
"Perfect pass!"
I threw my arms wide to the stands.
Scoring thrills, but orchestrating and dominating? That's a midfielder's essence.
The crowd's excited voices carried to the pitch.
First-half whistle blew.
Score: 2-1.
Sweat-drenched, I headed to the tunnel.
Lungs burning to my throat, but mood sky-high.
Then arms wrapped my shoulders.
"Thought we said take it easy."
Bong Hyeoksu.
His kit soaked too.
"I did. Spared Chelsea from a thrashing."
"Thrashing? I went easy on your kids."
"Caicedo looked lost. Thought it was Champs League."
We chuckled our way to the locker room.
The stands cheered our duo on the Jumbotron. Chelsea's stars aside, Korea's Sangam Field birthed a captain-vice duel in midfield war—picture-perfect. We players loved it; fans too. Different flavor from strikers' goal hunts. Why soccer takes 11.