Underrated Positions: Chelsea Clash and Faction Shadows
Football Association President's office on the day of the Chelsea match. The only sound in the hushed silence was the hum of the air purifier.
Kim Myeonggyu, the president, pressed the intercom to summon someone.
Moments later, the firmly shut door opened, and a middle-aged man with a tense expression entered. It was Lee Jinhak, the technical director of the Korea Football Association.
As he came in, President Kim Myeonggyu gestured toward the sofa with his chin.
"Sit."
"Yes, President. You called for me?"
Lee Jinhak perched halfway on the edge of the seat, and President Kim set down his teacup before getting to the point.
"I called you here today about the next national team coach appointment. There's something you need to consider."
"Ah, the coach selection?"
Lee Jinhak straightened his posture.
"We're currently scheduling interviews..."
"Not that."
President Kim cut him off. He gave a glance to Lee Cheol-woo, who was standing beside him.
"Report."
"Yes, President."
Lee Cheol-woo pulled a thick binder from his jacket and placed it on the table. The cover read:
National Team Internal Operations Status and Risk Report
Lee spoke in a calm but dry voice.
"Director Lee Jinhak, you've worked with former committee chair Seo Taeyoung, so you're aware to some extent, but there are new confirmed details."
"New additions...?"
"Faction issues within the national team."
Lee Jinhak's eyebrow twitched. He rubbed his dry face as if troubled, then replied cautiously.
"That matter... I've heard vaguely. Conflicts between overseas and domestic players, and hierarchies between seniors and juniors, right?"
"It's beyond that level."
Lee Cheol-woo drew a firm line. He placed a memo summarizing Ryu Rion and Mo Chanhee's positions on top of the report.
"It's not just conflict—overreaches centered on certain players have been ongoing for some time. We've confirmed interference with the medical team's doctor through Ryu Rion."
"Ryu Rion said it himself?"
"Yes. He named Mo Chanhee, Ha Dohyeon, Park Jeongu, and others specifically. The national team is being run by factions and politics, not football skill."
Lee Cheol-woo slid the report toward Lee Jinhak.
"This is the true face of our national team right now. While we need a tactically brilliant coach, Director, we also need one who can handle these faction problems. Please keep that in mind."
Lee Jinhak flipped through the report with trembling hands. Inside were stark records of player overreaches, insubordination toward coaching staff, and abuses by specific cliques.
Watching Lee Jinhak's grave expression as he read, President Kim spoke heavily.
"Seen enough?"
"...Yes. It's far more serious than I thought."
"The top condition for this coach hire isn't just tactics—it's someone who can fix this mess."
President Kim's eyes sharpened. For his own security, he needed a real enforcer this time.
"Someone who can crush this chaos."
"..."
"A figure with ironclad charisma who won't bow to players' fame or factions. Base the selection on that. I'll just approve— the final call is yours."
Lee Jinhak swallowed dryly.
"A coach who can... clean up this situation."
President Kim leaned back deeply into his chair and muttered.
"Someone who understands Korean football's reality and will play the villain to restore discipline."
In other words, they didn't need just a teacher for soccer—they needed a drill sergeant for the sinking ship of a national team.
Lee Jinhak wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and bowed his head.
"...Understood. I've got it clearly. I'll factor that into the selection and submit candidates."
"You may go."
Lee Jinhak grabbed the report and hurried out of the office.
With Chelsea pressing, unless they make mass subs right at the start of the second half, they'll push their line up. That usually sparks a slugfest. Ever seen it? Some matches fly by in a blur of unrelenting tempo, leaving you wondering where the time went. Others feel busy but empty. This one's the former.
The second half kicked off, and the pitch's air heated up instantly.
Maresca threw on Christopher Nkunku at halftime to seize control of the attack.
Bong Hyeoksu and I were still locked in the midfield duel.
50th minute.
Bong Hyeoksu flashed again.
The moment I went for the ball, Bong Hyeoksu and Caicedo barreled in, grinding against me roughly.
"Ugh."
Breath-crushing pressure.
As my balance crumbled, Bong Hyeoksu snatched the ball. Without hesitation, he fired a killer pass forward.
A pass perfectly timed to Nkunku's run into the space behind.
Nkunku lobbed the keeper lightly and ripped the net.
2:2.
My one mistake reset the score to square one. I'd notched a goal and assist, dominated the game—felt like I had it all. Now a blunder too. If I own a goal, does that make it two goals and an assist? Insane thought.
That's soccer. One slip erases everything. Strikers get a pass for shitting the bed 90 minutes if they score. Run like dogs all game, but one error defines you. Defenders get it harsher: plug leaks perfectly, then one fuck-up devours all praise. Spotlights go to attackers anyway.
Error made, result irreversible. Give everything in the time left to flip it.
65th minute. Scattered subs, but by now, Chelsea and Celta Vigo's starters were mostly rotated out. I grabbed the ball in midfield.
Chelsea's press hit hard again.
Faked slowing tempo, then snapped a forward pass using ankle torque.
Drew defensive eyes to me, opening a perfect chance on the flank for Mingueza. Key play.
Mingueza's cross was vicious; subbed-in Dovbyk hammered a header.
3:2.
Celta Vigo leads again. Thought we'd hold it—but five minutes later, Nkunku's explosive speed shattered our flank, equalizing.
3:3.
Slugfest. Starters out, lines high—goals flying both ways. Classic preseason friendly chaos.
The stands lost their minds in the goal party.
The scoreboard showed Bong Hyeoksu and me panting, jerseys tugged in a ball skirmish—slow-mo replay looped.
Sweat flying, muscles straining in primal midfield clash. Jumbotron zoomed in.
"Waaaaaaah! Ryu Rion! Bong Hyeoksu!"
"Insane! I'm the winner for coming live today!"
80th minute. A momentary lapse in organization.
I seized it.
Ball at midfield line—I nutmegged Bong Hyeoksu while he caught his breath and surged forward.
"Block him!"
Chelsea defenders yelled, but too late.
I pierced left flank to Bamba with a through ball.
Three defenders' eyes followed it.
I sprinted into the box.
Bamba's cutback.
Defender trailed me, but ball rolled back—Svedberg unmarked.
My pull created the chance.
Bam!
4:3.
Balance broken at last.
This off-ball movement is why big-club scouts drool over me.
88th minute.
Ball out over touchline—play stopped.
I'm running for real.
Thighs screaming, lungs burning like fire.