Farewell to the Goblins
I'd made up my mind to transfer. But where to?
I gasped for breath. That's when I felt someone's gaze and looked up.
Three meters ahead.
Bong Hyeoksu was panting too, staring right at me. We'd been battling tooth and nail, drenched in sweat with our hair a total mess, and somehow it struck us both as hilarious.
As if on cue, we locked eyes and burst out snickering.
It happens sometimes. No words needed—you just know, and seeing each other's face cracks you up.
That fleeting moment of connection?
The Jumbotron camera caught it perfectly.
On the massive screen watched by the entire crowd, a close-up filled the view: two sweat-soaked guys sharing a simple, genuine grin. Comrades-in-arms blooming after brutal combat.
The stands erupted—not in cheers, but awed gasps.
"Whoa..."
"Both of them..."
"It's like a movie, man."
"Did you all see that on the Jumbotron? Bong Hyeoksu and Ryu Rion. They clashed head-on for 90 minutes, and now they're grinning like that."
"That's sports. That's football. Respect beyond win or lose. I'd say that's today's highlight—not the goals, but that moment."
Suddenly, applause thundered from the crowd.
Not the wild roar of a goal, but something warmer, more heartfelt.
I flashed Bong a thumbs-up.
He grinned back with a nod.
Less than a minute left. Preseason felt like wrapping up a friendly rivalry now. We tapped the ball back and forth until the ref's whistle ended this beautiful war.
Bong and I swapped jerseys, waving thanks to the fans who'd shared the match with us. The vibe was heartwarming.
But just for now. Soon enough, those 50 Million Bandwagon Fans would be my battlefield again. They'd cooled off today, but they'd boil over soon. Bring it on.
I wouldn't get drunk on cheers or buckle under hate. That was how you faced Korean bandwagoners.
The whistle faded from my ears, leaving only ragged breaths and the steamy stench of sweat in the locker room heat.
The roars filling Sangam World Cup Stadium echoed distantly beyond the walls.
I slumped into my locker chair and peeled off my soaked kit. Muscles screamed, but it was the good kind of pain.
"Hoo..."
I'd draped a towel over my head to cool off when—
Tap.
Someone patted my shoulder lightly.
I looked up. Captain Iago Aspas stood there, eyeing me with a strange glint, casual as ever.
"So, decided on the new club yet?"
My heart dropped.
I froze, towel gripped tight, staring up at him. How the hell does he know I decided to transfer?
The locker room noise hushed. His question lit the fuse—teammates changing nearby all turned to me.
Mingueza, Bamba, Dubicas.
Their eyes were calm, like they'd known all along.
I sat there mute, and Aspas chuckled, plopping down beside me.
"That face says 'how'd you know?'"
"...Was it obvious?"
"Obvious? Ryan, it was screaming."
He nodded at my legs.
"Friendly match. Preseason, even. But you ran like a mad dog for a full 90? What if your hammies blew?"
"..."
"Your play today wasn't about winning. It was like your last day in this kit—pouring everything out. We all felt it."
He was right.
No arguing. Sure, I wanted to shine for the Korean fans who loved me, but that wasn't the main reason.
Celta Vigo.
The club that believed in me, gave me my shot. The teammates I'd clawed up from the bottom with, writing history together.
My thanks to them? Words wouldn't cut it—football did. Even if it tore my lungs out, I wanted them to see my all, to the last second.
That was my goodbye.
I scratched my neck awkwardly.
"Guess I overdid the obvious part."
Laughter exploded around the locker room. Tension shattered into cheer.
"Knew it! No way Ryan runs like that for nothing."
"Thought you were just hyped for the home fans."
Guys crowded in, ruffling my hair, slapping my back.
Aspas tapped my knee.
"Big club offer, right? Go for it. You deserve it."
"...Haven't picked a spot yet."
I grinned playfully. "Maybe follow the captain to Liverpool?"
Aspas's face crumpled.
"Nah, can't do that."
"Why? Liverpool's great."
"You could flop. Look at me—one bad corner kick and they still roast me. Premier League's... brutal."
His deadpan self-roast flipped the room again.
In the laughter, I drifted into thought.
In my past life, I'd turned down offers and stayed at Celta. No regrets there.
Back then, Real Madrid came calling. I was dying to pack and bolt to Madrid. But reality hit hard.
Bellingham, Valverde, Camavinga, Tchouameni...
Could I survive those midfield monsters? Math said no. Even if I did, Real's galactico style meant I'd be rotation fodder—Bellingham's backup battery or Valverde's spare.
So I declined. Not just Real—faded big names worse off than Celta, or cutthroat giants. All rejected.
Celta's better.
That choice anchored me.
Not anymore.
This life, I'm different.
Ironically, no Real offer now. Not 'cause I'm lacking—my price tag's too steep for their backup plans, or doesn't fit their vibe.
Too big for mere depth now.
I could go anywhere. Competition's the same as before. Just more savvy in this young body now. Regression doesn't make me Messi.
Why transfer then? Celta couldn't shift the impression for Korean bandwagoners. I'm not here to save my career—I did that last life. This one's about stopping Korean football's collapse. Need skill, politics, power—all of it.
I scanned my teammates with conviction.
"Team's TBD... but yeah, this is goodbye. Thanks, everyone."
Ace transfers usually mean two things: fans branding you a traitor, or ugly holdout drama with the club.
Teammates don't show it—they're in the same boat.
"Go eat 'em alive, Ryan."
"Easy on us in Champs—our defenders'll break legs."
"I'll brag you're one of ours."
It hit me hard.
They meant it. We'd shared the grind; I lived as a Celta man. My life, my home, my second hometown.
Rough but warm pushes for a friend heading to bigger things. Damn romantics to the end—got me choked up.
That was Celta Vigo's color.
No stars, no riches, but goblins united, sinking giants. Not grabbing ankles on the way out—instead, "See you higher up," with a grin.
Maybe why Aspas still runs here past 37.
How do you leave a team this romantic?
"..."
I grinned through misty eyes.
"I'll make 'em all know I came from Celta."
One hell of a summer night farewell.
A short text on my phone screen.
A rejection.
Technical Director Lee Jinhak smacked his lips bitterly and turned it off.
Yoon Seungwoo.
Korea's football legend, eternal libero. And the tragic coach who'd shouldered the nightmare of the Brazil World Cup ten years back.
He'd turned down the head coach interview offer flat-out.
"Yeah... figures. Who'd take that gig?"
Lee Jinhak stared blankly out the window, lost in memories of that day ten years ago.