The Handiwork of 50 Million Bandwagon Fans
It had been ten days since the national team coaching position went vacant, all thanks to the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans. The football association was like a funeral home. Coach Kim Myeongbak had resigned under the Korean-style public trial by the entire nation—what they called a "people's inquisition."
Even if the results had been good, the public's expectations were sky-high, unreachable as the heavens. No other coach dared touch it out of fear. It was the infamous poison pill job. Everyone knew to steer clear. Step foot there, and your career gets tainted. That's what being a Korean national team coach meant.
Would you believe it if I said "sole ruler of heaven and earth" perfectly described Korean football fans? That's the level of authority and entitlement they carried. Promising coaches were busy building their own little careers—what fans called "my tiny career" or na-jak-keo. The moment "Korean national team coach" got slapped on that resume, it was game over with inevitable sacking. Who in their right mind would trade a bright future for a Korean dismissal?
What about big-name coaches? You'd have to throw money at them to lure them, but even that was no easy feat. For such an association, it meant becoming a total pushover. Abandoning Korean football traditions and Asia's powerhouse status? Money aside, pride wouldn't allow it.
Take China, for example. Their national team gig comes with low expectations from their own people, so flash some cash at famous coaches, and they come running. China's barely sniffed a World Cup, so there's nothing to lose. Throw money at a legend, learn something—that's their vibe. They don't give a shit about being called suckers; they suck at football anyway.
Korea? Steady World Cup qualifications, results that deliver. Good performances aren't enough; gotta dazzle the masses with high-level play. That's the 50 Million Mouth Soccer bullshit they pull. So every coach gets hired, then fired or roasted like Kim Myeongbak. His case was especially bizarre. How bad did Korean football have to collapse for this?
And the association, supposed to hold firm on principles matching those sky-high eyes, just sways with public opinion. Shaking the coach shook them back like a boomerang. Zero applicants for the Korea Republic national team head coach spot—that's the masterpiece of the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans and their pigsty association.
Power Reinforcement Committee
Team Leader Lim, the scouting manager, dumped a stack of documents in front of the association president, who was hooked to an IV after an all-nighter.
"President, we contacted from first choice to 50th. All rejections. The top Dutch coach said his family begged him not to work in a people's trial nation. Number three, the Belgian, vanished off the map. Everyone says this country's fandom is hell."
Association President Kim Myeonggyu spat into the ashtray with bloodshot eyes. "Fucking public expectations!" He conveniently skipped how he'd bowed to that very opinion before, dumping all blame on the nation.
Meanwhile, the community vibe that had strung up the former coach shifted subtly. Unease and frustration flipped straight to "association incompetence" theories. Forgetting their own calls for dismissal, of course.
Domestic coaches knew damn well the hellish risks. One bad result, and they'd be crucified as symbols of corrupt local football the next day. After endless scouting fails, the association leaked two candidates to the press.
One was A Coach. A true domestic legend with two K League titles and one Asian Champions League win under his belt.
The other: Maxim us de Carne. Sacked after three months in Portugal's third division, barely lasted six in Kazakhstan. Nothing else—a random Westerner who'd vaguely coached some overseas club no one heard of.
The press release dropped, and the nation's bandwagon herd intelligence went berserk in one direction.
Opinions on A Coach were sharper than a kitchen knife. [K League wins? Big deal. No world-class experience.] [Is the national team gig a neighborhood chief spot? Association patching with locals again—rotten to the core.]
But unheard-of Maxim us de Carne? Blind fanaticism poured in.
The association didn't even bother persuading A Coach. They knew this country ran on deep-rooted sadaeism—preferring foreigners over locals.
Days later, official release: negotiations underway with Maxim us de Carne. At the presser, an association rep faced bored reporters mentioning A Coach and bellowed into the mic.
"We have Maxim us de Carne from Portugal as our top candidate...!"
Cameras flashed; the room ignited.
The rep smirked bitterly behind the mic. 'This country's hopeless. Just grab some cool-named Westerner and call it a day.'
Maxim us de Carne took the Korea Republic helm six months ago—and on paper, it was a solid hire. 12 games, unbeaten. In World Cup qualifiers, they swept Asia's ticket holders: Myanmar, East Timor, Philippines, Cambodia, Maldives, China. Games were grindy, but 1-0 or whatever, wins every time. Statistically flawless—a legend.
That damn stats worship reared its head here too. You idiots. Beating Myanmar and East Timor and calling it unbeaten streak, self-praise, legend status? What the fuck are you smoking, crazies?
Playing under him firsthand hammered it home. Maxim us de Carne was a rookie coach. Not insubordination talking—this guy was the shittiest I'd ever had. I'd played under Kim Myeongbak, and in Spain's La Liga, under Mertesacker at Celta Vigo, I beat out starters for third place and a Champions League spot. Real Madrid and Barca walls were sky-high; matching them was glory enough. Good tactics helped, but Spain's genius for magical adaptation played in. Solo carry? Impossible. Me starting made it happen.
Anyway, this Portuguese spice rack reject was nastier than Chinese tofu. How shit was he? Didn't even grasp the meta. I speak Spanish; he Portuguese—both Romance languages from Latin roots—so we communicated. South Korean style from me, North Korean from him. That's how similar our "communication" was.
Post-appointment, for months under "advanced European football," he ran baffling drills and tactics. His team racked wins against Southeast Asian and African minnows, hyping domestic press and fans. The association granted every whim; he was a hero.
Watching up close, this dogshit feeling had no outlet. His streak was an empty box in flashy wrapping—I couldn't even explain. The clueless masses fixated on results anyway. Wins, streaks, records against weaklings—that's all that mattered. No room to argue.