Here We Go! The Transfer Bombshell
Lee Jinhak stared out the airplane window at the vast sea of clouds with heavy eyes.
On his lap lay two reports he'd brought back from Germany and Spain: David Wagner and Dashi. After face-to-face interviews, he'd concluded they were unfit for the Korean national team.
More precisely, they couldn't be the firefighters needed to douse the blazing inferno that was Korean football right now.
Their tactics had flair and sounded plausible in theory, but from the perspective of someone who knew the real backdrop of Korean football, the walls of harsh reality hidden behind them were far too high. They were little more than idealistic blobs spouting perfection.
Wagner's system was intricate, but that intricacy presupposed ample training time and perfect buy-in from the players. World Cup qualifiers were just months away, and the tournament itself less than a year off. Camp time to gel the squad? A measly 3-4 days. Implanting an extreme build-up from the goalkeeper and high-pressing system in that window was pure gambling.
If it failed, the foreign coach could just shake his head about lack of time and leave. But Korean football would be left to bear the full wreckage.
Lee Jinhak found no trace in Wagner or Dashi's reports of consideration for Korean football's emotional context. The data was flawless, but there were no people in it.
What tormented him most went beyond tactics: the entrenched factionalism within the national team, the ongoing rift between the mandatory domestic players and the squad, players overstepping their bounds.
The team was already sinking from the inside. Invisible walls between overseas and domestic players, seniors and juniors—solid as steel. Would a foreigner fix that? Like Jürgen before them, they'd likely fail to grasp Korea's unique hierarchy and emotional conflicts, becoming mere bystanders.
"Tactics are just tools."
Dashi wasn't wrong. But he overlooked the fact that the hands meant to wield those tools were pointing fingers at each other.
What was needed now wasn't a refined tactician, but a ruthless enforcer to grab players by the collar and force them to face one direction.
Lee Jinhak pulled Yoon Seungwoo's profile from the depths of his bag.
Yoon was a man branded with failure a decade ago. But in the ten years since, he'd rolled in the trenches of the K League and proven himself anew. He knew Korean players' culture better than anyone—who opposed whom, which players poisoned the vibe—all without needing to ask.
Above all, Yoon had authority. An untouchable charisma, the symbolic weight of Korean football's elder statesman. The one blade that could instantly restore the hierarchy foreign coaches lacked.
Lee Jinhak asked himself: Objectively, were Wagner or Dashi better than Yoon? They might edge out in tactical theory from their foreign exposure. But for the unique role of South Korea national team coach, who could guarantee internal unity and immediate results?
The answer was clear: Yoon Seungwoo.
The backlash was inevitable. Arrows of "nepotism football" and "revolving door hires" would rain down on him and Yoon. But as technical director, he had to choose substance over optics, reality over fantasy.
"What we need now... isn't a teacher for systems, but a carpenter to rebuild the collapsed house."
Biting his lip as he stared at Yoon's unanswered chat window, Lee Jinhak finally called Vice President Choi Miura. If Yoon refused, he'd have to cling to his pant leg. That was the only path to keep Korean football from mutual destruction—a truth he'd felt in his bones amid Europe's cold air, on his way back.
At that very moment, as Baek Ho-dol and Ryu Rion clinked glasses...
European football exploded over a single line.
Smartphone alerts buzzed in pockets worldwide. A new post had gone up on the SNS account of "da Fabrizio Romano," the tier-1 journalist no one questioned.
To football fans, "da Fabrizio Romano" and "Here We Go" are legendary. The Italian transfer guru boasts an unmatched network of club insiders and agents—his scoops are basically official announcements at the final stage.
His signature "Here We Go" signals 100% done deals. Rare misses, but close to infallible.
The cozy Japanese restaurant chat was deepening when a vibration from my pocket shattered the peace.
Zrng- zrng- zrngzrngzrng! My phone screamed like a banshee. Even pocketed, the thigh-shaking intensity was insane.
"Looks urgent. Check it."
Baek Ho-dol hyung smiled kindly, setting down his glass. I bowed apologetically.
"No, hyungnim. These guys always spam nonsense when I'm drinking. Ignore 'em."
I went to mute it instead of powering off, but it kept raging. Not even a minute later, calls cut and redialed instantly, messages piling on till my leg went numb.
Finally, Baek hyung cleared his throat with a sigh.
"I get you're being polite, but this screams emergency. I'm getting anxious just watching—go take it."
"...Sorry. Excuse me a sec."
I slunk out like a criminal. Door shut, curses flew.
"What fucking asshole calls during important talk...?"
In the hall corner, I lit up the screen. Disaster zone: dozens of missed calls, endless messages.
"Hah..."
A dry laugh escaped. Celta Vigo to Man City? No final club signatures, no flight booked. How the hell did they know?
Then Cha Daehyeok's name filled the screen, ringing again.
"Yeah. Daehyeok-ah."
"Hyung! Saw the article? Total chaos out there."
"What article? No announcement yet."
"Romano. Da Fabrizio Romano just dropped your name with HWG (Here We Go)."
My mind blanked.
"For real? That guy's sources are insane. I haven't even packed, let alone landed at City—how?!"
"Didn't tell from me. HWG king for a reason."
I hung up, leaned against the wall. Europe's transfer overlord, da Fabrizio Romano. His "Here We Go" was as good as official. Untouchable tier-1. Occasional slips, but naming you meant clubs' top brass had sealed it.
"No wonder these idiots are losing it..."
Haaland, Pep Guardiola, Manchester City. Friends' frenzy made sense now.
Deep sigh, phone to chest. Time to face Baek hyung. If I'd delayed telling him even a bit... might've been harder to sway his heart. Timing's a bitch.
Lee Jinhak got Vice President Choi Miura's call at the airport, leading to his face-to-face with Yoon Seungwoo.