Joining Man City: Fan Wars and Coach Confirmation
I wrapped up my meal with Baek Ho-dol and flew straight back to England.
Just a few days later, Manchester City's official YouTube channel dropped the video. The title was simple.
[FIRST DAY] The Korean Genius in City Football Academy
The camera panned through a rainy Manchester morning, into the clubhouse. There I was, decked out in a deep sky-blue tracksuit, striding into the indoor training center. With football fans worldwide glued to their screens, the first thing that popped up was a massive frame. Erling Haaland.
The Nordic beast spotted me from across the room and lumbered over. Even on screen, the intimidation was off the charts. He clapped me on the shoulder with a grin.
"Hey, heard about you. They say your passes are like GPS?"
I met his eyes without flinching.
"Yeah. Nice to meet you. How tall are you? Taller than Rüdiger."
Haaland burst out laughing and threw an arm around my neck.
Next up was Kevin De Bruyne sweating it out on the bike. He wiped his face with a towel, glanced over, and gave a casual wave.
"Welcome."
"Yeah. Thanks, big guy—no, Kevin."
After quick handshakes with the world's best, I headed deeper in. Phil Foden and Rodri, loosening up on foam rollers, came over.
"Hey mate! Welcome to wet Manchester!"
Foden smirked playfully, bumping my shoulder, while Rodri gripped my hand firmly with a serious nod.
"Let's do this."
Foden's British accent was a bit tricky, but hey, at least he wasn't from Liverpool.
This wasn't our first run-in. We'd faced off in the Champions League when I was at Celta Vigo. Drew that one, but whatever. The rough-and-tumble welcomes from these grown-ass pros became the YouTube highlight, and those clips turned into thumbnails racking up millions of views in no time.
YouTube comments and communities were a total warzone. My supporters clashing with Mo Chanhee's rabid fanbase, posts flying in by the second.
Midnight in Manchester, England.
Staring at the drizzle outside, I set my smartphone down. The screen still boiled with praise and curses aimed at me.
Midnight here was morning in Korea. That's when the vibration hit.
In the end, Lee Jinhak went with Yoon Seungwoo. The guy who fled the airport under a hail of candy ten years ago was drinking from Korean football's poisoned chalice again.
In the empty room, I muttered softly.
"Even after all that shit, he accepted again? World Cup draw got easier, 32nd round's a gimme anyway. Just need those two puzzle pieces in place."
Korean online communities exploded harder than my Man City news.
The world was in chaos, but now I was sure the board was set right.
"But where the hell do these leakers keep coming from?"
A few days earlier, conversation between Lee Jinhak and Yoon Seungwoo.
Yoon Seungwoo, who'd been listening silently to Lee Jinhak's plea, finally spoke softly.
"Director, I'm a K-League coach right now. The responsibility to fans and players isn't light. Even sitting here is a huge burden for me."
Yoon's stance was firm. Knowing this was his last shot, Lee Jinhak begged with all sincerity.
"I know. I'll shoulder all the blame and pressure. But we've concluded no one but you can do it. You're the one who best understands the technical philosophy we've set, the only one who can link all age-group teams. For Korean football's century-long future, please make the call one more time."
Lee spent over an hour persuading. He laid bare the realistic limits he'd felt meeting foreign candidates, the desperate state of the association—no sugarcoating. Instead of fake flattery, he showed Korean football's ugly truth: players overstepping, team factions, duty team splits. Everything.
Yoon listened quietly. Rationally, for his own safety and rep, he should refuse. But the greater cause of building the system, plus the association's genuine pledge—not to use and discard like the 2014 World Cup—started shaking him.
"Give me time to think. Can't answer right here."
Yoon broke the heavy silence. Lee saw a glimmer of hope, bowed deeply, and left.
Heading home from the bakery, Yoon walked the night streets alone, asking himself: What is football to me? And what is Korean football demanding of me now?
Past pains and glories as national coach flashed by. He knew better than anyone how agonizing it was to walk back into that storm of abuse. But Lee Jinhak's sincerity, the task of systematizing Korean football, and the association's promise to serve humbly unlike 2014—it all weighed.
After five hours of short but endless torment, as dawn's chill settled, Yoon decided.
Next morning, Yoon called Lee Jinhak. For Korean football, he'd shoulder the heavy load again—a lonely, weighty response laced with conditional acceptance.
Yoon's conditions:
Regardless of National Team Operation Rules Article 12 Paragraph 2, association to agree with K-League club on coach appointment.
Respect club's opinion on timing; cooperate to assist club duties until requested.
Appoint European coaching staff.
Yoon demanded at least two Europeans. Not just senior team—authority to share technical philosophy with age-group teams (U-23 etc.) and link them.
Implanting Korean football's technical philosophy (MIK, Made In Korea) on the ground, beyond mere results. Guarantee contract through 2026 World Cup and 2027 Asian Cup for long-term buildup.
These were crossroads conditions: save or kill Korean football. Basically, "Make the powerful act like the underdog."
Etihad Stadium's media briefing room.
Against a deep sky-blue backdrop packed with Manchester City emblems and sponsor logos, I faced a barrage of camera flashes. Next to me sat legendary director Txiki Begiristain with a satisfied smile. The room buzzed with global football press and Korean correspondents flown in last-minute, thick tension in the air.
After questions on my signing thoughts and tactical role at City, a Korean reporter finally grabbed the mic.
Hold up. Korean reporter? Ah. Looking at the Korean press faces, they seemed more interested in something else than City. Probably gonna ask about the coach. Yeah. Not surprised. Let's see the dogs bite.