EPL Debut: Three Blondes and "Ryan, Get In There!"
With Pep's shout of "Ryan, get in there!" I rose from the bench and headed to the touchline. Pep grabbed my shoulder like he was trying to crush it and whispered fiercely in my ear.
"You read the flow. Rip open the spaces and distribute the ball. Got it?"
"Got it."
I stepped onto the pitch with a touch of nerves. I could feel the home fans' eyes on me from here. Luckily, we were up 2-0 against Tottenham, so there wasn't much pressure. Being a sub, I didn't need to prove everything right away—that'd only be possible if I were Lionel Messi or something. Realistically, I quickly analyzed the meta: picturing Haaland's runs and Marmoush's infiltrations, figuring out where to receive the ball so they could break forward when I did. The moment I came on, Man City's build-up shifted from Marmoush's solo dribble show to the precise machine Pep wanted.
- Here comes Ryan making his debut! Pep's subbing out Bernardo Silva for Ryan. It's about shoring up the defense for any late threats in the second half.
- Ryan receives it and lays it off first touch without looking back! Oh, check out that pass! Tottenham's midfield just turned into idiots in seconds?
The game flowed like a back-and-forth battle. Tottenham pushed their line high from defense, dominating midfield numbers, so it was fast-paced. Already 2-0 up, they were gunning for a comeback—sharper than the first half, for sure.
55th minute. I had the ball near the halfway line. Tottenham's Bissouma came in rough, but I shrugged him off with some body feinting. Vision opened up. Way ahead, that monster-physical Haaland was twisting to break the line.
I placed the ball on my instep and rifled it low and hard. A through-ball slicing between three defenders.
Thwack—! Vicario rushed out and cleared it before Haaland could get a foot to it. Tottenham punching above their weight with some keeper sense.
- Oh, Ryan! Exquisite pass. A bit too long maybe, but Vicario races out and smashes it clear.
- Coming out that quick makes it tough even for Haaland. Vicario the keeper read it perfectly.
62nd minute.
- Ryan in midfield changes the positioning right away. Tottenham's Bentancur looks lost. No idea who to mark.
Gaps started showing in Tottenham's all-out attack lineup.
81st minute. Their high defensive line caught my eye. I received near halfway, spun half a turn to evade pressure, and spotted Haaland's blonde head sneaking behind.
No hesitation—I chipped the bottom of the ball sharply with my instep.
Shwooo—!
The ball arced like a guided missile, just grazing Romero's height and landing perfectly at Haaland's feet.
- Ryan's long ball! Magical. A trajectory that turned the defensive line into fools!
- Haaland takes it! One-on-one! Shot—!!! GOAL! Man City's third! Ryan's debut assist explodes!
Before the net even rippled, Haaland roared and sprinted to the corner flag. He sat cross-legged like he was meditating, radiating such a strong aura it looked like he was gathering qi. For a split second, I swear I saw blue energy rising and fading from his body. Hallucination? Worried he'd go into some trance, I ran over with the teammates. He grinned brightly like nothing happened, sharing the joy, and I capped it with a high-five.
These Man City psychos. Just lob it into space and they devour it. This is why you join City.
After some jostling, the final whistle blew. 3-0. A satisfying win. Wiping sweat as I crossed the pitch, I saw the dejected Tottenham players.
First up was Micky van de Ven. "Good game, Lion."
"Yeah, you too, Micky."
His handshake felt warm—not his hand, but damn, his face was sculpted. I'd thought my Western genes held up, but those eyes... eye sockets? So deep. I imagined diving into them, snapped out before turning gay, and yanked my hand away. No way I'm going BL. Get lost.
A bit further, sub Lucas Bergvall was hanging his head. Bergvall? Good feet, huh. I patted his shoulder. "Bergvall, good work."
"...Thanks."
His side profile as he muttered and passed made me sigh. Holy shit, this guy's face too. Then another blonde—Haaland. Fuck. No, teammate. We exchanged greetings and headed to the locker room, but I spotted white tape scraps and crushed water bottles littering the ground. Mo Chanhee popped into my head.
Chanhee's a master actor in these spots. Win with a high rating? He bends down in prime camera view to pick up trash like clockwork. Next day, YouTube floods with "Even Brits Amazed by Mo Chanhee's Character" or "The Pitch Janitor".
But it's calculated selective morality. Weirdly, lose or bomb? He bolts from the mixed zone faster than anyone. Gold bars on the ground? Wouldn't pick 'em up.
His logic's simple: When shining, need tools to amp the "nice guy" image. Vanish when blame's due, hog glory and flaunt moral superiority. Less sportsmanship, more engineered PR. Fans cheer the clips, but teammates know: He's picking reputation shards, not trash. Gotta have this showmanship to rule as poster boy in the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans' sanctuary. Can't just speak truth and critique—too risky. Slight mismatch? Attacks rain. "I'm the good boy, you're bad" turns critics into villains. Facts don't matter. Image is sacred, and this bandwagon nation won't defy public logic. Even I had to reach this level to fight back. Normies get it: Defying the sanctuary's brutal.
Showmanship. Essential to manipulate these bandwagons—not just soccer, politics, dealing with people.
Should I pick one up?
I chuckled. If I started here, fans wouldn't melt—they'd go, "Ryan on drugs?" No need or skill for fake nice-guy syndrome.
Fans want killer passes crunching defenders' skulls and unflinching defiance to the 50 Million Bandwagon Fans, not saintly vibes.
I stared at the water bottle by my foot and crushed it deliberately.
Crunch—.
With a crisp pop, I held my head high and strode to the locker room. A genuine winner's strut beats Chanhee's hunched retreat any day.
Quick towel-off in the locker room, and flashbulbs exploded. No time to savor the three points—mics shoved under my chin.
A familiar Korean question pierced the British press scrum.
"Debut assist straight away! How do you rate your performance today?"
I shrugged casually. "Not bad. Honestly, less me and more Haaland burying that tough one."
"Now a Korean at the world's top club, Manchester City. Thoughts?"
"Feels good. Wearing this blue kit and owning the Etihad? Everyone's dream. Feeling the Korean fans' support live too. Proud, and got the responsibility to prove it on the pitch."
Atmosphere warming—then a dagger question.
"You mentioned responsibility. Rumors say Ryu Rion meddled behind the scenes in Yoon Seungwoo's national team appointment, pushing him via association execs. True? Will you take responsibility if proven?"
The noisy mixed zone went library-quiet. Page-turn would echo. I stared down the reporter.