The National Audit Circus
The Incheon Airport arrival hall was already a madhouse. The moment I stepped out of the gate in my Manchester City training kit, hundreds of camera flashes assaulted my retinas. Bodyguards shoved a path open, and reporters swarmed in, jamming mics right up under my chin.
“Ryu Rion! Why did you agree to testify at the National Assembly audit?”
“Criticism's blowing up in the UK about this hasty administration—how's the vibe at the club?”
“Ryu Rion! With the league in full swing, what's it like being called to testify at the audit?”
I adjusted my sunglasses and cracked a smile. The reason I'd worn the City kit? To burn the Manchester City name into the public's minds, obviously.
“What feelings? Pep sends his regards. He asked if the Korean National Assembly's that serious about football tactics. Wants to invite you lawmakers to Manchester sometime so you can learn how to pick a starting lineup.”
I eyed the suddenly silent reporters and kept going.
“Oh, and the club staff sent their regards too. They said if Korea's so good at football, maybe ditch the politics and stick to the pitch.”
Coughs erupted from the crowd. They knew it was a joke, but it still stung like hell.
“I'll save the rest for the hearing.”
I tossed out a quick goodbye and bolted from the airport.
Yeouido National Audit chamber. Flanking me in the witness seats were the power players of Korean football: stone-faced Kim Myeonggyu, association president; poised Yoon Seungwoo, national team coach; Lee Jinhak, technical director, nervously shuffling papers; and Seo Taeyoung, the former committee chair, looking gaunt after his resignation.
Before them loomed a red timer ticking down the remaining time, and lawmakers—self-proclaimed voices of the people—sat glaring with barely contained rage. Their eyes gleamed with the greed of fishermen who'd hooked a big one. At least that's how it looked to me. What would poison dart frog tadpoles look like if they turned human?
The second questioning kicked off, and the room exploded into shouts. The first lawmaker up slammed a stack of documents on the desk to open fire.
“Lee Jinhak! You went to Coach Yoon's house during the hiring process, right? What the hell were you begging for? Is that normal procedure?”
Lee Jinhak answered tensely.
“Well... it wasn't begging so much as explaining Korean football's philosophy...”
“Enough! Just answer the damn question! We're not here for excuses. The public's watching. The public!”
“...Yes, I went, but it was within the delegated authority...”
“Hey! You talking back now? You think the public's a joke? What's with that attitude? You think a lawmaker's a pushover?”
Watching from the side, my mouth went bitter. Was I supposed to call this questioning? It looked more like a one-man show for his party's YouTube channel—raw footage of him yelling to rile up the base. That lawmaker couldn't care less about the technical process Lee Jinhak was trying to explain. All he needed was the juicy image of showing up at a coach's door at 11 p.m. And that's our hero lawmaker? The 50 Million Bandwagon Fans elected that clown, so who the hell are we to complain.
Next, the arrows turned to former chair Seo Taeyoung—the real meat of the issue: the legitimacy of the coach hiring.
“Seo Taeyoung, who were the final three candidates before you resigned? Was Yoon Seungwoo number one?”
Seo Taeyoung dredged up his memory.
“From what I recall, two foreign coaches and Yoon Seungwoo. Internally, Yoon was our top pick.”
“Then why'd you resign after all that?”
“Health reasons, and I felt the limits of the chair position.”
“What do you mean by 'limits'?”
“After narrowing candidates and reporting to the association, that's when I hit those limits. The report was done, my role was over, so I stepped down.”
Seo was talking about the report from back when I'd gone up for that meeting. So yeah, he'd recommended Yoon as number one, but the association pushed back, creating friction. I'd guessed as much, but confirmation: Yoon was top choice. Meaning Kim Myeonggyu had opposed him from the start?
Another lawmaker jumped in.
“So suddenly Lee Jinhak grabs full power and hires Yoon. Was there an order? From the president?”
Kim Myeonggyu bowed low.
“I never directed a specific person. Everything was within the system...”
“That's why the system's broken, and we're auditing you, President Kim.”
The lawmakers' attitudes were downright trashy. They'd cut witnesses off before they could speak, ignoring logic for personal attacks on demeanor and character. No real questions—just barking. Busy citizens wouldn't dissect this anyway. All that'd stick from the media clips: roaring lawmakers and stammering witnesses. Brains fill in the gaps with bias. The mob's comments would echo the frame of guilt-by-shouting.
I sank into deep cynicism watching this circus.
They weren't here because they loved football.
The association's incompetence was guilty as charged. But these lawmakers gunning to judge them? Just as repulsive.
People who never set foot near a K League stadium suddenly grab the mic when outrage boils and association-bashing racks up views.
They just amplify the public's rage points—no thought to structural flaws in Korean football or youth development independence.
Cutting people off with that high-and-mighty 'I'm the boss' crap? How's that any different from the association's arbitrary bullshit they rag on?
This wasn't a truth-seeking arena. It was a political Colosseum: who could make the other look like the bigger idiot.
Right as I deemed the whole thing pathetic, one lawmaker adjusted his glasses and turned to me.
“Alright, Manchester City's Ryu Rion. You've claimed no involvement watching all this. Can you tell us what was said in that meeting?”
“The national team was in chaos internally, association requested a meeting. They investigated the situation, I answered.”
“No leading the coach hire or anything?”
“Nope.”
I leaned right into the mic.
“Lawmaker, before you ask, mind if I ask one thing? Do you know last week's K League results or the national team's tactical issues sitting here?”
The room froze like I'd dumped ice water.
“What... what the hell? Right now?”
“Answer me. If you know jack shit about football and just hauled a player here to beg votes with your yelling, maybe skip that and pass one more livelihood bill. Better for the people, no?”
The lawmaker bellowed.
“Just answer properly! Think the Assembly's a joke? Witness Ryu Rion! Know why Korean fans are furious? Lee Jinhak lied about delegating to the committee, begged at Yoon's door to get him hired. Special treatment? Answer the question. Answer. This ain't playtime.”
I pulled the mic closer and spoke calmly.
“Lawmaker, leaked articles from the hiring said foreign coaches prepped dozens of PPT slides for interviews. Yoon skips the interview, gets begged at his door, and accepts. You call that special treatment?”
“Obviously! How's a no-interview guy national team boss? Procedural legitimacy's trashed. You football guys might not get it, but you need to learn what procedure means.”
I glanced at Coach Yoon, then back.
“Lawmaker, in football, validation ain't done with words in an interview room. Yoon proved it on the pitch with two straight K League titles. By your logic, if Pep Guardiola wants the Korean job, you'd fail him for no interview after listing three strengths?”
The lawmaker drummed the table in frustration.
“Think that's a fair analogy? This is auditing the Football Association, a public entity! Fans are asking why our coach skipped the interview!”
“That's the comedy. Interviews are for strangers. Forcing a formality on someone who's already shown tactics and skill on the field? That's the real waste. You're nitpicking stamps on paper, not football. Think this is some corporate HR desk? When did football hiring become that? Can't figure why you're framing it as 'hiring' to call it wrong.”