Republic of Korea Galapagos
In the remaining time, Korea nearly held on to a one-goal lead by defending Cape Verde's fierce attacks with pure grit, but that bastard Mo Chanhee struck again... He acted like he was about to do something, then played a back pass that turned into a total giveaway, leading to a counterattack and a goal conceded. Sure, the defenders' lack of focus played a part too, but no one on our team—or their attackers—expected a back pass in that situation.
The final whistle blew, ending it 1-1. Final record: 0 wins, 1 draw, 2 losses—fourth in the group. Korea had to swallow the bitter pill of group stage elimination. After the match, the Korean players left the pitch with heads bowed. Maxim us de Carne's last image was that enigmatic smile in front of the cameras. Deep frustration settled in the public's hearts, along with fundamental questions about the future of Korean football—but hey, bandwagon fans gonna bandwagon. Public opinion immediately ignited calls to fire de Carne.
We wrapped up this shitty World Cup with a group stage exit and flew home, kicking off the same goddamn cycle all over again.
The uproar over firing Maxim us de Carne was right on cue. In this country's football scene, finding a scenario where the coach doesn't get sacked is probably harder than Korea winning the World Cup. Watching de Carne pack his bags in the locker room, lips pressed tight, I managed a bitter smile. There'd been conflicts, but now that it was over, I decided to forgive his rookie coach passion.
"Coach de Carne, good work out there."
I offered the perfunctory greeting, and he nodded wearily, exhaustion clear in his eyes.
"Ryan, you were right after all... Sorry to say this now that it's all done."
He called me Ryan. My real name isn't Ryan, but the world pronounces it that way, and I've gotten used to it. Our final conversation wasn't exactly heartwarming. We were just business, after all.
And as expected, Korea erupted into a massive boiling pot once more.
The brutal atmosphere hit us the moment we landed at the airport—familiar as ever. I wanted to unplug from the internet for a few days, but reality doesn't let you escape. The national team group chat was flooded with screenshots nonstop. Standing out were the so-called experts spewing rage disguised as commentary. A joint live stream from Mundre and Park Hamsu.
I hit play, and they started unloading their fury.
"Alright, viewers. Does this make any sense? Huh? Round of 16? We couldn't even make the group stage—did we go to the World Cup to watch some dogs or to sightsee America?" Mundre bellowed, veins popping.
Sitting beside him, Park Hamsu was even more unhinged. "Maximus? Pfft, he's just some hack swinging wildly. Tactics? None. Player selection? Trash. Interviews? All sappy bullshit. Fire him now—that's the people's command!"
The players on the ground suffered the most from that public backlash.
I flung my phone onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard.
"Fuck... here we go again, you bandwagon bastards."
Some say they act like that out of genuine love for football. But that "love" is so volatile and violent. Any disappointing result, and it flips to hate in seconds. That's not love—it's a fucked-up way of expressing it. Imagine beating the woman you love like a dog every three days, then calling it good when you treat her nice sometimes. Domestic abusers, put your hand on your heart and think about it. That's not love. Hype up football every four years, then turn your back? Not love. So drop the shield of "love" when you swing. Might as well wield a spear—less hypocritical. You just need entertainment and a group to dump your shitty reality's stress on with justification. The 50 Million Bandwagon Fans always hunt for scapegoats. Sometimes players, sometimes coaches.
"Ignore it. Those fuckers get itchy mouths if they don't spew shit. In a few months, when the pot cools, they'll be cheering 'Go Korea players!' bullshit again."
Under crushing public pressure, the Football Association fired de Carne. They cited poor results, but I sensed they just couldn't handle the boiling point of opinion. Bunch of dumbfucks anyway.
Next, the FA approached Europe's legendary coaches. The salary offers didn't appeal, but Korea's unique football hell—the merciless bandwagon fans—repulsed them even more.
"Korea? Oh, you mean the quick-hire quick-fire coach graveyard?" one agent reportedly scoffed.
With foreigners turning them down, the FA looked domestically. Veteran coaches all shook their heads. "That's poison." They didn't want to be bandwagon bait, knowing Kim Myeongbak's life became hell.
Eventually, a few young, fiery domestic coaches stepped up, hyped on challenge and patriotism.
And without exception, none lasted over a year.
The first tried reforming the team's style but got hammered by YouTubers Mundre and Park Hamsu for "abandoning K-football's roots." Why bench top scorer Mo Chanhee? Too foreign-influenced, ignoring Korean sentiment, they cried.
The second beefed up realistic defense and faced "boring defensive football!" backlash. Park Hamsu stirred live streams: "Killed Korean football's fun—go back to K League!" Public agreed.
Players obsessed more over press conferences and online opinion than training. Prep was always lacking, tactics short-lived, the national team adrift without philosophy.
Time passed, and it became irreversible. Endless coach-sacking cycles left the team philosophy-less, class-limited. Even qualifiers grew tough against rising Asian dark horses. Indonesia pushed mass naturalization of Dutch lineage—basically Netherlands' fourth team. Vietnam and Thailand grinded growth via regional friendlies; Jordan, Oman, Iraq, Saudi, Qatar fused imports with homegrown talent—no easy games anymore. Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan surged too.
K League withered alongside. National team flops killed interest; fans mocked "all domestic scrubs anyway." Investments dried up, youth overseas moves blocked. Korea's football Galapagos-ized.
Isolated like an island, Korean football stagnated in its own league, drifting from global trends. Even pros like me in Europe muttered, "National team just kills your career." Patriotism alone couldn't justify playing for that trash amid sky-high expectations—self-harm basically. Players started holding back. Losses and draws piled up; even hard workers joined the malaise. The national team stopped trying.
After the final Asian qualifier, I unlaced my boots in the empty locker room. Tossing my sweat-soaked jersey on the floor, faint TV voices echoed: Mundre and Park Hamsu.
I laughed weakly.
"Hey, it's been doomed forever—now you cry 'doomed'? It's because of bandwagon shits like you that Myeongbak coach got ruined first."
I grabbed my boots. Tomorrow, back to my club. Vowing never to return to this vicious boiling pot, I decided to watch Korean football's bitter end from afar.
And so, Korean football perished.