Ragged Pitch, Broken Plays, Captain's Meltdown
I took my first touch and thought to myself.
Palestine's two lines of defense were rock-solid. Maybe because they'd been drilling it so consistently, but they looked even tighter than usual.
- Ah, Mo Chanhee! That touch is too heavy!
The first forward pass from the back. The ball, which should've nestled smoothly onto his instep, hit the patchy grass like a frog and bounced wildly. This guy was already infamous for his poor touches even on pristine turf—what a nightmare with this shit underfoot. No wonder his mistakes were piling up worse than usual.
Coach Yoon Seungwoo's possession-based, technical style was slamming headfirst into the wall of this goddamn pitch.
- The grass is in terrible shape. Our players are trying short passes to build up, but the ball's bouncing irregularly—they can't even control it!
Bam!
Palestine's defender Musab cleared it aggressively. No fancy build-up here—just a brute-force long ball aimed straight at their target man striker, Odeh Dabbagh.
The ball sliced through the air and dropped onto a divot in our half. Jang Kangcheol stepped up to intercept, but the erratic bounce skipped over his head and thudded perfectly into Dabbagh's chest.
- Dabbagh! He's shrugging off the physical challenge! Dangerous!
Dabbagh spun away, dragging our defender like dead weight. Overwhelming physicality paired with direct, no-frills soccer—no fancy tricks needed. Whack—the shot sailed wide. Dabbagh tilted his head, staring at the grass. Same conditions for everyone. Their turf sucked too. No excuses.
The worse the pitch, the more it punishes teams that try to carve paths with precise short passes. Meanwhile, hoof-it-and-head-it squads thrive. Right now, Palestine was playing their strongest game on this ragged patch.
I gritted my teeth as the ball bounced under my feet again while trying to claim it in midfield. Every time Dabbagh and Abu Ali bullied our backline with their physicality on the counter, the stadium filled with screams, groans, and boos.
The match, born from fury at the association, had devolved into mockery of our inept performance. Past the 30-minute mark, the scoreboard still sat at a stubborn 0-0. We'd dominated possession near 70-30, but Palestine's low block grew denser by the minute.
The commentary booth was starting to sound desperate.
- Possession is overwhelming, but no end product! Lacking tactical flexibility—they can't break down the two lines of defense. That empty possession we worried about since the coach's appointment? It's on full display!
Then, a breakthrough in the stagnant flow.
Tak Go-gang picked up the ball in midfield, shook off pressure with silky skill, and one-touched it to me. Before it even reached my foot, I'd already spotted Mo Chanhee's run.
Thud!
The pass left my toe and threaded straight through four Palestinian defenders like a ruler. Classic line-breaking pass. The kind that freezes defenders' brains even more precisely after my time under Pep.
- Oh! PSV's Tak Go-gang to Man City's Ryu Rion—dream connection! Mo Chanhee! Perfect chance!
Mo Chanhee burst past the defensive line, controlled it, and swung his right foot. Sixty thousand fans half-rose in their seats.
Whiff!
But the ball rocketed skyward, nowhere near the goal. A home run. Cheers turned to deep sighs and boos. Mo Chanhee, looking sheepish, glared at the grass underfoot and stomped it like it owed him money.
- Ah... what was that? PSV pass to Man City link-up was perfect, but such a shame. Mo Chanhee, did the grass bounce funny? His plant foot looked unstable.
Or maybe it's just your skill, asshole?
That cowardly gesture of testing the turf looked uglier to me than any tactical failure.
Another chance came. Tak Go-gang again, this time from the right flank. He feinted past one defender with flair, cut inside, drawing three markers. Then, he slipped a genius switch to Mo Chanhee on the opposite side.
Open prairie in front of Mo Chanhee. A cutback or low cross to the far post would've been a goal for sure.
But he got greedy.
- Mo Chanhee! Going himself? Ah... dribble's too heavy!
Instead of passing, he took an extra touch to beat the defender one-on-one. In that split second, five Palestinians scrambled back into the box, building a fortress wall.
His reckless drive clipped a defender's foot, and the ball rolled harmlessly out for a corner.
- Ah... cutback timing was perfect there. Mo Chanhee, maybe captain's duty, but trying to do it all himself kills the momentum. Too many defenders!
My sanity was fraying at the edges.
What the fuck is this idiot doing? Score first, show off later, you dumb shit. Their low block's solid as hell—put the goddamn goal in first. Soccer defies logic sometimes, but recognize they're parked, for fuck's sake.
To win this—not just the game, but salvage this mess—some players' fake passion needed ripping apart first. Past the 40th minute, the stadium wasn't a pitch anymore; it was a massive dirt mound rally. Boos vibrated like earthquakes, dragging at the players' ankles.
I took matters into my own hands. Picked up the ball near the halfway line and charged the narrow gap between their first and second lines. The surest way to crack their vaunted low block? Rip space at speeds they can't predict.
As the two central defenders closed in, I whipped my right foot without hesitation.
Thwack!
The heavy strike rocketed toward the corner, only for a Palestinian to dive and block it. Body on the line. They were throwing themselves like it was war.
- Ah, Man City's Ryu Rion! Class apart! Carves a mid-range shot from that tiny gap. Palestinians blocking with their lives!
Two minutes later, another opening. Tak Go-gang from PSV cut in from the right, exchanging sharp one-twos with Mo Chanhee. His movement was spot-on—pulled two defenders, return pass trajectory solid.
Mo Chanhee's final touch? Disaster.
- Mo Chanhee again! Ah... ball's too heavy! Oh, he's down!
His plant foot sank into the ragged turf as he tried to control and drive. He tumbled, balance lost, ball rolling tamely to the Palestinian keeper.
Then Mo Chanhee exploded, pounding the pitch with his fist. Like the grass was robbing him of his brilliance.
- That's the pitch grabbing his ankle. Mo Chanhee had a golden chance, but Seoul World Cup Stadium's grass is atrocious. Too harsh for a class player like him, right?
Broadcast excuses are mostly bullshit. The hot-blooded masses would nod along: Yeah, it's the grass. But nah—bad first touch, slipped chasing it. Blame the turf my ass.
I clenched my jaw and dropped back to defense.
Right before halftime, I intercepted in midfield and fired a low, quick pass to Park Jeongu. As he turned for the angle, a Palestinian snuck in and nicked it.
That's when it happened.
"Hey! Pass it! Give it here!"
Mo Chanhee, swarmed by three defenders with no passing lane, screamed at Park Jeongu. Pure tantrum—fuck his position, just give me the ball.
The ref's whistle blew for halftime right after.
Twweeet! Tweee!
Mo Chanhee snapped. No outlet for his missed chances, or scared of the crowd? He ripped off his yellow captain's armband in a rage and flung it to the dirt. Cameras missed it, but players and fans saw. Then he snatched it back, tightening it like it was too loose.
A national team captain tossing his band when things go south? I don't give a shit about armbands flying—player's personality, whatever. Eat some hate, no big deal. But the hypocrisy grated. The guy who preaches responsibility wearing the captain's band in interviews? Then chucks it like a brat? That's the dissonance. I do what I want, responsibility be damned, so crowds just shrug: Eh, that's him.