Away from the Idol Fandom – Oman Match Begins
The night air in Muscat, Oman, was hot and humid, but it felt far more refreshing than the suffocating pressure back in Seoul.
Coach Yoon Seungwoo's tactical drills were brutal. To counter Oman's quick counterattacks, we fine-tuned our defensive line spacing down to the meter, and for attacks, we drilled relentlessly on slicing through spaces. Once training wrapped, the players collapsed onto the grass like they'd planned it, spread-eagled.
I gulped down ragged breaths and grabbed my water bottle. That's when Bong Hyeoksu, who'd been silently stretching beside me, nudged me.
"Rion, that tactical movement you pulled earlier was solid. You nailed exactly what the coach wanted."
I took a swig and plopped down next to Bong Hyeoksu, the spiritual pillar of the national team.
"Tactics are decent enough. Now the guys just need to get their heads in the game."
I scanned our teammates chattering noisily on one side of the pitch.
"You feel it too, hyung? The kids, me—everyone looks more at ease. Away games feel comfortable, don't they?"
Bong Hyeoksu caught his breath for a moment. "Just me? I actually feel more relaxed here."
He wiped the sweat from his face with a towel and looked at me.
"Away in Oman feels comfy? You're a weird one, hyung."
"Look at their faces. They're way more alive than during the Palestine game in Seoul. Away suits my constitution, I guess." Bong Hyeoksu glanced at the others and nodded.
"I thought the same. The vibe's so much calmer than home games. No boos, maybe?"
"Just the boos?"
As I pressed, Bong Hyeoksu narrowed his eyes, staring into the distance. He fell silent for a bit before speaking.
"The atmosphere in football... it's definitely changed from the old days."
I was a little surprised inside. Classic Bong Hyeoksu—seeing beyond the surface.
"How's it different?"
"When I first joined the national team as the maknae. Korean football was a real war back then. Seniors' glares alone made your legs shake. Even if you twisted an ankle in training, you'd crawl to keep playing—that kind of killer instinct. Everyone was obsessed with football itself. Victory, skill—that was everything."
Thick regret laced Bong Hyeoksu's voice.
"So? What's different now?"
"Now... the fire's not what it used to be. Sure, these kids' skills are miles better than ours back then. But that raw bloodlust on the pitch? It's gone. They don't see football as war anymore—more like a show."
I smirked and chimed in.
"You're right, hyung. These days, footballers think they're athletes? Nah, they're idols."
Bong Hyeoksu eyed me at my blunt words. I kept going.
"The fanbase shifted. They don't watch for tactics or analysis anymore—it's turned into idol fandom. That so-called female idol fandom has taken over football. Not saying that's bad. Tickets sell, merch flies off shelves—great."
I jerked my chin toward some juniors primping for the cameras in the distance.
"Problem's the players. Fans aren't judging skill—they're here for 'oppa.' So the kids aren't playing football; they're hamming it up."
Bong Hyeoksu gave a wry smile, like he couldn't deny it.
"And crucially, the scoreboard here's quiet."
"Scoreboard?"
"In Seoul, when things drag, they flash players' faces on the big screen. What do you hear from the stands? 'Oaaaah!' Screams. That's cheering? It's an idol concert."
Thorns crept into my voice. Bong Hyeoksu listened intently, intrigued.
"Football's a flow sport. One 'ooh' and the tension snaps. Crowd's not hyped for the play—they're reacting to their oppa. Players get confused: 'It's not about kicking the ball well; it's about the charisma.'"
"Rion, you don't hold back."
"Ain't wrong, hyung. When their face pops up, they act shy but love it inside. Post-match, first thing: SNS check. Did my pic look hot? What're the fans saying? Guys like that fighting a war? Nah, playing celebrity."
I spat the words out.
"That's why I like it here. Scoreboard shows our faces? Oman fans just hurl abuse. So players watch opponents' defenders instead. Pure focus—this is what national team matches should be." I shared with Bong Hyeoksu the limits I'd felt in my past life, beyond just the bandwagon culture.
"Hyung, you know? In my dream, I felt the national team's limits. You should've seen those clowns. Mid-game or on the bench—if their face hit the screen, poof: athlete to idol. Fluffing hair, winking, finger hearts... When they should be tracking the ball, defensive line—checking how cute they look instead. That's when I saw Korea's player limits. We're not Brazil, but they're pulling that shit—pissed me off."
Bong Hyeoksu bit his lip bitterly. He'd felt it too.
"What we're sensing in home games? No 'oohs' from the stands when faces flash. Most play for that scream. Club league mentality in national jerseys—any pressure, and their mentality shatters. Drunk on fandom wars, thinking they're real celebs."
I splashed the last of my water on the ground to wrap up.
"Football ain't emotions or fan service. It's systems, war. Korean football's boundary collapsed. Home stadium? Not a pitch—a massive idol concert hall. That's why we watch untalented hacks strut on popularity."
Hyung clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Rion, not a word wrong. That's why this Oman match matters. We show 'em what's real."
We stood wordlessly. Coach Yoon Seungwoo called from afar.
Time to show the fools who'd forgotten real football—and the blinded masses—that a ball shaking the net beats a face on the screen any day.
Oman match day. Locker room. Mo Chanhee flashed a bright smile, latest smartphone in hand for a team selfie.
"Hey, guys! Quick selfie before kickoff—fans are waiting!"
His sunny suggestion was almost relaxing. While some agonized over crushing Oman. My fist—and Bong Hyeoksu's—trembled faintly as Oman's overwhelming boos from outside flooded the locker room.
Sultan Qaboos Sports Complex in Muscat, Oman. The over-30°C night air clung stickily to our skin. The packed Oman home fans' deafening boos? Refreshing.
The scoreboard flashed the South Korea national team's lineup: 4-1-4-1.
One name stood out: Jang Kangcheol. Same age as me—we'd gone from formal to casual after a few face-to-faces. Jang Kangcheol was a unique breed. Zero fucks for fans screaming at screens or SNS hate. Just obsessed with crushing foes on grass—a blunt rock.
Did Coach Yoon know? At least in this hellish away trip, no distractions from celeb games. Solid skills too—that's why the starting nod.
I patted Jang Kangcheol's shoulder as I passed.
"Kangcheol, don't look at the scoreboard today. Oman kids wrote you're ugly."
He snorted indifferently.
"Read Arabic? I just watch the ball."
Perfect. From the commentary booth, prepared lines flowed.