The 192nd Manchester Derby
After stepping off the plane from the Manchester Derby hype, I dove into the Korean football community's opinions from the comfort of my bed at home.
Even after a 4-1 thrashing, the "giveaway soccer" criticism showed no signs of dying down.
I stared at the post for a moment, lost in thought. Sure, you could debate the coach's tactics freely, but if the public mood stayed like this... I had no clue what they even wanted.
"Still, I agree with part of it."
I shut off the tablet. I knew the bandwagon fans crying "giveaway soccer" were just hating on Yoon Seungwoo, but to earn real respect, the coach did need bolder lineups. Like ditching the aging fullbacks for fresh blood like Kim Jinu last time. The midfield and attack needed more variety too.
That said, they'd only played two games. Calling for a total overhaul right now felt harsh, even to me.
Stepping into Man City's CFA training ground, a familiar voice smacked me in the ears.
"Hey, you bastard! Guess how many I scored this time?"
A giant of a man barreled over and thumped my shoulder. Erling Haaland. His face beamed with uncontainable glee.
"Norway's finally smelling the World Cup finals! The lads are on fire. Did you see Odegaard's passes? I was just standing there and goals kept coming!"
Norway's national team was riding a golden generation wave lately. Haaland was buzzing, bragging to teammates about his reps' results.
Egypt's rising star Marmoush jumped in without missing a beat.
"Hey, even if Norway does well, can they beat Africa's king? We've got big bro Salah holding it down. Egypt's in its golden era right now."
Being at Man City meant everyone was an international pick, so the locker room was full of national team war stories. England's Foden sipped coffee with a quiet smile, while Portugal's Bernardo Silva preached about his team's flawless tactics.
That's when, mid-changing into training kit, one of the coaches tapped my shoulder.
"Ryan. Pep wants you in his office."
I shrugged and knocked on the manager's door.
The room hummed with the clack of magnets on the tactics board and Pep Guardiola's murmurs, as always. It still blew my mind facing a legend like him. He didn't look up from his iPad until I entered.
"Ryan. You're here."
Pep finally raised his head, his clear eyes meeting mine.
"Saw the Oman game. That's the creativity my tactics need for Man City."
Praise, but his brow furrowed. He pulled up a chair, sat close, and lowered his voice.
"But Ryan... your performances are too good. It's worrying. Korea won't drag you into some parliamentary hearing again, right?"
Last time, I'd scared him by explaining Korea's messy football politics—how I could get subpoenaed anytime. It had stuck deep.
True to his genius rep, Pep obsessed over minimizing variables to win titles. No one knew a single player's tactical impact better.
I swallowed a laugh at his anxious gaze. Only a win-obsessed mastermind would worry like this. Time to put him at ease.
"Won't happen again, boss."
Only then did he exhale long, leaning back as his rigid shoulders finally relaxed.
"Good. Saw the article where you shut down those grass-blaming whiners in Korea. Loved it. That's the mentality Man City players need."
His eyes sparked anew as he flipped open his tactics notebook. Worry gone, the gambler's madness returned.
"Alright. Let's prep for United properly. Time to remind them who's boss of Manchester."
He shoved a red magnet across the board with a grin.
I nodded.
Derby day dawned at last.
On the team bus to Etihad Stadium, I stared out the window. Fans screamed from every corner, faces twisted with desperation and venom. This wasn't just three points—it was a fight for city's soul, proving who truly owned Manchester.
In the locker room, Pep's final briefing kicked off. Red magnets clustered thick on the whiteboard.
"Key today: midfield control. Don't give this guy space."
He pointed to Bruno Fernandes' name. United's heartbeat, a killer passer who could flip games solo. Flanked by Kobbie Mainoo's tireless energy and Casemiro's brutal pressing.
"Bruno's prickly but dangerous. Mainoo's calm beyond his years."
The master's mind brimmed with United disassembly plans.
I laced my boots in silence. Midfield showdown. While Bruno flailed and yelled, I'd carve their gaps with cold precision. Mainoo's fire, Casemiro's grit—just puzzles to solve.
At the tunnel entrance, United's lineup glared back. Bruno already looked primed to whine at the ref; the rest seethed with poison.
I scanned them coolly.
"Let's go."
Captain Bernardo Silva's curt call unleashed a tidal roar from the tunnel. The stadium scoreboard flashed City and United emblems side by side amid a blue sea.
Today's Manchester sky would drown in blue again. The 50,000-strong crowd's heat was electric. That's the derby weight.
Tunnel cam caught our tense faces; the booth mic lit up.
"Welcome to the Theatre of Blue! The 192nd Manchester Derby, watched worldwide, is moments from curtain rise!"
The local announcer's hype blared through speakers.
"Key matchup: Pep's crown prince Ryan versus United's heart, Bruno Fernandes. After dominating internationals, how will Ryan cook one of the Prem's toughest in Bruno? All eyes on it."
The co-commentator chimed in.
"Spot on. United's banking on Casemiro's savvy and Mainoo's grit to squeeze Ryan. Ten Hag's lineup screams pass denial. But Pep looks unfazed—like 'whatever you got, we'll smash it.'"
Bruno beside me in the tunnel huffed ragged breaths, yanking up his socks, barking orders, then shot me a wary, hostile glance.
I ignored it, eyes forward.
We stepped onto the pitch behind the refs.
"Players entering! Etihad's erupting! Blue waves crashing!"
Teams dispersed to their halves. I stood near halfway, eyeing United's setup. Bruno at attacking mid, backed solid by Casemiro and Mainoo. A red cage built to trap me.
I smirked faintly. I'd dismantle it piece by piece over 90 minutes.
The ref checked his watch, whistle in mouth. Noise dipped; tension thickened.
"All set. Who claims Manchester?"
Beep—!
The whistle blew, ball rolled. The 192nd Manchester Derby was on.