The Exploded Match, the Laughable Country
I dropped all the way down below the halfway line, and PSV's midfield balance cracked just a little. Tak Go-gang had pushed forward following me, leaving that space behind him empty.
50th minute.
Manchester City came out sharpened and unleashed a barrage. Bernardo Silva and I dismantled PSV's press with fluid one-twos. I painted a shot from the edge of the box, dragging two defenders in, then slipped a perfect through ball to Savinho infiltrating on the right. The ball threaded between the defender's legs, riding the grass grain.
"Ryan's insane pass! Three defenders look like fools!"
"Savinho takes it. Cross without delay! Haaland heads it down!"
"Marmoush charging in! It's in! Equalizer! Man City resets the game!"
Pep punched the air from the bench. My intent had played out perfectly on the pitch.
"Savinho's low cross hammered home by Marmoush—score's 1-1! 56th minute."
I locked eyes with Rodri. Pep's orders were clear: 'Drag them out. Then rip them apart.'
I dropped deep, exchanging short passes with Rodri to warm up. PSV's line held firm as expected, but as we circulated from the back, cracks started forming.
"Push up, Rodri."
I fed it to Bernardo Silva on the flank. He faked possession and returned it to me. In that split second, Tak Go-gang bit.
The guy who'd hounded me all first half believed it'd work again, lunging at me like a starving beast.
The moment he went for my feet, I nudged the ball to Rodri following up. Tak Go-gang's press fell flat, exposing a gap.
"Oh! Ryan deliberately draws in Tak Go-gang! Rodri advances!"
"Rodri one-touch to Bernardo Silva! PSV's midfield stripped bare! Silva threads it toward goal!"
"The monster runs! Erling Haaland! One-on-one with the keeper! No mercy! GOOOAL! Turnaround! Man City flips the script!"
"That's it!"
Haaland crossed his legs again, eyes closed, thumbs and forefingers touching in his deep-breathing meditation celebration.
Teammates swarmed him, sharing silent ecstasy. Momentum had fully swung our way.
60th minute. PSV tried building from the back in panic.
"PSV building slowly... Tak Go-gang here... Wait, what?! Ryan sprints! Stolen!"
It washed away all the first-half frustration—a flawless interception. The moment Tak Go-gang hesitated on the ball after tormenting me, I exploded forward and hooked it from his feet. Sweet revenge.
I stabbed the stolen ball to Marmoush on the wing.
"Marmoush! Marmoush tears up the flank! Defenders in disarray! Straight to Haaland in the middle!"
Marmoush shook a defender with his flashy steps and passed to Haaland in the box. Haaland's rocket shot deflected off the keeper's hands.
"Haaland unleashes! Cannon shot!! Ahh! Keeper saves! But it's not over!"
Savinho was there. He battled for it, rolled it back, and I'd ghosted into the box's edge to collect.
Two defenders in front, but I read my teammates' runs. Marmoush and Haaland's crossed paths tore space apart.
"Marmoush!"
I delivered a pinpoint pass piercing the defenders.
"Ryan! Can this guy see paths?! Killer pass through defenders!"
Marmoush took it, shrugged off one, drove to the line, and whipped a low cutback. The monster waited at the end.
"Marmoush's perfect cutback! Haaland just needs a touch!"
"IN! Erling Haaland brace! 3-1, gap widens."
"From Ryan's midfield steal—a masterpiece! Tak Go-gang's nightmare scenario crumbles!"
The home fans' roars in Philips Stadion had vanished; only the blue uniforms' dominance reigned.
Now it felt like the real Manchester City.
I brushed past Tak Go-gang, dazed and staring blankly as I returned to midfield.
Once lit, the blue flames didn't flicker out. They raged fiercer, devouring Eindhoven's Philips Stadion. This was Manchester City's feared might, the essence of Pep Guardiola's overwhelming football.
81st minute.
Midfield control was ours completely. Rodri stood like a massive wall, blocking PSV passes and flicking loose balls to me.
I synced with Marmoush dropping deep. As defenders shifted to him, I slid a crisp pass.
Marmoush grabbed it and didn't hesitate. From the box's edge, he whipped his right foot with a defender in front.
Bang—!
A cannon midrange shot rocketed for the corner. The keeper dove and parried, but it earned a corner.
"Marmoush! Confidence through the roof! Destructive shot from there!"
"Man City's corner now. PSV feels the fear—he's in the box."
Corner kick. Bernardo Silva stepped up, eyeing the six-yard box. Haaland scrapped fiercely with PSV defenders for position. Benasil lofted a vicious arc to his head.
Haaland soared like gravity meant nothing. Two markers clung, but couldn't disrupt his landing spot.
Thwack—!
Pinpoint header. It smacked the turf and buried into the top netting. 4-1.
"Haaland! Crisp header!"
This time, no meditation—Haaland grinned wide and charged teammates. I leaped onto his back.
88th minute.
With victory sealed, PSV's focus crumbled visibly. A fatal pass error in buildup. Marmoush pounced like lightning, linking to Haaland. His shot blocked by bodies, but PSV couldn't even clear.
As PSV scraped for a counter, I moved first. Near halfway, I read the trajectory, dove, and cut it off.
"Benasil!"
Straight to Bernardo Silva. He advanced with rhythmic dribbles, trading quick one-twos with Marmoush. PSV defenders, shell-shocked, mesmerized by their tick-tock.
Silva ghosted three markers, one-on-one with the keeper, and calmly chipped the far post.
"Bernardo Silva!!! Oh, it clips!"
"No goal, but the buildup's art. Ryan's cut, Silva-Marmoush magic!"
"Is this the team that struggled first half? Perfect second half proves why Man City rules the world!"
Twweeet—! Twweeet—! Tweee—!
Final whistle. 4-1.
The home fans' jeers in Philips Stadion had turned to silence.
As the storm of pressure eased, brutal muscle ache and thirst hit at once. Gasping ragged breaths, I approached Go-gang slumped far off.
He stared blankly at the grass until my shadow hit his toes, then looked up. He gripped my offered hand, rising—his grip thick with regret.
"Ha... hyung. You really wear a guy out."
Go-gang forced a hollow laugh, wiping sweat with his jersey sleeve. The first-half ferocity gone, only a defeated warrior's loneliness lingered.
"You wore me out first half. Check my calf—your stud marks are probably still there."
"Couldn't help it—you're too good. But hyung, you dropped deep on purpose second half, right? To lure me."
"Caught on?"
He shook his head emptily at my question.
"What good's knowing? Body reacts first. You drop back, all I think is 'cut it now.' Didn't know it'd be a trap. Haaland's a beast, but the real terror's you feeding him. Saw why Pep's obsessed with you today."
We swapped soaked jerseys naturally. His heavy PSV top clung to my hand. Go-gang slung mine over his shoulder, checked for cameras, and lowered his voice.
"Hyung... but what about us?"
His eyes turned dead serious.
"What?"
"Heard about Korea. Culture Ministry interim audit announcement October 2nd."
I met my worried junior's gaze with a light smile.
"No issues. Watch your injuries. Might bench you."
"...Huh?"
"C'mon."
I turned and headed for the tunnel, leaving him stunned. A footballer worrying about ministry audits? What a laughable country.