Lee Junyoung's Guti Day
As soon as Lee Junyoung came on, the air in the stadium shifted. Unlike some prick obsessed with his own highlight reel, this guy was different.
"What the hell are you doing? Run!"
With Lee Junyoung's shout, Jordan's passing lanes snapped shut. He didn't miss a beat, charging like a beast the instant their midfielder touched the ball, slamming his shoulder in. A brutal collision echoed, and the ball was ours.
Amid the excited commentary, Lee Junyoung didn't stop, driving forward with the ball.
50th minute. The perfect sequence to seal the game unfolded. Lee Junyoung barreled through the center, dragging two defenders with sheer dribbling force right to the box's edge. The moment Jordan's backline fixated on his feet, he fired a low, sharp pass my way.
Just before the ball reached me, I heard Bong Hyeoksu surging from behind. His angle was better for a shot than mine. That's the judgment you get when you're obsessed with winning, not personal glory.
I didn't touch it, letting it slip straight through my legs.
My dummy froze two Jordan defenders, and Bong Hyeoksu swung his right foot from behind.
BAM—!
A cannon of a shot rocketed toward Jordan's net. The keeper dove instinctively and parried it, but the ball only trickled awkwardly inside the box. Waiting like a hyena was Gwon Dojin.
Thwack!
Gwon Dojin just tapped it in with a light touch.
Right after the goal, Gwon Dojin sprinted to the corner flag, sat cross-legged on the pitch, and pressed his fingertips together with eyes closed—the Haaland meditation celebration. Players like us always have role models on the pitch. Everyone knows Gwon Dojin's is Haaland now. The crowd's boos grew louder at the cheeky display, but we laughed and ruffled his hair.
After the restart, Lee Junyoung's one-man show continued. Every time Jordan pushed aggressively for a comeback, he threw himself in like a warrior.
When their winger tried breaking down the flank, Lee Junyoung stuck with him, shoving him off in a fair shoulder battle and winning the ball cleanly. Pure technical recovery.
The commentators still name-dropped Mo Chanhee and his "flair," but we on the pitch knew the truth.
The game felt easy now.
That subtle discord when Mo Chanhee was on? Gone. No more wasting energy covering for someone. The gears meshed perfectly. This was the real national team strength—eleven players charging the same goal.
I jogged over and smacked Lee Junyoung's ass.
"You little shit, is this your Guti day? You're killing it."
"This is my real skill, asshole."
Lee Junyoung grinned, flashing white teeth. His mud-caked jersey guaranteed the win more than the 2-0 on the board.
Jordan was desperate. 2-0 at home was humiliation. But the more they flailed, the tighter our defensive wall locked.
"Junyoung, I'll handle the inside now—push their winger wide."
"Got it."
Lee Junyoung hounded Jordan's ace, Al-Tamari, per my call—worlds apart from Mo Chanhee spectating from afar in the first half. As Al-Tamari hesitated against the grit, I swooped from behind and picked the ball clean.
The other side was the same. Jordan switched to the right, but Tak Go-gang, Bong Hyeoksu, and Jang Kangcheol held firm. Jang Kangcheol blocked paths with raw speed, Bong crushed with physicality, and Tak took over to build.
Jordan's attackers clutched their heads in frustration. As they pushed the line high for an all-out assault, Jang Kangcheol protecting the back four spotted his chance.
He blocked a cross and looked up. Gwon Dojin was already off to the races behind their line.
Jang Kangcheol's right foot launched the ball across Amman's night sky in a perfect arc—clearing their defenders, laser-guided to Gwon Dojin's toes.
Gwon Dojin chest-trapped it flawlessly. Two defenders chased, but couldn't catch his acceleration.
Gwon Dojin stayed cool. As the keeper narrowed the angle, he rolled it gently to the far post. It grazed the keeper's fingertips and rippled the net.
Tweet—!
Gwon Dojin ran behind the goal for another meditation celly, oozing confidence. The boos turned to despairing silence.
I dashed over and clapped Jang Kangcheol's shoulder.
"Kangcheol, that pass was lethal."
"Dojin ran well, that's all."
Jang Kangcheol grinned flatly.
The pitch hummed with certainty. No more fake stars forcing ego—the real teamwork filled the gaps, maximized strengths. 3-0. The scoreboard proved it.
The ref's whistle sliced Amman's night three times. End of match.
Tweet—! Tweet—! Tweeet—!
Victory smiles spread across our faces.
Right after the final whistle, domestic football communities exploded.