Bandaged Fighting Spirit: Echoes of 1998 Belgium and 2002 USA
"It's torn open. We need to stop the bleeding first."
The medical team's hands moved with urgency. Blood trickling from my forehead had run down around my eyes, blurring my vision. This blood? It was nothing. A real man bleeds like this. Adrenaline surged through my veins, pumping through my whole body.
My eyes met Coach Yoon Seungwoo's gaze as he watched me intently. He was already gripping the substitution card, staring right through me.
Yoon Seungwoo signaled for the sub again.
I shook my head firmly, making my refusal crystal clear. If it was a tactical sub for the team's balance, I'd have jogged off without a word. But right now, this was just him worrying about his player's condition like a protective mentor.
Pulling me out now would just revive Iraq's momentum. I could still run, it wasn't a major injury, and I wasn't being stubborn for no reason.
"I'm fine!"
Words wouldn't cut it, so I grabbed the fresh jersey from the medical team.
"Jersey. Gimme the jersey."
My uniform was red, so I figured the blood wouldn't show much, but it was soaked through, turned into dark crimson stains.
By the rules—blood rule—you can't play with bloodied gear. Infection risk, and the ref can't check for fresh bleeding. If I went back like this, he'd send me off again immediately.
I stripped off the blood-soaked shirt and tossed it aside, pulling on the clean one they'd handed me. Clear signal: I'm good. Only then did the medical team flash an OK sign toward the bench.
I gave one more confident thumbs-up, and Yoon Seungwoo hesitated before waving the sub back to the bench. A roar erupted from the stands—"Ooooh!"—because the broadcast cam had perfectly timed my jersey toss onto the big screen.
That lit up the red wave of Yongin Mir Stadium like a wildfire. The crowd was responding to a player charging back into the fray like a wound was nothing, pure warrior spirit.
"Ryu Rion! Ryu Rion! Ryu Rion!"
"Wrap it tight. I'm heading back in right now."
"But Rion, that cut's pretty deep. At least staple it..."
"Doesn't matter. Just wrap it. No time."
My tone left no room for argument, so the medical team hurriedly pulled out the pressure bandage. As they wound it tightly around my head a few times, the touchline shook with chants of my name.
Right after I'd gone down injured, the ref had restarted play with his signals. Our team's air had grown heavy, players' eyes flicking constantly to me getting treated off the pitch. Teammates adjusted the defensive line while sneaking glances my way; Tak Go-gang in midfield was uncharacteristically misplacing passes, rattled.
Their anxiety. An ace's big injury shrinks the whole team's heart. The moment midfield's core—me—went out, Iraq unleashed a barrage like they'd been waiting. That's soccer: momentum swings hard on atmosphere.
Iraq's ace drew in two defenders right in front of the arc, then slipped it wide. A sharp cross whipped back into the center.
"Block it!"
Bong Hyeoksu dove, but the Iraqi striker caught it clean on his laces, arrowing for the corner. The keeper stretched, but the trajectory was out of reach. In that desperate moment, Tak Go-gang—who'd somehow covered back to the goalmouth—chest-trapped it and booted it out for a throw.
We needed a momentum flip. I had to prove I wasn't some wounded liability but a warrior back for the win. Perfect timing—the broadcast showed my jersey toss, sparking the crowd's roar. That fire spread to my teammates on the pitch, reigniting their fight.
Waiting by the bench for the ref's OK, I slowly raised both arms, then whipped them wildly toward the stands.
Louder! Scream like maniacs!
Like a hero back from death's door demanding victory cries, I demanded their roar with my whole body.
That gesture ignited the stands.
"Waaaaaah!"
The crowd surged to their feet as one, unleashing a roar twice—no, three times—bigger, swallowing Mir Stadium whole. The ground shook; you could feel the air vibrate.
In that overwhelming din, I locked eyes with my teammates staring my way. The moment they saw my arrogant grin—white bandage and all, conducting the crowd like a king—their worry melted away.
'Ah, that bastard's fine.' 'Nah, fine? The guy's insane.'
Life returned to their eyes. Assurance the ace was intact. Relief he'd come back swinging harder. It spread like a virus: slumped shoulders straightened, stalled legs twitched back to life. Not the World Cup, but like Lee Jinhak's bandaged heroism against Belgium in '98. Like Hwang Sun-hong against the USA in 2002 Korea-Japan. As they recalled those legends, the ref finally waved me in.
I bolted onto the pitch the second permission hit. The chants wouldn't quit.
"Ryu Rion! Ryu Rion! Ryu Rion!"
With that roar on my back, I glared into Iraq's half. The guy who'd smashed me earlier had shock in his eyes. Of course—who wouldn't fear a guy back from the brink, more fired up than before?
"Alright, round two starts now."
I smashed an oncoming Iraqi midfielder off the ball with a shoulder barge.
"Where the fuck you think you're going, asshole?"
The Iraqis circling me faltered. With the bandage, I must've looked like the Grim Reaper prowling the battlefield.
I readjusted the bandage to keep it from slipping. 78th minute of the second half.
We'd weathered Iraq's onslaught and snatched a counter. Tak Go-gang's toe-poke found Lee Junyoung on the wing; it deflected off a defender for a corner.
Quick breather. My forehead bandage looked red-soaked with sweat-mixed blood. Pain? Nonexistent.
"Rion, stay outside the box. I'll contest it."
Bong Hyeoksu approached, worried, but I shook my head.
"What, like it's that bad? We're doing this together."
I strolled slowly into Iraq's penalty area. Right in front of me loomed the tall defender who'd headbutted me earlier. He flinched visibly at my bloodied bandage. I leaned in close to his ear and growled low.
"What the fuck you staring at, asshole?"
Of course, Korean—he wouldn't get it.
Lee Junyoung lined up at the corner flag, signaled with his hand, then whipped in a vicious arc to the goalmouth.
Iraqi defenders tangled with our attackers in a brutal aerial scrap. I faked dropping back, then exploded forward into space. My marker panicked, grabbing my jersey, but I ignored it, planted my foot, and launched.
LeBron-level leap, even knocked him down in shock.
The ball's path met my head in slow motion. The impact on my bandaged forehead sent a thrill through me.
Thwack!
A dull thud rang in my ears.
The ball rocketed off my head straight at the keeper—but my speed beat his reaction. It buried in the net.
3-1. Virtual nail in the coffin.
I landed and sprinted straight to the stands, pointing at my bandaged forehead and roaring.
"This is how you play soccer!"
Teammates piled on me. Tak Go-gang slapped my back, yelling.
Yongin Mir Stadium exploded beyond festival—pure madness. The crowd screamed my name hoarse; the scoreboard blared my bandaged face large.
Iraqi players slumped to the turf like they'd rehearsed it. Swamp soccer? Bed soccer? Meaningless against real skill.
I caught my breath rough, checked the clock. Barely 10 minutes left.
"Alright, let's grind it out to the end."
I retied the bandage tight and dropped back to defend. Perfect victory was in sight.