Fulham: The Whiff of Upset in the Breeze
I tossed myself onto the bed and checked my phone, letting out a smirk. Was this worry or just picking a fight? Her tone was impossible to pin down. Without hesitation, I fired off a short, brutal reply.
I hit send, and minutes dragged by with no response. She was probably fuming at her screen right now—or maybe already asleep.
Harsh words aside, I knew the truth. She'd seen the article about my bandaged-head grit in that Iraq clash during the national team match, where I'd torn open my brow but played to the end. Asking sweetly, Are you okay? would've been too sappy for us. Reading the real care hidden behind the snark—that was our unique way of showing affection.
A moment later, I tacked on a rough follow-up.
Time in Manchester would fly by again.
While we were jetting across the globe for the North-Central America third qualifiers, my Man City teammates from Europe had wrapped up Nations League duty and returned.
Stepping onto the training pitch, the air felt different. Faces around the locker room wore a mix of emotions—shoulders puffed with pride from Nations League triumphs, or slumped in defeat, hiding in corners like lost souls.
Etihad Campus medical room.
"Ryan, follow my finger with your eyes. Don't look away."
Head team doctor Max wiggled his finger in front of me. My brow from the Iraq gash was already stitched tight, but Man City's regimen showed no mercy. Here in Europe, they called me Ryan instead of my Korean name, Ryu Rion. It started back at Celta Vigo. A local commentator noted how my relentless, kill-shot playstyle matched the pronunciation of my name "Rion" to "Lion," and the nickname stuck. Now, across Europe, I was the beast Ryan—the lion.
Not Ryan because it's Ryan; Ryan meaning lion.
"Good, pupils reacting normally. Balance is fine too."
Max flipped through the chart, gently probing my bandage.
"Got a friend fretting my IQ might've tanked. What's the verdict?"
Max chuckled at my joke, setting the chart down.
"No worries. That premium soccer brain of yours is unscratched. Stitches are healing clean too. Scar might linger, but... Premier League badge of honor, right?"
"Cleared for training return?"
Before he could answer, the door swung open. In scratched his head with that signature tormented look—Pep Guardiola.
"Max, how's the lion?"
"All good, Pep. Fit for Fulham lineup tomorrow."
Pep's eyes flicked to my bandage. He clapped my shoulder, unleashing his rapid-fire spiel.
"Ryan, Fulham'll push the line high. You rip that half-space gap. Head's not just for show, yeah? Think and move out there constantly."
He'd already dismissed my injury, mentally sketching the Fulham tactics board. After Pep left, I stood to change into training kit.
Corridor to the locker room. My steps felt heavier than usual. Medical cleared me, so not the injury. Truth is, for club pros, league games post-internationals are a minefield. Fans think it's just fatigue, but it's way more precise and deadly variables. Prime time for dirt-diggers to flop too—too many factors beyond odds.
First: jet lag and rhythm wreck. Muscles stiffen on 10+ hour flights. Lungs readjusting from Korea's muggy fall to Manchester's cold, heavy air takes time. No wonder they call it the Pepa virus.
Second: tactical resolution gap. Last ten days, my brain marinated in national team's rough-and-tumble. Now this is Man City—Pep's soccer, a symphony of clockwork gears allowing zero margin. Erasing reps from internationals and resyncing as a City cog in 48 hours? Mental marathon.
Last: teammate discord. Some flew antipodes like me, others local hops. Victors buzzing high, losers crushed low. Eleven at different tempos forging harmony, with just a day or two practice? Brutal.
Fulham too, but City—with more likely full national starters—is at a disadvantage. They'll pounce on our adaptation stumbles, botched first touches, broken shape, us gesturing wildly. They'll swarm.
I touched the bandage in the mirror again. Time to prove my "IQ fine" text wasn't bluff.
London's Thames-side classic: Craven Cottage. Packed away end a sea of City sky blue crashing against Fulham's roar, tension thick.
Mics hot, caster and pundit voices riding the airwaves.
Tunnel: I jogged in place, loosening calves. Pulse racing, but body heavier. Thames gusts on my cheek stirred echoes of Korea's sweltering fire—lingering disconnect. Pep's shadow loomed, reminding my role here.
Grass underfoot, Fulham defenders glared like predators. Same thought: we're jet-lagged, ripe for the taking. Prime big-fish moment.
Ref checked watch, whistle ready.
Center circle, I breathed deep. Mapped Pep's half-spaces mentally. Crush fatigue with will; wake dull senses with instinct.
Beep—!
Whistle blew. Fulham striker backheeled; white shirts surged like furious waves.
I lunged into the gap for my first pass.