The Fundamental Difference Between Big-Club Players and Korean Players
The scoreboard clock ticked into its final moments.
"From here on out, it's not stamina—it's a battle of mental fortitude! Fulham looks like they're struggling just to walk!"
"Man City won't stop. Pep's pacing like a caged animal on the sideline, constantly urging the line higher!"
The ball, starting from Rodri, passed through Silva and Gvardiol before returning to my feet. I'd already clocked my teammates' movements, so all I had to worry about was the stubborn Berge blocking my path. The guy looked utterly spent, like he'd lost all power to keep up. They not subbing him? Fucker looks like he's about to drop dead.
Just a slight shoulder feint to the left, and he was staggering, off-balance.
88th minute of the second half.
"Here comes Ryan again! Another half-space invasion!"
"Berge tries to stick, but it's not enough! Ryan drives straight into the box!"
I burst into the box, instantly dragging two defenders toward me. The moment Diop and Robinson panicked and closed in, Marmoush appeared in my vision—wide open. I could've shot myself, but his angle was way cleaner.
"Ryan's got the shot on! But he looks left!"
"Perfect unselfish play! Lays it on a plate for Marmoush!"
A piercing cut-back pass sliced through the defenders. The ball dropped perfectly onto Marmoush's right foot. Even the keeper Leno was ball-watching me, leaving the net gaping. A simple tap-in.
"Marmoush! Bury it! Marmoush!"
Clang!
A dull metallic thud echoed through the stadium. The ball flew off Marmoush's boot—not into the empty net, but smashing the right post and ricocheting away.
"Nooo! What the hell was that?! How does that not go in?!"
"Marmoush put too much on the instep! That was gifted—he had to score! Ryan's world-class assist flies away!"
Marmoush clutched his head and sank to the turf. I let out a short sigh of regret. Pep and Gvardiol were tearing at their hair from the bench in disbelief.
Two minutes of stoppage time. We hammered at Fulham's door until the end, but once shut, it stayed that way. Beep—!
Beep—! Beeeep—!!
Fulham 1 : 1 Man City
"Final whistle blows! Upset! Fulham snatches a precious point against the mighty Man City!"
"A painful draw for City. Especially that golden chance Ryan created at the death... Marmoush rattling the post will haunt Man City fans' dreams tonight."
"Marmoush, chin up."
I patted the shoulder of Marmoush, who was trudging through the tunnel to the locker room with his head bowed. My own chest felt like it was ripping apart, but what could you do? That's football.
"Next time, I'll thread it so perfectly you can't miss. But you owe me dinner."
Marmoush nodded weakly. Back in the locker room after the Fulham match.
Harsh breaths and the thuds of boots being tossed filled the heavy silence. The Premier League grind. A draw at Newcastle followed by today's Fulham stalemate.
One point. Not a loss, but the air in Manchester City's locker room hung heavy.
Pep Guardiola said nothing, and that silence weighed heavier on our shoulders than any barrage of criticism from outside.
"Just one fucking point."
Rodri ran a hand through his hair, muttering low. His eyes burned more with anger than fatigue.
Realistically, even the world's best team can't win every game all season. Players aren't machines. National team call-ups with jet lag, flight times, and opponents' ironclad anti-football tactics.
Logically, a draw today was plausible. Stamina depleted, luck absent, keeper in career form. But this club's winning mentality doesn't tolerate such rational excuses.
"Logic is for losers."
As if reading my mind, Haaland growled while ripping off his jersey.
"We're Man City because we've won the draw-ish games. Today, we didn't. End of story."
That's the weight of a big club. That vicious void and self-loathing when you slip once after ten solid performances. Outsiders might call it arrogance, but this ruthless self-flagellation is what keeps us at the top. We all knew satisfaction meant the fall began.
Suddenly, a Korean landscape flashed in my mind.
What if this killer instinct was the default across Korean football? No settling for "we gave our all"—treating even draws as. If this brutal winning mentality flowed through K League kids to the national team like blood, maybe our players could deliver the thrilling games we crave.
Korean players' skills and work ethic are solid enough, but that subtle satisfaction in clutch moments—could it be holding back growth? A culture of self-reproach over "good fight" praise. I wanted that implanted in Korean footballers. With that grit, that mentality, even our 50 Million Bandwagon Fans might self-reflect, evolving from this barbaric culture to mature support. Players share blame for Korean football's collapse. Even with the pitch excuses—some ran on the same grass without complaint, while others blamed it to justify their level. With this trash loser mindset dominant, they go into Brazil matches thinking "we can't win anyway." The bandwagoners aren't blind—they know the talent gap. They just want more fight. When players pull "we tried our best anyway?" bullshit, of course it pisses people off. It infuriates me as a player; imagine the fans. In that sense, Korean football's downfall: 50% bandwagoners, 30% association, 20% players. Ditching the loser mentality first...
Maybe that's the final key to world-class status—more vital than talent.
"Ryan, what're you thinking?"
Silva's question snapped me back. I shook my head and stood.
"That we'll win the next one."
Silva's lip curled slightly.
"Good attitude. That's what we do."
The draw stung, but eyes reignited. Scorn, boos, this heavy responsibility—we bore it all.
Because we're Manchester City, not Korean players wired with loser mentality.
Back to Manchester on the team bus with our meager one-point scorecard, players stared out windows or pulled caps low like it was scripted.
I flicked on my smartphone to check the live table but paused.
"Rankings must've flipped today."
Draws at Newcastle and now Fulham—two in a row. In the bloodbath Premier League title race, this spelled fatal slip. Arsenal and Liverpool, nipping at our heels, wouldn't miss.
But then notifications pinged relentlessly.
FT: Arsenal 1 : 1 Everton
FT: Liverpool 0 : 0 Brighton
"Huh?"
The sound slipped out. Rodri beside me peeked and narrowed his eyes.
"Arsenal drew too? Liverpool?"
Eerie coincidence. Not just us dragging sandbags. The Peppa virus sweeping the globe had poisoned every title contender's veins.
Articles popped up: Arsenal's star wingers lost speed by halftime; Liverpool's midfield mobility halved.
No one broke away—everyone stayed put. Man City clung to first in this absurd draw-fest.
"What luck, huh."
Rodri chuckled dryly, sinking into his seat. Thinking of the bettors, I felt a twinge of glee. So-called Reverse Day. Not true massive upsets, but when trusted teams flop left and right, turning sure wins to fish paste. Today was that day.