The Chairman's Chair Feels Like a Joke
I was just venting about the association. I mean, I'm supposed to be the one with principles here, right? The one who tells it like it is.
“Krruugh! Look at our youngest star, the god of league player! That ankle snap that stripped three defenders in one move—genius, right? That’s what Korean pride looks like! Oh, and thanks for the twenty-thousand-won donation, Chairman of the Association! In your honor, I’ll deliver a perfect ankle tackle reaction!”
I slammed the unused monitor onto the floor right next to the studio camera and slid across it like a pro, landing both feet with a thunderous thud.
Crack!
The monitor shattered and rolled across the floor in pieces.
Anyone watching would’ve called me a crazy in-bed YouTuber. But I wasn’t. I was a former professional footballer and national team player—plus I had star power.
That star power wasn’t just my football skills. It came from the simple fact that everyone knew my name: the youngest son of a chaebol conglomerate.
Remember those rich-family dramas where the parents are strict and cold? “Why can’t you just kick the ball properly? Get to business class right now!” pouring water on you as punishment? Yeah, I used to think that’s how it was.
Turns out I was dead wrong.
My own childhood friend is the daughter of a major corporation—now a girl group idol who’s out there showing off her belly button and dancing, living her best life.
The idea that chaebol parents are all strict and uptight is pure media bullshit. They need to paint the elite as monsters so regular people can feel the catharsis of watching them fall. That’s how they stay relatable.
I was no different. When I told my parents I wanted to play football, they didn’t bat an eye.
“Sure, being a pro footballer isn’t shameful. Go for it. Even if you fail, you’ll have plenty of chances.”
Thanks to that, I got private lessons from the best European coaches and smoothly made it to the professional stage.
The problem hit after retirement.
I was older, and the only thing I knew how to do was kick a ball. Trying to learn something new later didn’t match my body at all.
My football body had blood boiling in it—literally. It refused to listen.
And the biggest issue was my insane spending habits.
While I was still playing, I saved every cent from my salary, bought a penthouse in Gangnam and a luxury villa in Hannam-dong, filled the empty garage with limited-edition supercars, and threw the rest into the stock market.
Who would’ve thought a guy who spent his whole life just kicking a ball in the grass could have any economic sense?
Those confident investments spiked red warning lights. Then my real estate and supercars turned into monsters that started squeezing my throat.
Hundreds of billions in comprehensive real estate tax, property tax, insurance bills, and maintenance fees on supercars that cost a fortune every time I drove them.
Assets looked fat on paper, but the cash flow in my account dried up completely.
In the end, I used the emergency black card my parents had given me.
“Stress relief,” I told myself while dragging my supercars every night, partying, and living it up. It blew up in my face.
They saw the strict report from the family asset management team and stopped everything.
“If you quit football, you’re supposed to adapt to the company. I’m not giving a single won to some rich kid who just blows money outside.”
Thinking about it from their perspective—how frustrated I must’ve felt. They just said stay put and money would pile up, why force myself into football?
Who would even do it? Who actually does?
There probably isn’t a single real-life character like that in any drama or movie.
Still, my parents respected me as the youngest and supported my dreams coolly.
Looking back now, I guess my older siblings were just too successful for me to worry about expectations.
***
Anyway, when the card got cut off and I was wandering around, I needed a way to earn money without hating life at the company, and I needed to keep my luxurious lifestyle.
That’s when I started thinking about broadcasting.
What kind of content could a retired pro footballer make?
Lectures on football videos? Sure.
At first I uploaded the same stuff everyone else does.
“Place your lead foot here… impact like this…”
Yeah, I reached national team level and had decent star power, but those videos only blew up at the very beginning.
After that I ran out of ideas, got bored of repeating the same content, and asked around for YouTube channel advice.
They said if you’re going to keep filming like that, you should open a youth football academy.
I thought about it for a long time.
But I decided I didn’t need to go that far. I just wanted to hang out, eat, and live comfortably.
Koreans call people who do nothing all day stupid and pathetic, but that only applies to broke losers. Rich people who party and spend money? Everyone envies them.
So it was only natural I wanted to be a rich young master living that life.
How the hell was I supposed to understand the mindset of ordinary people when my plate was completely different?
Once I ran out of content, I started asking myself what those other big YouTubers were even filming.
Watching their videos, it was obvious they weren’t the same people. It was a circus of total lunatics.
People drooling over their own feet claiming to be football experts and dropping one random opinion on the sport?
Guys who don’t even know how to kick a ball properly?
Guys who just ran around picking up the ball or played a little match where the bullying kids were the defenders?
Dirty little kids sitting on soft chairs moving mouse cursors being treated like football heroes and legends?
At first I wondered if this was right. But when the comments exploded and views skyrocketed, I realized this was the path I needed to take.
So every time I caught my breath, I started hating the association, pouring on nationalistic hype, and praising the overseas stars.
The result?
Total success.
Just by flexing a little neck muscle and tearing into the association’s incompetence, views exploded and colorful sponsorships poured in like rain.
I took that money and showed off my signature ankle tackle reaction.
After a few controversies and reaching the absolute bottom of the association’s uselessness, the public crowned me as the awakened hero ripping out the rotten roots of the KFA.
“What the hell? Do the association idiots have brain damage? Who picks coaches like this?! Oh, thanks for the thirty-thousand-won donation, Nationalistic Overlord! Ankle brake dance—let’s go~!!”
After seeing my parents— who valued honor—watching me crawl on the floor with a thirty-thousand-won reaction while slandering the chairman online, they finally snapped.
Pro players are tolerated, but a cyber-wrecker who mixes in nationalistic sales? That was the line they couldn’t ignore.
“Before dirt gets in my eyes, I haven’t seen anything this low. Starting today, I’m erasing you from the family register. Don’t contact me.”
Just like that, I was abandoned by my family.
Even my phone got cut off.
Uhehehe. I wasn’t sad at all. My YouTube income already filled my account, so I didn’t need to worry about their eyes.
On the contrary, the moment I stopped watching my back, my hatred for the association grew wings.
“Everyone! Did you hear the chairman went golfing again? Damn it, you bastard!!”
I went all out, tearing the association apart twenty-four hours a day.
Half facts, half provocation—every single day I dropped a video.
The association even tried contacting me at first, but I was still backed by chaebol power, so I told them to stop the fake news.
So I just made videos that hit the public’s anger points.
The viewership power grew every day, and my channel became the holy ground where that rage collected.
My manipulated public opinion even dragged the media in, and they started beating the association bloody.
And finally, yesterday.
The stubborn KFA chairman resigned with a nationwide apology.
I had raised the opinion that turned the seemingly untouchable chairman into a vacancy.
The mood was at its peak.
Subscribers started calling me the sword of the football world.
Right after the chairman resigned, the public was hunting for a hero to reform the rotten organization.
And of course that hero was me—the former player who had fought the association the hardest.
That was the fighter’s card, but suddenly these pot netizens went crazy and started aiming the crazy arrows at me.
“Hey, don’t just talk shit with your mouth—do it yourself and become chairman!”
“Real deal. Former national team guy from a chaebol family. With all that money, you probably won’t commit any corruption. Do it, bro!”
I read the comments and immediately rejected it on live.
“No way, guys. Do I even have the intention? I’m happiest eating sushi in the corner while communicating through YouTube. I’m not doing it at all!”
I just wanted to suck honey and live comfortably.
But twenty-four hours after I said no, the insane public opinion flipped.
“You’re not going to? Then all this time you were just sucking views by hating the association?”
“You were pretending to be righteous, but when it came to taking responsibility you ran away. Coward.”
“Actually, isn’t this guy buddies with the previous chairman? Looks like he was trolling to divide the public opinion.”
One single “no” turned me into a monumental hypocrite who destroyed the entire football world.
I was pissed. These pot bastards had me tearing the association apart, then suddenly got angry and started whining. My blood pressure hit the ceiling.
If this kept going, my YouTube channel—the only thing keeping me alive—would get destroyed by malicious comments.
“Shit! You really are insane! Fine! I’ll do it! I’ll go in myself and tear it all down! Stop your whining!!”
Why the hell is this real?
It was just a spur-of-the-moment bombastic statement…
But the moment I said I’d do it, the netizens started praising me.
“As expected from our hyung! You’ve got unstoppable momentum!”
Even funnier, the movements in the real-estate world had already started.
While my parents were throwing tantrums about erasing me from the family register, they quietly gave me massive support once I switched to the chairman title that still had some face left.
The chaebol bloodline doesn’t dry up anywhere.
With the public’s mad support and their invisible push, the election was a free pass, and I won with overwhelming support.
Actually, winning the election wasn’t hard.
With fifty million potnetizens, my controlled public opinion, and the media all ganging up to beat the association to death—regardless of party or government—I was the only one who stepped up.
The candidates I ran against in the election couldn’t even last two days before they crumbled.
***
“Hah…”
I’m sitting in a soft leather chair right now.
On the nameplate it says:
[Chairman of the Korea Football Association]
Looking at it honestly makes me dizzy and flustered.
I only wanted to curse people in my corner, suck on a straw, and live comfortably. But now I’m the guy carrying the entire burden of South Korean football.
Outside, my staff are waiting with stacks of documents, ready to take my signature.
I was still staring blankly at the nameplate when I leaned back in the chair and burst out laughing.
“What the… come to think of it, becoming chairman is ridiculously easy.”