Chatting at the KFA Chairman's Desk
I was scrolling through the screen when it hit me—hard.
“What the hell is this garbage? The guy who got fired from the Chinese league for the worst win record in history, the middle-eastern tycoon who just sucked up the cash and bolted, and this one—never even coached a single team?”
“Ever since the previous chairman, the Korea Football Association has been known far and wide as a total pushover. They throw in some decent name value, and bam—the association just handles the juicy fees and brings him in on their own.”
“Because of these rotten legacy bastards, I end up looking like a sucker too, huh? This country’s disgrace doesn’t even come close to the shame it brings on the nation.”
I shoved the tablet away with a nervous flick.
“All of these trash-tier résumés can just get spammed. I don’t even like any of them anyway.”
“Then what do you plan to do? Next month is A-match season. Domestic coaches will be hated by the public.”
“Oh, sure, the public. They’ve never touched a ball, let alone run an administration. Most of them are just clueless about football—chuk-al-mot. They probably only showed up at the association because it was the easiest place to vent their own shitty lives.”
“…Do you have any candidates lined up already?”
I leaned my chin on my hand and thought it over.
With the association budget, I couldn’t afford to pull in any big-name coaches. Even if I offered them money, I seriously doubted they’d show up.
How am I supposed to handle this?
***
I’d thrown together a temporary domestic coach for the national team as a quick fix.
Becoming KFA chairman had been easy. But actually showing up to work at the association? That was a whole other story.
I’d figured one call to my favorite coach and he’d be here in a flash. Instead, every negotiation turned into a fight.
Damn kids.
It wasn’t like I was going to grab some trash-tier coach I didn’t even like and pay them a fortune to join. I’d just picked a solid tactical coach from the domestic ranks—a solid shield and temporary placeholder.
[Two straight A-match wins against China and Australia! Temporary setup, huh?]
[Chairman Jeon Gang-wi’s purge was genius—new chairman’s insight shines!]
The results? A total disaster.
China 3-0, Australia 1-2.
Players and the interim coach both looked sharp. I was satisfied.
What about the fans?
“Wah, our chairman is the best! We knew he’d pull it off!”
“Throwing out the Jeon Gang-wi cronies and immediately winning two in a row—love it, Chairman! You’re a legend!”
“Finally proving how much crap the association used to be.”
Even the bubble-heads who’d called me a dictator for ignoring procedure started licking my boots after those two wins.
You damn pot-netizens. Figures.
The public mood finally swung back my way, and the air in the chairman’s office felt peaceful again.
I leaned back in my chair, lazily chewing on nigiri, and scrolled through the YouTube comments—pure praise.
Drrring—
The smartphone on the desk suddenly went off.
I checked the caller ID, swallowed the last piece of tuna belly in my mouth, cleared my throat, and answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
— “Okay. Have you been eating well? Working hard?”
Mom’s voice on the phone was soft and elegant, like always.
No trace of the cold ice queen who’d flipped out when I was crawling around the floor as a cyber wrecker for thirty grand a month, threatening to burn our family registry.
The second I ditched the YouTube drama and took the polished chairman title, my parents flipped dramatically.
On my first day in office, Mom had been the first to send flowers, and she’d called me up with a sweet “My son is still my son—blood of our family runs deep” to patch things up.
Thanks to that, I’d even gotten my spot as the youngest son back.
I mean, why turn down the perks of a rich chaebol family? These days I was the one who called first.
“Yep. I just had the top omakase chef deliver lunch. Have you eaten, Mom?”
I’d actually ordered it.
— “Yeah, same old me. By the way, I saw the news—you’re really going places lately. Everyone around here is only talking about how great you are.”
“I’m just a straightforward guy. Once the rotten water is swept away, the results naturally follow.”
— “I know, I know. But… any time this weekend?”
Mom’s real point slipped out.
I poked at the last nigiri with my chopsticks and answered.
“Weekend? The association is quiet… should we head to the family home?”
— “No, not home. There’s a Cheongunhoe gathering this weekend.”
Cheongunhoe.
The name sounded like a hiking club, but it was the private social club where South Korea’s biggest chaebol families and top political elites gathered.
“Ah… there? Aw, I haven’t gone in ages. It’s just old folks sitting around drinking wine and bragging about their kids. What’s the point of me joining? It’ll only make me tired.”
I frowned and sighed.
Even during my playing days I’d skipped it with “training” excuses. As a YouTuber after retirement, I’d been too embarrassed to be invited.
— “Still, you should definitely go this time. You’ve been gone a long time… and more importantly, the people there want to see you.”
“Me? What’s the point of looking at a young pup like me? Or do they just want to see my football skills like back in the day?”
— “Look, you’re not just a kid anymore. You’re the chairman of the Korea Football Association. And you’re running the whole thing with perfect public opinion right now.”
I stopped moving my chopsticks.
— “Think about it. When those arrogant old guys bother inviting you first, there’s always a reason.”
“Reason?”
— “Exactly. That world works that way. They reach out first when they have something to gain or if they’re sorry for something. You’ll do great there. You could even become the solid backing I need to steer the association forward.”
Mom’s voice carried the calculating calm of a chaebol wife who’d run the family boardroom for decades.
She was right.
The Korea Football Association was a cash cow, and its real power came from the massive sponsors and capital at the top. And those top-tier chaebol guys had called me first?
‘This smells bad.’
Maybe it was the first coin that would help me grow wings during my KFA chairmanship.
“…I understand. You’re right, Mom. Since they invited me first, I should at least show my face.”
— “Good boy. My secretary will send the exact place and time. Dress neatly. Got it?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll even wear a proper suit.”
I hung up, twirled the phone, and smiled.
The chairman title really was something else.
Those arrogant chaebol presidents were calling me first.
‘Time to see what kind of string this is—rotten or golden.’
I tapped the KFA chairman nameplate on my desk and started mentally simulating the social gathering I’d be attending on the weekend.
***
Darkness blanketed the road.
Inside the luxury sedan gliding smoothly along the pavement, silence reigned.
The secretary in the driver’s seat kept her eyes forward and spoke carefully.
“Chairman, it’s been a while since you last went to Cheongunhoe.”
Leaning back against the seat with one arm draped over the door, watching the night lights outside, I loosened my tie roughly and answered.
“Yeah, it’s been a while. But we just got off work, it’s a weekend now, and you’re still using that tone?”
Her eyes appeared in the rearview mirror, looking at me with surprise.
She frowned slightly, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Doesn’t make sense. You always told me to watch my mouth around the chairman, right?”
“Yeah.”
I chuckled and leaned forward, bringing my face close to the driver’s seat headrest and saying it straight.
“I said that because I was worried you’d slip up in front of the association execs or reporters since saying ‘chairman’ became too familiar. You know how those rotten water guys are—they’re itching to find any crack in me.”
She kept turning the wheel silently, lips pouting.
I looked at her neat profile and kept going.
“But over the two months since I took office, I’ve been watching, and you haven’t made a single mistake. You’re so good at separating public and private life—like a top corporate ace. No gaps. None.”
“......”
“So when we’re outside or in the chairman’s office, you can keep that steel-spine attitude. But when we’re alone in the car after work, go back to the way we used to be. The constant ‘Chairman’ and ‘Chairman’ makes me feel like I’m suffocating too.”
A short silence filled the car.
The direction-indicator lights flickered.
“Hah…”
She let out a tiny sigh, the stiffness in her shoulders melting away.
Then she met my eyes in the rearview mirror, the corners of her mouth lifting.
“That’s so like you.”
Only then did the real me—the one who’d hidden behind the suffocating secretary mask—come out.
“Last time the KFA got the right team together, it was because of you. You’re not just any secretary.”
I laughed softly and ruffled her hair once before opening the car door.
The cold night air hit me as I stepped out.
“Welcome back, Chairman.”
Her voice was warm and familiar, like it always was when it was just the two of us.
I smiled and fixed my tie.
“Got any special plans for the weekend, or are we just going to that boring old club again?”
She glanced at me with a knowing look.
“Today’s different. It’s the Cheongunhoe gathering. The organizers made sure I know exactly where to be and at what time.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You mean it’s not the usual stuff?”
She nodded.
“That’s right. The usual crowd is there, but this time it’s different. They want you to be the guest of honor.”
I whistled.
“Really? Those old sharks finally decided to treat me like an actual human being?”
“That’s what I was thinking too. But it’s a good thing. The chairman of the Korea Football Association is an important position, and they’re all looking forward to seeing how you run things.”
I laughed again.
“Well, if they’re treating me so nicely, I should at least make an effort. Let’s head in.”
As I walked toward the entrance, the secretary quietly fell in beside me.
The venue lights glowed softly in the distance, and I could already hear the hum of conversation from inside.
“By the way,” I said, “who exactly invited me first? I was under the impression the usual suspects weren’t that eager.”
She smirked.
“The invitation came from the top. It’s the first time the chairman has been personally asked to attend since you took office.”
I stopped in my tracks.
“Top?”
“Yeah. The organizers said it’s a special year or something. They want the chairman to set the tone for the whole event.”
I chuckled.
“Special year, huh? I wonder what that’s all about.”
The secretary just smiled and said nothing more.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
The grand hall was packed with the usual faces—chaebol presidents, politicians, and old money types.
And right in the center, on a raised platform, stood a man in a tailored suit.
The eyes of the entire room turned toward me.
I straightened my jacket, took a deep breath, and walked straight toward the stage.
The chairman of the Korea Football Association was finally being welcomed in.
And this time, the whole room felt like it was waiting for something bigger.
I could feel it in the air.