Peak National Pride
With their Olympic semifinal victory, South Korea erupted all over again. Despite a recent record of three straight losses to Japan, they had crushed them 5–0 — and watching the team fire Nakamura Kenji's provocative interview right back at him after the match left the entire nation feeling deliciously vindicated.
Think about it. A country that had been crashing out in the qualifiers for years had stormed into the tournament on the back of a stunning run, faced Japan in the semifinals, and won their way through to the gold medal match. It was the kind of story that only happened in movies.
Naturally, it was no exaggeration to say the entire nation had been glued to the Korea-Japan match. And once the final whistle blew, television was nothing but talk of the game.
"What a moment of pure emotion! Our national team has created a miracle with their incredible skill. How hard must they have worked? How much must they have endured? Just thinking about it makes your chest tighten."
"By beating Japan, South Korea has guaranteed itself at least a silver medal. But our players cannot be satisfied with that. With the squad we have right now, we can beat France and take the gold."
That was right. Waiting in the final was France, who had beaten Germany 2–0 to get there.
"The way I see it, we can absolutely beat France and claim gold. Germany had to go all the way to a penalty shootout to get through, while we won with overwhelming football. Our current strength is more than enough to…"
The truth was, it wasn't as if Korea's Olympic record had always been poor. As recently as a decade ago, they had still been reaching the tournament proper now and then. But at some point the national team's results on the international stage had collapsed, and the public had simply stopped expecting anything from them.
Then the 2036 Madrid Olympics had come along and, like slow-simmering the marrow from a pot of beef-bone soup, drawn out every last drop of national pride the people had forgotten they still possessed.
How could they not go wild?
The team's results had been outstanding, but the players' individual records were shining brighter than they ever had. Yoo Hee-sung was sitting on six goals, second in the tournament scoring charts. France's Lucas Dubois led the way with seven, but that was a gap the final could close in a heartbeat. Lee Tae-yang had put away three of his own, proving his worth. And Jung Tae-woo — a goalkeeper — had registered both a goal and an assist, on top of keeping a clean sheet in every single match he'd played.
The public that had once worried over their young age had completely changed its mind. Now everyone was imagining what miracles these young heroes might create if they kept growing and one day stepped onto a World Cup stage, and their hearts were racing at the thought.
Perhaps that was why articles were already coming out as if Korea had already beaten France and claimed the gold.
And at that very moment, the young heroes who had set the nation on fire were all piled into one room, playing a soccer video game.
"Inseeeect! That's a wrap!"
"Hey, Jung Tae-woo, one more game!"
"Nope."
"Come on, just once. Games are best of three."
The TV screen showed the final score: 7–0.
"Tae-yang. You really think one more game is gonna change anything?"
"I was going easy on you, okay? I'm getting serious now."
"Tae-yang, you lost, so own it and get off. We wanna play too."
The reason the players were currently parked in front of a game console was the two days of rest they'd been given before the final. They'd all gathered together under the noble banner of team bonding, and were enjoying a round of games.
"Fine…"
"There you go. Should've done that from the start."
Controller snatched away by Jae-hoon and Seo-joon, Tae-yang trudged back to the bed behind us with his lip jutted out a mile.
"This is my room, though…"
He muttered it in a voice thick with grievance.
It's not like he'd win even if they played again.
Judging by Tae-yang's reaction, you'd think he'd lost a close one. But as the screen had already made painfully clear, a 7–0 scoreline was not a gap you produced unless the difference in skill was enormous.
"Look, even if we played again, you couldn't beat me with those hands."
"Wow. The disrespect is insane. Hey, back when I was gaming hard—"
"Tae-woo."
"What?"
Yoo Hee-sung, who'd already been sprawled on the bed, shoved his phone in my direction.
"You're getting a crazy amount of love in Japan."
Positive reactions?
I'd gone through Nakamura's interview point by point after beating Japan and hit back hard. I'd fully expected to be getting absolutely roasted by now…
"Hey, I was talking!"
I ignored Tae-yang and looked at Hee-sung's phone. Sure enough, it was packed with glowing comments about me.
Huh. So this is what being handsome gets you.
Even I, who'd thought I'd gotten used to being good-looking, hadn't seen this coming. That interview had been the kind that dismissed not just the Japanese national team but the entire J-League as a low-level competition — and the response, based on my face, was this? Maybe the world really was just kinder to handsome people…
Tae-yang, who'd been reading over my shoulder, tossed out a line of his own.
"What, maybe I should try firing off a spicy interview like that sometime?"
I glanced at him.
"What, you think you're me?"
Tae-yang bristled instantly.
"What's that supposed to mean? It's not like anyone's gonna call me ugly!"
I didn't have to answer that one. Jae-hoon and Seo-joon, still on the console, handled it for me.
"Look, it's not that you're ugly, Tae-yang. It's that the guys you hang around with are Hee-sung and Tae-woo."
"Yeah. Tae-woo and Hee-sung have to be compared to celebrities. Stick a regular person next to those two and of course they're gonna look like a squid."
"Still, compared to Hee-sung…"
Tae-yang looked over at Yoo Hee-sung.
"Hm? Me?"
"……"
"Just because someone's handsome doesn't mean they're good at soccer."
"Yeah, but Hee-sung and Tae-woo are better at soccer than you too."
"……"
A brief silence settled over the room. I found the whole thing funny and, somewhere underneath that, a little pitiful.
Hang in there, Tae-yang. It can't be helped.
Our team's visual line really was on another level, and it was true that Hee-sung and I stood out even among them. But Tae-yang was plenty good-looking in his own right. He just happened to stand next to a couple of guys who were blinding.
"Hey, Tae-yang."
I called over to him.
"You're plenty good-looking. We're just… excessively good-looking."
The entire room burst out laughing.
"YOU CALL THAT A PEP TALK?!"
"Okay, okay. You're just as handsome as we are. Happy now?"
Tae-yang shook his head like he'd given up, but a small smile had found its way onto his mouth.
What a simple guy.
Teasing Tae-yang was a pastime no one on this earth could ever give up. The guy had insane tankiness and a self-heal that proc'd in seconds.
Even if he'd never played soccer, this kid would've blown up as a streamer.
Up through the Japan match, a heavy tension had always hung over them rather than this easy camaraderie. But with a medal already in the bag — and a military exemption locked in along with it — every last one of them was soaking up the moment.
France's Pierre Moreau sat with his coaching staff, dissecting the Korean team's tactics with meticulous care. His sharp gaze bored into the match footage, and from time to time he would nod and jot down a key point.
"Now this is an interesting tactic."
Moreau murmured it almost to himself.
"They commit an extreme number of players to the attack…"
His assistant, Antoine Leclerc, nodded and picked up the thread.
"Yes. Their Wave Pressing has weaknesses that jump out at anyone watching, but they're papering over all of it with a single goalkeeper. It's a high-wire act of a tactic, frankly. The way I see it, sitting deep and looking to hit them on the counter would be our best bet."
The name Wave Pressing had come from Cheon Mu-seok himself during a post-victory interview, and by now everyone knew it.
Moreau was quiet for a moment, thinking.
"That's a method, certainly. But Korea's goalkeeper has an absurd win rate in one-on-ones."
"Then what do we do?"
"We create situations even that goalkeeper can't stop."
Leclerc's eyes widened as he leaned in.
Moreau kept going.
"Leclerc. Do you know why Cheon Mu-seok insists on a 4-3-3 when he runs Wave Pressing?"
"Having three forwards up top allows for aggressive buildup, and it gives them multiple options — quick crosses from the flanks, dribbling runs, and so on…"
"That's part of it. But the important piece here is the defenders. The midfielders and forwards already move as if they've been given a Free Role when they attack. The defenders' movements, though, are fixed. Watch this."
At Moreau's gesture, the footage slowed, the Korean defenders' movements unfolding frame by frame.
"Against Brazil, against Denmark — every time, it ended up as a one-on-one. That's because Korea's defenders commit to marking as many attacking players as possible."
Leclerc's eyes lit up.
"Then… the four defenders do everything they can to mark the players without the ball, and the goalkeeper handles the one leftover. That's the thinking?"
Moreau nodded, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Exactly. And the only reason it works is that counter-attacking teams send so few players forward. But if we meet them fire with fire, we can create two-on-ones — even three-on-ones — against that goalkeeper all day long."
Moreau's gaze sharpened.