The Maestro of the Pitch
Peeeeep—!
The referee’s whistle sliced through the Rotterdam sky, signaling the start of the second half.
In the stands, the Feyenoord fans still waved their flares with absolute certainty of victory. The score was 0–1. Ajax was trailing, and their first-half performance had been abysmal.
But the air on the pitch had already begun to shift, subtle and unmistakable.
The biggest change was the position of the player wearing number 14—Ma Gang-cheol.
“Huh? What’s he doing all the way back there?”
A coach on the Feyenoord bench shouted in confusion.
Gang-cheol, who should have been operating as an attacking midfielder (CAM), had dropped deep—right in front of the defensive line, into the defensive midfielder (CDM) zone.
Dropping between the center-backs to receive the ball? La Pausa?
Manager Van Basten stood with his arms crossed, watching with genuine interest.
La Pausa.
The playmaker’s signature craft: momentarily slowing the tempo of the game, drawing the opponent’s press, then delivering the killer pass at the decisive instant.
But without immense courage and ball-keeping ability, it was little more than suicide.
“Give it.”
Gang-cheol gestured to the center-back.
The defender hesitated for a beat. Two Feyenoord forwards were already hunting Gang-cheol. But there was nowhere else to go. With a what-the-hell shrug, he passed the ball.
“Got him! Kill him!”
The Feyenoord attackers charged like hyenas that had just spotted prey.
A roar erupted from the stands. Sandwich mark. Lose it there and it was an instant goal against them.
Yet Gang-cheol’s expression remained almost bored in its calm.
Ajax Spatial Perception (A) + Regressor’s Eye (S)
Time slowed.
The speed of the onrushing opponents, the position of his own winger, even the grain of the turf—every scrap of information flooded into his mind.
Gang-cheol did not trap the ball.
Timing the attacker’s charge perfectly, he twisted his body just enough and let the ball roll behind him.
Body feint.
Huh?
The Feyenoord forward, sprinting at full speed, couldn’t stop in time and brushed past Gang-cheol.
Gang-cheol turned with unhurried grace and claimed the ball. The pressure was gone.
In that instant the entire pitch opened before his eyes.
Run.
His foot flashed.
A low, ground-hugging pass knifed straight through the grass.
It was no ordinary ball.
The winger who had been reluctant to receive it now found the ball delivered to the one place he had no choice but to take it—one meter in front of his feet, a perfect space pass that let him drive forward without breaking stride.
Huh?
Ryan the winger collected it on pure instinct and exploded forward.
In a heartbeat Ajax’s counterattack was on.
“Whoa… he split them from there?”
The Ajax bench stirred.
But this was only the beginning.
Tenth minute of the second half.
Gang-cheol collected the ball near the halfway line.
Tomas, who had ignored him all through the first half, was up front. Out of habit he raised a hand—then dropped it with a flinch. There was no way Gang-cheol would pass to him.
But Gang-cheol was looking straight at him.
I keep my promises. Just get your foot on it.
Gang-cheol’s eyes gleamed.
He feinted a pass toward Tomas, drawing every gaze, then flicked a glance at Ryan bursting in from the opposite side.
The entire Feyenoord back line shifted toward Ryan. The moment they thought they had been fooled—
Thwack—!
Gang-cheol’s ankle cracked like a whip.
The ball sailed not to Ryan, not to a defender, but into the empty space behind Tomas, who still stood frozen.
A reverse-spinning “delivery cross” that dropped dead on a dime.
Huh?
Tomas reacted late.
The defenders, caught on the wrong foot, tumbled.
A perfect one-on-one. The goalkeeper had no chance. Tomas only had to tap the rolling ball home.
Splash!
1–1. Equalizer.
“Waaaaaah!!”
The Ajax away fans erupted.
Even after scoring, Tomas stared at the net in disbelief. He hadn’t earned that goal. The table had been set, the food spooned into his mouth—hell, it had even been chewed for him.
He started a celebration, then stopped and looked back at Gang-cheol.
Gang-cheol gave him a casual thumbs-up, expression blank.
You put it away. That’s enough.
That cool indifference made Tomas’s face burn.
He felt, bone-deep, how petty he had been—and how vast the vessel of that little Asian kid truly was.
Tomas nodded. Acknowledgment.
The match was back to square one.
From here on, it was Ma Gang-cheol Showtime.
Twenty-fifth minute of the second half.
After the equalizer Feyenoord lost their composure. Brutal tackles flew; they wasted energy arguing with the referee instead of focusing on the game.
The moment Gang-cheol had been waiting for.
Now.
He raised a hand.
Ajax players pushed the line up as one. The ragtag chaos of the first half was gone; they moved like a single organism. The conductor was only one man—Ma Gang-cheol.
He received the ball in midfield.
A Feyenoord defensive midfielder lunged in with a murderous tackle aimed at the ankle.
On the bench, Ho-seok screamed.
“No!”
But Gang-cheol did not dodge.
Without stopping the ball he flicked it behind himself with his heel—
and spun a full three hundred sixty degrees.
Marseille Turn
It was elegant.
Like a matador letting an enraged bull thunder past, Gang-cheol stepped lightly over the tackle and left the defender behind.
From the stands came not boos but a collective “Ooooh…” of pure admiration.
Edge of the penalty box. Two defenders blocked his path.
Nowhere to pass. The wingers were marked; Tomas was isolated.
Then?
I’ll finish it myself.
Gang-cheol sold the shot with a massive upper-body sway.
The defenders’ balance collapsed for a split second.
He curled the ball with the outside of his right foot.
Whoosh—
The ball bent around the defenders and arrowed into the far corner.
The goalkeeper dived; his fingertips never even brushed it.
A clothesline of a long-range strike.
2–1. Comeback goal.
“Waaaaaaaaah!!”
Gang-cheol sprinted to the corner flag.
Then he turned to the cameras and pointed at his own number and name.
Take a good look. This is the Nike boy you were cursing.
Forty-third minute of the second half. The dagger.
Feyenoord’s mentality had already collapsed.
Gang-cheol won the ball in midfield and simply drove thirty meters on a solo dribble.
Exhausted defenders fell away like autumn leaves in the wind.
One-on-one with the keeper.
Gang-cheol didn’t force it. Seeing the goalkeeper rush out, he simply lofted the ball with a delicate touch of his toe.
Chip shot.
The ball traced a soft parabola over the keeper’s head and rolled gently into the empty net.
3–1.
The match was over.
Rotterdam’s harsh jeers turned first to silence, then to something close to awe.
On the pitch stood only one conductor—the Maestro.
After the final whistle. Locker room.
The room that should have been roaring with victory was strangely quiet.
Gang-cheol emerged from the shower, toweling his hair dry.
In front of his locker stood Tomas and a few other boys, shifting awkwardly, stealing glances.
The same kids who, even after losing the last bet, had clung to their pride and refused to acknowledge him. Tomas especially had spent the entire first half sulking and freezing him out.
“Hey.”
Gang-cheol called.
Tomas flinched and looked up.
“You ready?”
Yesterday’s conversation in the locker room flashed through Tomas’s mind.
The final desperate wager he had thrown down in a fit of rage after refusing to accept the previous bet’s result.
Don’t make me laugh! The Feyenoord match. If you can still pull it off there… I’ll brand my own hand! Hell, I’ll even polish your boots!
Tomas’s face flushed crimson. But there was nowhere left to run. He had received Gang-cheol’s pass on the pitch, watched his play, and felt it in his bones.
He had been wrong. Gang-cheol had been right.
“…I keep my promises.”
Tomas pulled shoe polish and a brush from his bag. Then he picked up Gang-cheol’s Nike boots.
He dropped to one knee.
It could have been humiliating, yet Tomas’s expression was deadly serious. This was acknowledgment of defeat—and respect for overwhelming skill.
Scritch, scritch.
In the silence only the sound of polishing filled the air.
The other boys held their breath and watched. This was no mere punishment. It was a ritual—the reordering of the team’s hierarchy and leadership.
When the boots gleamed, Tomas set them down and stood.
In a voice barely above a whisper he said,
“And… that assist earlier. Thanks.”
“What? Can’t hear you.”
“I said thanks! Damn it! That pass was… freaking lethal!”
Tomas bellowed the words and bolted out of the locker room as if fleeing for his life.
The boys exploded with laughter.
“Pwahaha! Look at Tomas’s face—bright red!”
“Gang-cheol! Pass to me next! I wanna score too!”
“Hey, Maestro! Next match it’s my turn!”
They swarmed around him.
No longer the eyes that saw only a money-grubbing outsider or a parachute player.
These were the eyes of respect—for the ace who delivered victory, the leader they could trust and follow.
The Maestro of the Pitch
📍 Result: 2 goals, 1 assist. Rating 9.8
🎁 Reward: Team Trust MAX. Leadership raised to (B)
🎁 Bonus: Fan favor gained. Negative public opinion on the Nike contract has flipped to praise.
Gang-cheol smirked and slipped the gleaming boots into his bag.
The weight of the crown?
This much he could handle. Hell, he could even enjoy it.
“Let’s go. Big bro Ho-seok already bought the pork belly.”
Gang-cheol slung his bag over his shoulder and stood.
The thirteen-year-old Maestro.
His conquest of Europe had only just finished its first movement.
But the resonance was already spreading across the entire Netherlands.