The Tiger Coach and Growing Pains
"Maestro! Sign this for me!"
"Hey, Nike Boy! You killed it in yesterday's match!"
The next morning at Ajax's training ground, De Toekomst.
The scene on the way in had flipped one hundred eighty degrees from just a few days before.
Youth players and fans who had been whispering that he was nothing but a money-chasing parachute hire were now flashing him thumbs-up as he passed.
The 3–1 away thrashing of Feyenoord. And right at the heart of it: Ma Gang-cheol.
Skill was the surest weapon for silencing every controversy.
"You're popular, Ma Gang-cheol."
Tomas met him in the locker room, grinning as he clapped him on the shoulder.
Yesterday the kid had swallowed his pride polishing Gang-cheol's boots, but after sweating side by side on the pitch they now shared a strange sort of camaraderie.
"You scored a beauty yourself yesterday. Master of the poacher's finish."
"Shut up. Call it good positioning."
They traded banter while getting ready for training.
Everything looked perfect—his standing in the team, the sponsor deal, the bonds with his teammates.
But he had no idea. The gods loved to drop trials without warning the moment a man was happiest.
That night, in the Amsterdam digs.
"Aaaargh...!"
Three in the morning.
A scream tore through the quiet residential streets of Amsterdam like a blade.
Gang-cheol thrashed on the bed, soaked in cold sweat. His right shin and knee burned as if someone had seized the bones of his leg and was yanking them brutally from both ends.
"Gang-cheol! What's wrong? What happened?!"
Ho-seok, who had been sleeping in the living room, burst in wearing nothing but his underwear, eyes wild.
"Hyung... my knee... it feels like it's going to snap."
"Knee? ACL? Cartilage? Did that tackle from yesterday just catch up with you?"
Ho-seok went pale and rummaged frantically through the first-aid kit, hands shaking. This was a ten-million-euro body. A serious injury could mean Nike headquarters coming after them with a lawsuit.
"No... it's not an injury... the bone itself is throbbing. This is driving me insane."
Gang-cheol clenched his teeth and groaned.
He had suffered countless injuries in his previous life, but this was different. Not a sharp tearing sound—just a heavy, dull, crushing pressure.
⚠️ Status Abnormality Triggered: 'Rapid Growth (Growth Spurt)'
- Description: Skeleton and muscle are expanding at extreme speed. Temporary 'Growing Pains' status has begun.
- Effects: Collapse of physical balance, massive reduction in Agility, induction of pain.
Ha... growing pains, of all things.
Even through the agony he let out a hollow laugh.
In his past life poor nutrition had stunted him. He still remembered the bloody tears of facing Europe's giants at a mere 173 cm.
This life was different. Ho-seok's devoted nourishing meals, the system's body corrections, and systematic nutrition management had all stacked together—his body was exploding in response.
"Hold on... let's measure your height."
Ho-seok stood him against the wall. When the measuring tape finished, his jaw dropped.
"Holy..."
"What? How much did I grow?"
"173 cm? Kid, you were 168 last month. Five centimeters in one month? Bean sprouts don't even grow that fast."
Storm growth.
For a footballer, physique was a blessing. But a sudden change in so short a time could just as easily become a curse.
The gap between the body size the brain remembered and the body that actually existed.
If yesterday's victory had been a sweet dream, today's pain was a merciless reality.
The next afternoon, Ajax training ground.
The fear became fact.
His body no longer felt like his own. It was as if someone else's legs had been bolted on.
Eye level had changed. Leg length had changed. Worst of all, his center of gravity felt like it was floating high and loose. Everything was dull and slow, as though he were walking underwater.
"Passing drill starts now! Two-touch maximum! Keep it sharp!"
Frank de Boer's whistle cut the air and training began.
A legendary Ajax defender turned technical coach, he was the "Tiger Teacher" who hammered fundamentals harder than anyone.
"Hey, Ma! Here!"
Tomas fired a firm pass at Gang-cheol.
Normally he would have cushioned it lightly under the sole and flowed straight into the next action.
But—
Thud!
"Huh?"
The timing of his foot was a fraction off. Because the leg was longer than expected, the ball struck his shinbone instead of the sole and skittered away wildly.
A beginner's trapping error.
"What the hell? You not concentrating?"
Frank's roar landed like a whip.
Gang-cheol bit his lip. His face burned.
Again.
Next came the dribbling drill.
With a defender in front of him he tried a body feint.
In his mind the picture was already perfect: upper body swaying left, then bursting right. His thirty-five-year-old brain calculated the exact timing and angle.
But his thirteen-year-old, suddenly lengthened body was not ready to obey.
Stagger.
"Ugh!"
He threw the upper-body fake too hard; the longer legs tangled. He crashed face-first onto the grass in an undignified heap.
Like a newborn giraffe learning to walk and falling on its face.
"......"
Silence settled over the training pitch.
The eyes of the boys who had treated him like a hero moments earlier now wavered.
Why is the genius suddenly like this? Suspicion.
A few who still nursed jealousy muttered among themselves.
"See? Yesterday was just luck."
"Got paid and now he's too full of himself—body's gone heavy."
Gang-cheol brushed the dirt off and stood. His knee throbbed. Worse than the humiliation was the fear: the terror of no longer being able to control his own body.
It was like running outdated software while the hardware was still updating—lag everywhere.
Mistakes piled up through the entire afternoon session.
Passes went astray. Shots sliced into empty air. Forcing the old sharp movements only made the knee pain worse.
Then disaster struck.
During the mini-game he forced a turn, tangled his own feet, and went down alone—handing the opposing attackers a perfect counter-attack chance.
Goal conceded.
"Tweet! Enough!"
Frank de Boer halted training and strode straight toward him.
His face was ice-cold, like a tiger eyeing prey.
"Ma Gang-cheol. What the hell are you doing today?"
"......I'm sorry. My body just isn't following..."
"Body? Don't give me excuses."
Frank jabbed a finger into his chest.
"You're drowning in arrogance. One good game yesterday and you think you're somebody? You Messi? You Ronaldo?"
"No, sir."
"Don't 'no, sir' me! Look at your play. Ball at your feet and it's always dribble, always turn. You a circus act? Why are you fiddling with the ball for no reason?"
Frank's voice rolled across the entire pitch.
"What's the philosophy of Dutch football? Total Football? Tiki-taka? No.
The core is simple.
'The ball is faster than the man.'
But right now you're under the delusion that you're faster than the ball. That's why the forced moves keep coming."
Bullseye.
Gang-cheol had nothing to say.
It was true the growing pains had slowed him. But underneath lay arrogance: I'm a regressor, my technique is superior. When the body was off he should have played simpler, cleaner, faster football that matched the condition.
"In your current state you wouldn't even make the U-15 bench, let alone the first team. Back to basics."
Frank turned away coldly.
"You're out of team training starting today. Go stand in that corner and pass against the wall. Don't even think about rejoining the group until your touch is back and my eyes are satisfied."
Excluded from team training.
For a youth player there was no heavier punishment.
Gang-cheol hung his head and trudged toward the far corner of the pitch.
He felt the boys' stares on his back. Yesterday it had been cheers; today it was pity—or contempt.
Tomas looked at him with sympathy but didn't dare approach under the coach's gaze.
He stopped in front of the isolated wall.
The concrete loomed enormous.
⚠️ Mental value is dropping.
⚠️ Probability of trait 'Glass Body (C)' activating has increased.
Damn it...
He kicked the ball against the wall.
Thud.
It bounced back.
He kicked again.
Thud.
Memories of the previous life flickered past.
Forced into retirement by injury, alone in a rehab center kicking a ball against a wall—those miserable days.
No one calling for him, just a thirty-something Ma Gang-cheol desperately trying to keep his touch alive.
That same despair seemed to climb back up through his thirteen-year-old body.
No.
He shook his head hard.
This time is different. I'm not alone, and it's not over. This is just the process. The process of growing bigger.
Thud!
He struck the ball harder.
Fine. Maybe this was for the best.
Throw away the half-baked flash, the showy technique. All of it.
He needed a new set of clothes that fit this body.
If the center of gravity had risen, keep the ball lower.
If speed had dropped, release the ball faster.
If dribbling failed, pass.
Coach Frank is right. The ball is faster than me.
Thud, thud, thud.
Until sunset.
Long after every other boy had returned to the dorms, the sound of a ball bouncing never stopped in that far corner of the pitch.
Simple, boring repetition.
But that sound was the noise of a genius tapping at the shell, ready to break free once more.
From a distance Frank de Boer watched, arms folded, and muttered,
"Stubborn little bastard. Most kids would have gone home crying."
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
Growing pains hurt. But the bones that endure them only grow harder.