David and Goliath
The shockwave from the victory over Barcelona did not stop at the Dutch border. It slammed across the whole of Europe.
This had been no ordinary youth friendly. The elite of La Masia—the finest youth system on the planet—had been thoroughly dismantled and sunk by a single thirteen-year-old Asian boy. The fact alone shattered every accepted truth in the football world.
The next morning, Europe’s major sports papers blanketed their front pages with Gang-cheol’s name.
13-Year-Old Boy Destroys the U-17 Ecosystem
— The phrase “skipping a grade” is meaningless before this boy. He is already the league’s ruler.
— A little giant is born, overcoming crushing physical inferiority with genius from another realm.
La Masia’s Arrogant Geniuses Bow Their Heads. Ajax U-17’s New Number 14. The Second Coming of Johan Cruyff?
Online, the reaction exploded past the printed page.
Clips of the small boy in the oversized kit shredding three Barcelona defenders with a phantom turn, and the GIF of that impossible chip that left the keeper stranded, blew past ten million views within half a day of hitting social media.
What stunned people most was still his age.
A thirteen-year-old kid had beaten Barcelona on a U-17 stage packed with seventeen- and eighteen-year-old monsters whose bodies were already nearly finished. Football fans across Europe could only stare. At Ajax’s official megastore in central Amsterdam, the phone lines melted under a flood of calls demanding the number-14 shirt of a youth player who had not even made a first-team debut.
“Hahaha! Jackpot! Absolute jackpot! This is insane!”
In the team lounge, Coach Choi Ho-seok had been glued to his tablet and phone since breakfast, grinning ear to ear. He hung up a call from Korea, voice still buzzing.
“Hey, Gang-cheol! Just got off the phone with the head of the main sports center. LK Sports stock jumped fifteen percent the second the Korean market opened! Chairman Lee Dae-su is so happy he ordered your support budget doubled—no questions asked. You’re number one on every real-time search ranking back home!”
“Hyung, tone it down. We haven’t even won the thing yet.”
Gang-cheol chewed his chicken-breast salad without much interest, eyes locked on the tablet propped at the edge of the table.
On the screen, match footage of tomorrow’s U-17 Cup final opponents—Feyenoord Rotterdam U-17—looped again and again.
“….”
His brow slowly tightened as he analyzed.
The Feyenoord players on the pitch looked nothing like “youth.”
Average age: 17.5. Average height: 185 cm.
These were young men with fully adult frames—no, muscle-bound monsters.
They carried the thick Dutch bone structure, layered with club-system weight training that had packed explosive thighs and shoulders. Their football was nothing like Barcelona’s pretty, precise patterns.
It was pure barbarism: overwhelming physique and speed used to smash the opponent into pieces.
“Hyung. Did their whole club fake their ages or what?”
“Huh? Why? Feyenoord kids are a bit rough, yeah.”
“A bit? Their size looks like English second-division adults. Look at that center-back. You see the full beard?”
Gang-cheol clicked his tongue and pointed at one figure on the screen.
The core of Feyenoord’s defense and U-17 captain: Jacob van Dijk.
189 cm, 85 kg.
On the tape, Jacob simply tanked an approaching attacker with his shoulder like a freight train, then casually poked the ball free. The forward tumbled across the grass in pain.
If Barcelona in the semis had been a wall of technique and tactics, Feyenoord in the final was a towering Wall of Lamentation that would choke the life out of you.
Against Gang-cheol’s roughly 173 cm and thirteen years, the gap was four years and sixteen centimeters. It was a grown man versus an elementary-school kid.
“Tomorrow’s final… is going to be a hundred times harder than Barça. It won’t be football. It’ll be a mud war.”
Two days later.
The day of the long-awaited U-17 Cup final.
The venue was Feyenoord Rotterdam’s home ground—the infamous De Kuip.
“Wooooaaaaahhh!!”
“Smash those Ajax bastards!! Kill them!!”
Forty-five thousand packed into the stands poured out heat like the mouth of hell.
One half of the stadium blazed in Ajax’s red and white; the other half answered in Feyenoord’s red-and-white halved shirts, veins bulging, snarling at each other across the divide.
The Netherlands’ greatest derby: De Klassieker.
Even though this was only a U-17 youth final and not the senior first teams, the meeting of these two blood enemies was enough to put mounted police on the streets of Rotterdam. Feyenoord fans would rather die than watch the arrogant Ajax youth lift a trophy inside their own De Kuip.
Home-side abuse and the smoke of red flares seeped all the way into the away tunnel and the visitors’ dressing room.
The Ajax players’ faces had gone ashen.
They were the cream of Dutch talent, yet the weight of a final, the madness of De Kuip, and the sheer intimidation radiating from the Feyenoord monsters warming up outside had crushed them flat.
“Huuuh… damn it.”
Striker Tomas (sixteen) swallowed dry and his legs trembled.
Technicians who lived by skill instinctively feared physical monsters. The terror that a collision could snap bone tightened every muscle and narrowed every field of vision.
“Don’t freeze.”
From the corner, quietly lacing his boots, Gang-cheol tossed the words out without ceremony.
For the team’s youngest—a thirteen-year-old—to speak that way to sixteen- and seventeen-year-old hyungs should have been pure cheek, yet no one in the room objected. The overwhelming talent and steel he had shown while dismantling Barcelona in the semis had already made even the older boys accept him as the side’s true ace.
Gang-cheol stood, clapped captain de Ligt on the shoulder, and walked into the middle of the circle.
“Those muscle pigs outside? Nothing to be scared of.”
His calm, solid voice cut through the heavy air of the dressing room.
“You saw the news yesterday, right? What those Feyenoord bastards said in the interviews? Called us ‘greenhouse young masters who only learned technique.’ Mocked us as Amsterdam kindergarten kids.”
Eyebrows twitched. Elite pride had been jabbed.
“Physical battles? Let them come. Broken bones or not—doesn’t matter. They foul, the ref cards them, we get free kicks. The second you duck the ball out of fear, you’ve already lost. Instead…”
Gang-cheol’s blue eyes flared bright.
“We don’t use our feet. We use our heads to strip the souls out of those animals. The ball is faster than a man, and thought is faster than muscle. You get what I’m saying?”
He thrust his hand into the center.
The silent hyungs glanced at one another, then one by one stacked their hands on top. Tomas’s shaking legs had already stilled.
“Ajax! Fight!!”
A roar of spirit, and the dressing-room door slammed open.
At the mouth of the tunnel leading to the pitch, both teams lined up in two rows, waiting to walk out.
Up close, the Feyenoord players were even more massive than the footage had suggested.
Especially the captain standing at the very front of their line—189 cm of Jacob van Dijk—looked down with cold, snake-like eyes at the 173 cm Gang-cheol whose head barely reached his chest, and let a crooked smile curl.
“Hey, kid. Wrong turn? This isn’t a kindergarten playground. Don’t want your bones broken, go home now and drink more milk in mommy’s arms.”
Jacob’s taunt set the Feyenoord players snickering. Ajax faces started to harden again—until Gang-cheol, not the least bit cowed, looked up at Jacob with a short, dry laugh.
“You here for your retirement match, old man? What’s a grown-up with an unshaven beard doing at a youth tournament? Creepy.”
“…What? You little shit.”
Jacob’s face flushed purple in an instant. He looked ready to clench a fist and charge, but the referee was already walking in from the tunnel mouth with the kickoff ball, so he had no choice but to stop.
“See you on the pitch, you rat. I’ll snap your legs.”
Peeeeeeep—!
The referee’s whistle cut through the insane roar of fifty thousand.
The curtain rose on the De Klassieker final.
And exactly as expected—no, far worse—Feyenoord’s play was naked and vicious.
They had not come to play football. They looked like hunters who had come for human game.
Barely three minutes in.
Gang-cheol received a pass near the halfway line and prepared his first touch.
“Not so fast!”
From behind, Feyenoord’s 185 cm defensive midfielder exploded into a full sprint.
He was not watching the ball’s path. He launched his entire body weight straight at Gang-cheol’s torso and standing foot.
Nearly eighty kilos of almost-adult frame smashed into the forty-something-kilo, skinny boy from behind.
Thud—!
“Ugh!”
Gang-cheol’s body left the ground, hung for a moment, then slammed into the turf.
The dull impact carried all the way to the bench. He rolled, clutching his right ankle. Without the hard carbon shin guards, the bone would have cracked under that murderous tackle.
“Hey! Are you insane?! That’s a red card!!”
Ajax’s coaching staff exploded off the bench; in the stands Choi Ho-seok shot to his feet and unleashed a stream of Korean curses.
But the referee who had blown the whistle simply walked over and did not reach for a card. He pointed a finger at the fallen Gang-cheol and the tackler—verbal warning only—then turned away.
Dutch youth football, especially at U-17 and above where bodies were finishing, carried a special leniency toward physical contact.
The referee had filed that lethal collision under the “legitimate rough play” that youth players were simply expected to survive on their way to the senior game.
“Get up quick, kid. Quit the Hollywood acting.”
Jacob van Dijk looked down at the fallen Gang-cheol and spat the words like he was spitting on the grass.
Gang-cheol clenched his teeth, brushed off the dirt, and slowly rose.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth where he had bitten his lip on the way down.
Referee tendency confirmed. Ordinary physical battles won’t draw a foul whistle.
For Ajax—and especially for Gang-cheol—it was the worst possible signal.
If the official was going to wave through adult-level contact, a thirteen-year-old with nowhere near the physique would be legally beaten for ninety minutes.
Watching Gang-cheol get crushed right in front of them, the courage the Ajax players had scraped together in the dressing room evaporated in a heartbeat.
Fear spread like a virus.
They became afraid even to receive the ball.
Before they could lift their heads, the red-striped giants charged like tanks; the tiki-taka vanished, replaced by panicked long clearances blasted aimlessly forward.
“Settle! Keep the tempo! Don’t run—move!”
Gang-cheol shouted endlessly from the center of midfield, hunting empty space, but the narrowed vision of his terrified teammates no longer saw him.
Then, in the fifteenth minute, disaster struck.
An Ajax center-back, rattled by Feyenoord’s brutal high press, sliced a clearance that never crossed halfway and dropped near his own penalty box.
Waiting at the landing spot was the giant captain himself—Jacob van Dijk.
“Stop him!!”
The goalkeeper’s desperate shout came too late.
Jacob simply shoulder-barged the two Ajax midfielders rushing him; they bounced off like scarecrows. The power gap was absolute—like a heavy bowling ball smashing through pins.
Dragging the defenders with him like autumn leaves, Jacob strode into the box, saw the keeper narrowing the angle, and unleashed a merciless instep drive.
Booooom—!
The ball flew like a cannonball and made the net bulge as if it would tear.
0 : 1
Opening goal.
Half of De Kuip vanished under Feyenoord flares and frenzied roars.
Jacob van Dijk sprinted away roaring and kicked the corner flag until it snapped—a savage celebration.
That overwhelming, violent goal stamped a deep defeat into every Ajax mind: You kids can do whatever you want—you will never beat us.
“Damn it…”
Gang-cheol stood on the halfway line, hands on both knees, dragging in rough breaths.
The match only twisted tighter. After the goal Feyenoord grew even more brazen and began openly tormenting him.
The Rotterdam bench simply assigned a rough 186 cm defensive midfielder as Gang-cheol’s personal shadow. The man followed him like a second skin, yanking his shirt from blind spots, jabbing elbows into his ribs, cleverly draining his stamina.
Can’t… breathe…
A thirteen-year-old body was screaming at its limit.
Technique? Elite tactical vision? Seasoned mentality?
Against raw weight class, every advantage was nullified. This was the biggest, cruelest trial that gifted early-promoted kids hit and broke against—the physical wall.
Peeeeeeep—!
The whistle ended the first half.
Score: 0–1.
Ajax players trudged into the dressing room like defeated soldiers, heads hanging.
No one spoke.
The air was thick with defeat, physical pain, and the heavy helplessness of we can never beat those giants with force.
Gang-cheol sank onto a corner bench, peeled off the sports tape, and pressed an ice pack against the bruised, blood-mottled shin the tackle had left.
His head throbbed.
If they walked out for the second half like this, they would be destroyed even worse.
What now? Strength would never win. A straight fight against those beasts was suicide.
A way… is there a way?
He pulled a towel over his head, closed his eyes, and tore through every scrap of football memory and knowledge from his thirty-five-year previous life.
How a small player survives and beats giants.
Lionel Messi? His center of gravity itself was otherworldly. This unfinished thirteen-year-old body could not produce that kind of explosion.
Then the escape art of the small Xavi or Iniesta?
No. They’re not playing football—they’re fighting. I need something more fundamental than technical solutions.
Giants are strong and take long strides. But they carry a fatal flaw.
The heavier the mass, the harder the law of inertia hits. Once they accelerate, stopping on a dime is nearly impossible, and changing direction in tight space burns enormous energy.
Gang-cheol’s closed eyes snapped open.
Judo.
Using the opponent’s own massive force and forward inertia to slam him into the ground.
And bullfighting.
Never meeting the horns of a charging beast dozens of times heavier head-on; instead stealing its vision with a red cape, letting the rush slide past, then striking the vital point—a cruel art.
Under the towel, a smile colder than ice curved across Gang-cheol’s lips.
“Hyungs.”
His voice ripped the silence that had drowned the dressing room.
De Ligt and Tomas, faces still crumpled, and the other seventeen-year-olds lifted their heads one by one toward the youngest in the corner.
Gang-cheol threw the towel aside, stood, and walked steadily to the tactical board in the middle of the room.
A black marker was already in his hand.
The soft click of the cap coming off echoed.
Click.
“We’re changing the plan. From now on, heads up, ears open. Listen carefully.”
He drew a huge, ruthless X across Feyenoord’s defensive shape on the board.
“Those bastards—big bodies, empty brains. Their arrogance that physique alone can crush us makes them push the line up like idiots and charge. Simple beasts who only trust strength.”
Marker still in hand, he turned.
His blue eyes no longer belonged to a thirteen-year-old boy. They were the eyes of a cold commander who had already read the entire battlefield and was ready to spill blood.
“From this moment, we wave the red cape.”
The curtain was rising on Gang-cheol’s merciless counterattack.