The Final Battle of Sangam (Final vs Italy) [Part 1]

June 11, 2017. Seoul, Republic of Korea — Sangam World Cup Stadium.

FIFA U-20 World Cup Final: Republic of Korea vs Italy.

7:50 p.m.

Ten minutes until kickoff.

Sangam World Cup Stadium had become a colossal furnace. All sixty-six thousand seats were packed solid with spectators in red, and the heat they poured out was baking the early-summer night air until it shimmered.

"Dae~han Minguk! Clap-clap-clap, clap-clap!"

The roar was more than sound. It was a physical wave that made the stadium's concrete floor tremble.

But the home team's locker room stood in stark contrast to that heat — quiet. No. Closer to desperate.

The players said nothing.

Everyone was a wreck after the extra-time bloodbath against France. The ace, Ma Gang-cheol, looked especially pitiful.

Gang-cheol sat in a corner of the locker room while the head trainer worked on him. The right side of his eye socket, torn open in the previous match, was stitched shut and padded with thick gauze. A bandage soaked through with red blood was wound tightly around his head.

Thighs, calves, forearms — nothing was left intact. He looked like a mummy who had somehow managed to lace up a pair of football boots.

Coach Shim Yong-tae folded his arms and watched him with open concern.

"Gang-cheol."

"Yes, Coach."

"You're not dizzy? Be honest with me. If you've got concussion symptoms, even now we can—"

"I'm fine."

Gang-cheol bit down on the bandage strap with his teeth, yanked it tight, and grinned.

It was a lie.

Even sitting still, the world was spinning. Accumulated fatigue and the aftereffects of a concussion. In the corner of his vision, a system warning window flashed red.

But if he lay down now, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

This was a World Cup final — the kind of match that might never come again in his lifetime.

"My head's a little foggy, so the random thoughts stay quiet. Perfect for focusing, actually."

His teammates managed bitter smiles at Gang-cheol's banter.

He rose from his seat and walked to the tactics board.

The opponent was Italy — the land of traditional defensive football, of Catenaccio, the door-bolt. They had conceded only two goals all tournament on their way to the final: the absolute masters of suffocating defense.

"Listen up, hyungs."

Gang-cheol opened his mouth. Thirty-five years of stored data cut straight to the essence of Italian football.

"Italy's going to play dirty as hell."

"Dirty?"

"Yeah. Shirt-pulling. Pinching your ribs when the ref isn't looking. Stepping on your feet at corners. To them, that isn't a foul — it's a skill."

His eyes flashed sharp.

"Especially their captain, Mandragora. He's going to run his mouth the whole game. 'I'm gonna break your legs.' 'Say hi to your mom for me.' Mental warfare. Don't take the bait."

Captain Park Jin-ho swallowed hard.

"So what do we do?"

"If you get angry, you lose. When they play dirty, we stick to them even dirtier. You know how hot-blooded Italian kids are, right? If we don't fold, they'll lose their heads first and self-destruct."

Gang-cheol looked each of his teammates in the eye — Kwon Jae-min, Im Woo-seung, Shin Geun-beom. All of them were exhausted, but their eyes were still alive.

"Today is the last day. There is no tomorrow. If we die, we die on the pitch."

Preeeeep—!

The final's kickoff whistle sounded.

Sangam field drowned in a roar that threatened to tear the sky open.

The opening stretch of the match went exactly as expected.

Italy dropped their defensive line to the absolute limit, packing a formation that was practically a ten-back. And yet every movement was viciously clever.

Tenth minute of the first half.

Gang-cheol collected the ball near the halfway line.

As if he had been waiting for it, Italy's defensive midfielder and captain — Mandragora — came charging in.

He wasn't looking at the ball. He drove in with his elbow, casually pressing into Gang-cheol's injured ribs.

Thud!

"Ugh!"

Gang-cheol staggered. It was a clear strike, but from the referee's angle it looked like legitimate physical play. The whistle blew — no card.

A crafty foul.

As Gang-cheol planted a hand on the ground and fought for breath, Mandragora approached. He pretended to apologize as he helped him up — then whispered low against his ear.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Hey, Bandage boy."

"……"

"Watch that head of yours. If it splits open again, it's gonna hurt. Better run home and cry to your mommy, yeah?"

A blatant provocation.

Gang-cheol brushed the dirt off himself, stood, and looked Mandragora dead in the eye. Then he smirked.

"Worry about your legs first."

"What?"

"I might break them."

Mandragora's face twisted. Gang-cheol didn't even glance back as he returned to his position.

Twenty-fifth minute of the first half.

The match ground on in a stifling rhythm. Korea held over sixty-five percent of possession, but it produced nothing of substance. Italy's penalty box was a genuine fortress.

"Woo-seung hyung! Stretch it!"

Gang-cheol slipped a pass out to the left. Im Woo-seung tried to break through with his trademark dribble — but Italian defender Di Marco stuck to him like a leech. No space. Even when Woo-seung beat one man with skill, another defender was already waiting right behind him. It felt like sinking into a swamp.

"Aargh, damn it!"

Woo-seung stamped the ground in frustration. The Italian players smirked at the sight. This was exactly the picture they wanted — the opponent growing impatient, getting irritated, forcing attacks, and leaving space in behind.

Gang-cheol sucked in ragged breaths.

Stamina's draining way too fast.

Whether it was the injuries or something else, his energy was burning off far worse than usual. His legs felt like lead weights.

Then, in the fortieth minute of the first half, the disaster they had feared finally struck.

A Korean corner. Every tall player, including center-back Kwon Jae-min, poured forward into the attack. Park Jin-ho's cross glanced off an Italian defender's head and bounced clear, rolling far outside the penalty box.

"Counter!"

A shout exploded from the Italian bench.

The coiled viper struck.

Italian winger Orsolini tore forward at a mad sprint. Beyond the halfway line, only a single Korean defender remained.

"Get back! Back!"

Goalkeeper Shin Geun-beom screamed until his throat tore. Korean players sprinted for their lives to recover, but Orsolini already had full acceleration.

The last man, Kwon Jae-min, stepped up to stop him. Jae-min was exhausted too — but he had to make the stop.

Orsolini cut left. Jae-min threw his body into a sliding tackle.

"Not a chance!"

But Orsolini was sharp. He read the timing of the tackle, flicked the ball up just enough to skip over it, and left Jae-min's foot carving empty air.

"Ah…"

Beaten.

Orsolini found himself one-on-one with the keeper — but he didn't get greedy. He laid a soft ground pass across to the striker charging in from the far side: Favilli.

Shin Geun-beom rushed out to close the angle, got caught on the wrong foot, and went down.

An empty net.

Favilli rolled the ball gently home.

Ripple.

For a moment, silence fell over Sangam field. The collective groan of sixty thousand spectators burst out all at once.

"Aaaaah…."

Classic Italian football. Absorb forty minutes of punishment, then snuff out the opponent's life with a single chance ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— the pure essence of pragmatic football.

The Korean players sank to the grass. Kwon Jae-min hammered his fist into the turf.

"Damn it! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠God damn it!"

Stamina already at rock bottom — and now a conceded opening goal. The perfect setup for a total psychological collapse.

Preeeep—!

End of the first half. Halftime.

The locker room sank into silence. The atmosphere was worse than a funeral. Only ragged breathing and low groans filled the space.

"Hhh… hhh…"

Kwon Jae-min couldn't lift his head under the weight of guilt, a towel pulled over his face. Im Woo-seung hurled a water bottle to the floor in fury and clutched his head in both hands.

Coach Shim Yong-tae held up the tactics board and tried to explain something, but nothing reached the players' ears. Their eyes were half-glazed.

This was the limit.

The murderous schedule stretching back from the France match, the stacked injuries, and the despair of conceding first in a World Cup final.

Is this as far as we go?

Was the title always out of reach?

Defeatism was sprouting like poisonous mushrooms.

Then it happened.

Gang-cheol, who had been sitting in the corner, staggered to his feet.

Riiip—

A chilling sound shattered the locker room's silence. Gang-cheol tore the bandage from his head in one rough motion. The gauze, caked with blood and sweat, fell away. Fresh crimson blood streamed from the unhealed wound and painted his face.

"Gang-cheol!"

The head trainer rushed over in alarm.

"You're bleeding! We need to stop it again! Lie down!"

"Leave it."

Gang-cheol blocked the trainer's hands. Then, face streaming with blood, he fixed his gaze on each of his bowed teammates one by one. He looked like a demon crawled back from hell.

"Hyungs."

Gang-cheol's voice dropped low.

"When I went to Man City, Kompany hyung told me something."

At the sudden remark, his teammates lifted their heads. The moment they saw his face, they stopped breathing.

"He said you don't lift the championship trophy with clean hands."

Gang-cheol raised his blood-smeared hands for them to see.

"He said you only lift it for real when your hands are filthy — caked with mud, and sweat, and blood."

"……"

"We're in a good spot right now. We've gotten as dirty as we can get, and we've suffered as hard as we can suffer."

Gang-cheol grinned wide. One eye was swollen shut, half his face was covered in blood — and he was smiling. That madness-tinged smile brushed against the dying embers in his teammates' chests.

"Forty-five minutes left. Hold on for forty-five minutes and you're heroes. Quit here and you're just 'the losers who fought well.' I don't want to be remembered as a loser. What about you, hyungs?"

Silence.

But the air was different now. The defeatism was gone, and in its place rose pure stubborn grit.

Park Jin-ho snapped his head up.

"Who's losing? It's not over yet."

Kwon Jae-min flung the towel aside and stood.

"Yeah. Fuck it — even if my legs break, I just have to stop them."

Im Woo-seung yanked his bootlaces tight again.

"It's one goal. Score one and the momentum flips. Let's flatten those pasta bastards' noses."

Their eyes came back to life. Venom. The Italians had touched them. Now they would make them pay the price.

Coach Shim Yong-tae watched it all and secretly clenched his fist. There was nothing left for a coach to say. That fifteen-year-old boy had, with blood-soaked fighting spirit, made a dying team's heart beat again.

Gang-cheol wound a fresh bandage roughly around his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠head and roared.

"Let's go!"

"Let's kill them!"

The players howled like beasts and charged out onto the pitch.

Second half.

The real battle of Sangam field was only just beginning.