The First Poker
Lee Junho's goal went in, and the enraged fans forced a temporary suspension of the match.
"Ah... the match will be suspended for a moment."
"It would be nice if people could keep it within bounds. Such a regrettable situation."
The endless barrage of trash left one side of the stadium buried under garbage. Crews were brought in to clear it all away, and after about twenty minutes the pitch was restored to its original state.
"Looks like the match is about to get underway again."
The restart was chaotic. Whether because of what had just happened or not, neither the Real Madrid players nor the Barcelona players could quite lock in, and that lack of focus spilled over into rough play.
"Aaaagh!"
Messi went tumbling across the grass under Zidane's tackle. Zidane walked over and told him to get up, but the challenge had been so deep that Messi stayed down.
"Out of the way!"
Jorge shoved Zidane aside, and a scuffle erupted between Real and Barcelona. It only quieted down after the referee had handed out roughly seven cards.
"The players are all far too worked up right now. Someone needs to cool things down."
Thankfully, Messi was fine.
"Can you run?"
"Yeah."
The moment Messi got back on his feet, the match restarted.
Forty-fifth minute of the first half. Not much time left before the break. Both sides had attacked relentlessly since Lee Junho's goal in the seventh minute, but no one else had scored, so the score remained 1–0.
Ronaldinho gathered Roberto Carlos's long-range shot and immediately threw the ball out to Dani Alves, sparking a Barcelona counter. Real Madrid scrambled to get back into shape as fast as they could, but against Messi—who had been carefully husbanding his energy—and me, the fastest player in La Liga, their recovery was always going to be a step slow.
"Figo has eyes on Iniesta!"
Messi, still deep in Barcelona's half, found Iniesta with a pass. Iniesta took a clean first touch, slipped past the trailing Zidane, and drove forward. Ahead of him lay open space, three Real defenders, and both Messi and Lee Junho.
None of the remaining Real defenders were easy marks, but Iniesta wasn't worried. He trusted his own quality—and Junho's, and Messi's. When the numbers were even, the attackers always held the advantage: you could force the defense into choices.
Iniesta pushed all the way to about five meters outside the box—well within shooting range. Carlos had no choice but to step out to block the shot. Seeing him commit, Iniesta changed his mind mid-motion from shot to pass. He aimed between Carlos's spread legs, and the ball slid through to Messi.
Right in front of goal, Messi shaped to shoot. Center-back Rafaél and goalkeeper Iker Casillas both charged at him—and that was the wrong decision. Messi simply laid the ball off to Lee Junho, who was cutting in from the side.
"Wha—?"
Someone's stunned cry rang out, but Messi's pass reached Junho cleanly. Junho slotted it into the empty net for his second goal.
After the goal I peeled Messi off me and sprinted straight toward the Real fans. Looking at their sour faces, I hit them with the control-tower celebration.
"Ah..."
Messi let out a groan at the sight of me. Jorge, trailing behind, wore a look of pure disbelief.
"Uh... is this even allowed?"
But no one was more rattled than the Real supporters. At first they just stared at my control-tower pose like, What the hell is that bastard doing? Then recognition dawned. Their faces flushed crimson with rage.
"Aaaaaaaah! I'm killing that bastard today and going to heaven!"
"Same!"
A few of them tried to storm the pitch while screaming curses, only to be stopped by the police.
"Idiots."
Watching them get held back, I made a deliberately annoying face and swore at them in Korean. They couldn't understand the words, but they could tell I was cussing them out, and the veins on their already red faces stood out even more. All they could do was keep yelling. The Real president had anticipated exactly this and ordered extra security, so there were far more police than usual.
At that same moment, Park Jieun, Lee Eunha, and Ju Seohyun were sitting together on the sofa at Lee Junho's house, watching El Clásico.
"I think he just cursed at them?"
Park Jieun wanted to deny it, but Junho's expression was so clearly saying Yes, I'm cussing you out right now that she had to admit it.
"Yeah."
"Good. Honestly, throwing trash onto the pitch? What a classless bunch. Tsk."
Ju Seohyun was usually warm and gentle, but the moment football was involved a completely different personality came out. Park Jieun agreed with her completely.
"Seeing those Lequi losers lose their minds is pure satisfaction."
"Ugh... I really should've gone to the stadium for this... What a shame."
"Next time for sure."
"Yeah. Next time, no excuses."
It was a Real home game, so the risk had felt too high and neither of them had bought tickets. But watching the Real fans melt down was so cathartic that they immediately decided they would go next time no matter what.
"Ah... what is this... the ball is in the Real net again."
"It looks like a goal went in while everyone was watching the celebration after the restart... Ah! The replay's coming up now."
"Yes—Lee Junho has completed his hat-trick."
I had a hat-trick.
Right after kickoff I sprinted forward. Zidane still looked half-dazed, so I hit him with a tackle from behind, won the ball, saw the keeper off his line, and let fly. I honestly didn't think it would go in.
Uh... is he okay?
Zidane, the man who'd just gifted me a hat-trick, was face-down on the grass. Not my problem. I headed straight back to the thickest knot of Real fans for another celebration.
When I arrived they all wore the same look: You again? Right in front of those faces I broke into the Big Man Dance. Naturally the Real supporters unleashed another wave of abuse. I ignored every word and kept dancing the endless Big Man Dance until the referee finally walked over and showed me a card.
I just kept going.
After the hat-trick, Real Madrid's mental game completely collapsed. Mistakes poured out of them.
"Ah, Real are giving away far too many misplaced passes today."
Real's mistakes were pure opportunity for Barcelona, and we kept punishing them.
Fiftieth minute of the second half. A shot that sat perfectly on my instep rocketed into the top right corner and ripped the net.
"Oh... it went in."
I'd just hit it for fun, and it found the net. I was delighted.
"Lee Junho has completed a poker!"
A hat-trick—three goals in one match—was already rare enough. Four goals, a poker, was on another level entirely.
Once again I sprinted toward the Real fans, already debating what celebration to use this time.
What should I do?
I decided in a second and executed immediately. I dropped flat on the grass and wriggled like a caterpillar.
Naturally, at least one Real fan collapsed on the spot.