Little Honeybee - 2

As Nuri Sahin hit the ground from Daniel Caligiuri's foul play, the Borussia Dortmund bench erupted into chaos.

It looked like a serious injury, with Nuri clutching his right knee in agony.

"…He'll be okay, right?"

I sat on the bench, watching Nuri writhing on the pitch with a worried expression—but only for a moment.

"Jinho! Warm up quick!"

At Coach Klopp's urgent shout, I jumped up and started loosening up right away.

Of course, the match was halted due to Nuri's injury, and Dortmund's medical staff rushed onto the field.

The staff made a grim face and signaled an X toward our bench.

"How the hell is that a warning?!"

Referee Felix Zwayer issued a yellow card to Hummels, who was protesting vehemently.

"F…."

"Mats! Calm down!"

As Hummels flared up again at Zwayer's sullen card-showing, Neven Subotić rushed over to hold him back.

I got where Hummels was coming from. Truth be told, Nuri's injury was largely because Zwayer's baffling calls had heated up the game too much.

"Fick dich! Is that even a call?!"

"You rigged matches back in 2006—took bribes again this time?!"

Naturally, the Dortmund home crowd unleashed boos at Zwayer for carding Hummels.

A barrage of words my German teacher had warned me were too crude to use.

Nuri's injury turned out worse than expected; he was stretchered off the pitch. But the pain seemed to have eased—he wasn't grimacing anymore.

"Jinho! You're not scared just 'cause I got hurt, are you?"

Even amid his injury, Nuri teased me playfully as I stood by the fourth official, fully warmed up. He seemed worried the young kid like me might be rattled.

"Hurry back before I snag your starting spot for good."

I shot back exaggeratedly at Nuri.

"What a cocky little punk."

Our eyes met, and we both burst out laughing.

"Yeah, hold down the fort for me."

His words rang in my ears as I stepped onto the pitch. The Dortmund players, now cooled off, nodded lightly in welcome.

"Jinho! Tactical change?" "Nah!"

Life in Dortmund, Germany, was more perfect than I'd imagined. Sincere soccer pros, a friendly coach, passionate fans—everything checked out.

Well, Germany had its share of racism—enough to make even Son Heung-min shake his head—but the club cracked down hard, and the ultras handled it with enthusiastic violence.

Anyway, since it was Freiburg's foul, Dortmund got a free kick.

'Just fill Nuri's role… but I believe every player shines in their own way, right? So, Jinho—show us your best play on that pitch.'

I positioned myself for the free kick, recalling Jürgen Klopp's words. Like he said, soccer players are people too, each with unique styles and strengths.

'About 40 meters.' More attacking than Nuri by nature, I eyed the white center circle at my feet—a damn long shot—but decided to blast it anyway.

Beep!

The ref's whistle blew, and I kept my eyes locked on the ball, swinging my right foot through.

Thwack—!

The ball rocketed past the keeper's reach, smacked the underside of the crossbar, dropped into the goal, then bounced out onto the pitch.

Freiburg desperately cleared it beyond the touchline.

"Ref!! That's a goal!!"

Dortmund players by the goal raised their arms, claiming it.

"No goal!! No goal!!"

Freiburg shook their fingers in denial.

"…Was it in?" "…."

The ref checked with the linesman, both stone-faced. No goal-line tech yet, and I caught the linesman's hesitation. I judged it fastest—a sliver in—and bolted for the corner flag with a "do it first, ask later" mindset. Worst case? A yellow.

"Uooooaaaaaaaa!!!"

Dortmund fans roared as I ran their way, assuming a goal.

"Hoo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!"

I unleashed my signature Hoo celebration. With the crowd going wild in joy, could the ref cancel an iffy goal the linesman wasn't even sure about?

'What're you gonna do about it, you punk-ass?'

That kind of balls, I respect.

"You can't celebrate before the call's made—what's that about?"

"Oh, I saw it cross the line clear as day—thought it was obvious. No intent to undermine your authority, ref."

I brazenly replied to the annoyed ref approaching me.

"…."

He eyed me suspiciously.

"Us Easterners have killer eyesight, y'know."

I tossed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in one more line. The ref, clueless about Asian vision stereotypes, ultimately respected my initiative and the linesman's call—goal.

Looks like he lumped me in with those eagle-eyed Mongolians. Whatever—didn't matter.

"Hoo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!"

I sprinted back to the stands as the goal stood. Maybe 'cause I'd already done one Hoo, the crowd echoed it properly this time.

"Hoo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo!"

Damn, one goal for two Hoos. What a value deal.

Same time. Republic of Korea.

Freiburg, trailing by two, desperately chased a comeback.

But Neven Subotić and Mats Hummels formed an iron wall, shutting down attacks effortlessly.

I joined the defense aggressively, battling physically. Ran so hard my mouth tasted metallic, rolling on the turf. My kit got filthy in seconds.

The dirtier my kit got, the louder the Dortmund fans roared for me. Fueled by their cheers, I pressed harder.

Just before halftime, I assisted Lewandowski's goal, effectively sealing the match.