Olympic Group Stage (4)

Our lead held through the end of the first half, but that narrow advantage did not last long.

Whatever had been said in their dressing room during the break, Argentina returned to the pitch with an entirely different intensity. Their manager had made subtle tactical adjustments, and the offside trap that had served Korea so well throughout the opening forty-five minutes began to creak at the joints. Before five minutes had even ticked off the second-half clock, those adjustments bore fruit.

Adrian demonstrated precisely why he was hailed as Argentina's superstar. With nothing more than a single, devastating drop of his shoulder, he shattered the offside trap that had snared him all afternoon, breaking clean through into open grass without a defender in sight.

Won-woo did not abandon his goal line recklessly. Holding his ground at the edge of the penalty box—the exact ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠zone where the delicate chip shots I so often tormented him with in training could not reach—he braced himself to meet the charging forward. But in a one-on-one between a striker and a keeper, the advantage overwhelmingly favors the man with the ball at his feet.

Adrian danced past Won-woo with effortless grace and slotted the ball home, leveling the score.

"Ah... Argentina have clawed their way back to find an equalizer!" the television broadcast rang out.

"Adrian Ledes proves why he's the centerpiece of Manchester City! Riding the momentum of the second half, he drags his country level and resets the match to square one!"

I walked over to Jung-wook, our defensive midfielder, who was slumped on the turf, gasping for breath.

"...I thought you said you were going to stop him."

"I said I'd try to stop him," Jung-wook wheezed, wiping sweat from his brow. "I never promised we wouldn't concede."

I knew better than to point fingers over a scoreline that had already changed. Besides, the backline and midfield had held firm across the entire first half; rebuking them for letting one slip now, considering the immense pressure they were under, would have been unreasonable. On paper, the gap in raw talent was wide enough that conceding 'only' one goal was practically a miracle born of heroic defending.

Even back at Luton Town, playing defensive midfield under Gordon Morton's tactical system was notorious for grinding a player's stamina to dust. The entire reason we were desperate to win this second group match was so our key players could rest during the third. If we didn't, exhaustion would catch up to them when it mattered most, leaving them unable to run.

I extended a hand and pulled Jung-wook to his feet. Neither of us said another word. Knowing his pride, I didn't need to lecture him; he would run himself into the ground regardless.

Several of our teammates, however, wore visibly deflated expressions. Tae-ha clapped his hands and shouted encouragement as captain, but it did little to lift the heavy pall hanging over the squad. Kim Il-won in particular seemed rattled by how completely Adrian had turned him inside out, casting anxious glances toward the Argentine forward as he jogged back to his own half.

Leave him like that, and he'll get torn apart all afternoon.

Even if the manager brought on a substitute, our backup fullbacks had no chance of containing an Adrian who was now playing with his tail up. Our best bet was to stick with Il-won, who had at least managed to double-team him effectively in the first half. But in his current state, he was a liability.

Which meant I needed to sear something into everyone's retinas—something even more shocking than what Adrian had just pulled off. A goal capable of washing the lingering dread from their minds and refilling their veins with sheer confidence.

I turned and strode slowly toward the center circle.

If we dropped points today, we would be forced to field our full starting eleven in the final group game. And I had zero interest in dragging a completely burned-out, lifeless squad into the Round of 16 only to suffer a pathetic, limp exit.

"Got something cooked up?" Tae-ha asked, waiting over the ball at the center spot.

"Yeah. It might be a little rough, but I've got an idea."

If this were Luton Town, or even a senior A-match, trying this would border on impossible, and I wouldn't have dared attempt it. But this was the Olympic tournament. No matter how prestigious the competition had become, playing against an Under-23 side was fundamentally different from facing hardened, experienced veterans. The midfield offered far more breathing room than in professional league play, the defensive spacing characteristic of national teams was slightly uncoordinated, and the free role granted to Adrian left momentary voids in their shape during transitions.

Had their guard been up, it might have been a different story. But because I had spent the first half focusing on link-up play and circulation to build stability, Argentina would never anticipate what I was about to do.

"Tap it to me, then sprint forward," I said.

"You're not planning to take another shot from the center line, are you? You want to cause chaos?"

"Exactly."

As expected, the man was sharp. Tae-ha studied my face for a heartbeat, then nodded, willing to match my ambition.

"I was thinking we needed to shift the momentum anyway. If we stay on the back foot, the floodgates might open. Besides, knowing you, even if you lose the ball, you'll drag two or three of them with you first. That's good enough for me."

Deciding that alone would suffice to spark our morale, Tae-ha gave a firm nod. Then he turned to the squad and roared, "Hey! Push up! What the hell are you dropping deep for just because we conceded one?!"

To support my run, our midfield pushed up as a unit, and both wingers positioned themselves along the halfway line, primed to burst down the flanks at a moment's notice.

"Dribble as far as you can take it," Tae-ha murmured, his eyes alight with trust earned over weeks of watching me in training.

The referee blew his whistle. Tae-ha nudged the ball gently into my stride and took off at a full sprint. It was a sequence we had drilled in partial-team tactics, and the moment Tae-ha surged forward, the rest of the team followed suit.

"Korea charges straight into the opposition half from the kickoff!"

"The fullbacks and center-backs are pushing their line up high!"

The few seconds it took for them to draw Argentina's markers—the brief window where I held the ball in the center circle—were more than enough. Now, it was time to drive forward.

Argentina's lone striker pressed me to cut off the forward passing lane, lunging in with an outstretched boot the moment I advanced. It was a decent attempt at close quarters, but grand gestures always invite massive vulnerabilities.

Dragging the ball toward my body with the sole of my boot, I shifted it sharply sideways, effortlessly clearing his outstretched leg. Without so much as brushing leather, his momentum gave out, and he tumbled awkwardly to the turf. Claiming the space he had vacated, I surged forward without breaking stride.

"Lee Han! He doesn't pass! He's carrying it straight through the middle!"

"Caught off guard, Argentina's midfield tries to converge, but Lee Han slips right through the gap!"

Never stop the ball. That is the cardinal rule of a central run; the instant you kill your momentum, you are surrounded on all sides.

Argentina favored an attacking 4-3-3 formation designed to maximize their flair. But with their midfield trio stretched wide and disoriented by our surging runners, they were nothing more than prey. As the first midfielder rushed in, a swift dip of my upper body sent his center of gravity tumbling the wrong way. When the next chose ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to wait cautiously for my approach, I simply steered the ball along an unexpected angle.

There was no rule saying the ball had to stay glued to the grass. Snapping my ankle, I scooped the ball into the air with heavy backspin.

Thud!

A dull, heavy impact echoed as the Argentine defender crashed into me, desperate to halt my progress with a cynical foul. Naturally, I had anticipated as much. Even as we collided head-on, I felt no concern for my body. However sturdy our physical frame might be, a collision like that was inherently dangerous—and whenever danger arose, there was someone else inside who always took over.

That idiot came in way too hard.

Trusting the ball to drop back onto the grass, I wrenched myself free from the defender's clutching grip. Backed by my physical frame and amplified by Lee Han's seasoned knack for discretely knocking defenders senseless in aerial duels, it was certainly not me who absorbed the brunt of the shock. Which meant there was no way in hell he could recover faster than me as I abruptly broke, not forward, but laterally toward the touchline.

Sure enough, the defender was left clutching only the torn shreds of my jersey collar, watching helplessly as I slipped away. Meanwhile, the ball that had sailed over his shoulder took a sharp bounce to the left courtesy of the spin I had applied, settling neatly along the touchline where I met it.

Trapping the straying ball with a deft flick of my heel, I finally slowed my pace for a fraction of a second. Right on cue, the Argentine fullback stepped up from the backline to close me down. His movement blew the inside channel between fullback and center-back wide open—and Tae-ha exploited it with immaculate timing.

One: a piercing through ball slipped directly into the half-space.

Two: Tae-ha met it in stride and cushioned an instant first-time return.

The Argentine center-back had been dragged wide to cover the compromised space, leaving the goal mouth completely unveiled before my eyes.

Nudging the ball slightly away from the box with the outside of my right boot to carve out an angle, I accelerated past the ball and planted my standing foot into the turf. A frantic defender lunged with all his might, but having deliberately steered the ball outward, it remained entirely out of his desperate reach.

BOOM!

Struck flush with the instep just ahead of the ankle bone, the ball took flight with violent, dipping curve. Right to left. High to low. Though the goalkeeper launched himself across the frame with fully extended arms, his fingertips brushed only empty air as the shot whipped ruthlessly into the side netting.

"Whaaaaat! What on earth did we just witness?!"

"It's a wonder goal! An absolute wonder goal! Lee Han! An astonishing solo run from the halfway line, capped off with an impossible finish! It's in the back of the net!"

"Replay! Show the replay immediately! Just how many players did he leave in his wake?!"

"The entire stadium erupts into deafening cheers for this masterpiece! The chants that had quieted after the equalizer are blazing hotter than ever before!"

"Korea leads 2-1 once again!"

The moment the net rippled with that sweet, electric rustle, I pulled off my jersey in one clean motion.

Number 9.

Lee Han.

It was my squad number, yet not my true name. Even so, I had every right to revel in this ecstasy. If that guy hadn't braced for the impact moments ago, it would have been me, not the Argentine defender, sent sprawling onto the grass.

Holding the shirt out with both hands, I presented the name and number squarely toward the roaring Korean supporters in the stands. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gloomy clouds that had threatened to suffocate our squad vanished without a trace, replaced by the familiar, ferocious roar I knew so well from Kenilworth Road.

My teammates, the fans—all of them believed in us once more. And as always, my only job was to reward that faith.