We Came to Watch (1)

The second group stage match against Argentina was over.

With a flawless run of two wins from two matches, the South Korean Olympic football team had already punched their ticket to the knockout stage. And just as everyone had anticipated, the players who had spent their stamina across the first and second matches—including myself—were granted a well-earned rest for the third fixture against Gabon.

Between fielding a squad entirely composed of bench players and having virtually nothing to gain from winning, our side had little incentive to push. Gabon, on the other hand, still had a mathematical route to the knockout rounds depending on other results, and they threw every ounce of their being onto the pitch.

Consequently, the scoreline reflected their desperation: 2–1.

Gabon was leading.

"By the way," someone murmured from the bench, "why on earth are the Argentine fans waving Korean flags and cheering for us?"

"Argentina must've gone into full shock after losing to us," came the reply. "They're currently losing to Egypt."

"...Wait, seriously?"

A quick glance at the group standings laid bare the utter pandemonium. Korea sat comfortably at the top with two wins, six points, and a guaranteed spot in the knockouts. Everyone else, however, was embroiled in sheer chaos. Argentina held one win and one loss. Egypt had one draw and one loss. Gabon also had one draw and one loss.

If Argentina managed to beat or draw against Egypt, then Korea and Argentina would advance as the world had originally predicted, decided either on points or goal differential. But if the current state of affairs held true—if Argentina collapsed against Egypt and Gabon beat us—Gabon and Egypt would level on points, leaving Gabon to advance on goal difference while Argentina suffered an unprecedented group-stage elimination.

"No wonder people who weren't in the stands during the first half suddenly showed up for the second," muttered Ahn Jaehyun, our first-choice winger. Looking entirely untroubled—because, in truth, none of this was our problem—he pulled an eye mask back over his face to shield himself from the blinding sun and dozed off again.

"Can't Argentina just, you know, win?"

"That would be the sensible outcome, yeah."

"Then why does that Adrian bastard turn into a world-beater only when he plays against me, but becomes an absolute fraud against Egypt? It's bloody unfair."

Kim Ilwon, our starting right fullback who had been thoroughly rinsed by Adrian in the previous match and conceded two goals, grumbled bitterly around a wad of chewing gum.

"Whatever, man. We won our match, so who cares?"

"Wait, shouldn't you be the one cheering the loudest for Argentina? If they crash out here, it just makes you look like a complete scrub."

"I'm literally streaming their match on my phone right now and praying for them, you idiot."

Dominic was crazy, but Kim Ilwon was an entirely different breed of unhinged. No matter how inconsequential this final group fixture was, sitting brazenly on the bench watching another match on a smartphone while smacking gum was the kind of footage that press photographers would gladly weaponize to tear a player apart.

"What're you worried about?" Ilwon scoffed, noticing my expression. "If the press tries to drag any of us right now, the public will bury them alive."

"Fair point."

Come to think of it, the domestic media had already spent weeks savagely questioning my inclusion in the squad, only to tuck their tails between their legs the moment I delivered results on the pitch. They hardly had the stomach to go looking for trouble again so soon.

"Oh! Adrian!"

"Did he score?"

"Yeah! Leveled it against Egypt!"

We spent the remainder of the match in absolute leisure, dividing our attention between the sweltering pitch where the Gabon players were running themselves ragged, the tiny glow of the smartphone screen displaying ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Argentina's struggle, and long sips of chilled sports drinks.

"Whoa, Argentina turned it around!"

"Hey, we just scored an equalizer too."

"Wait, that's his first-ever Olympic goal! Stop staring at the Argentines and get over there to hug him!"

Deep into second-half stoppage time, our center-back Yong-won rose into the air and buried a thumping header into the back of the net.

With that goal, Argentina's progression on goal difference was mathematically sealed. Of course, Adrian had already added another goal right before our equalizer to drag Argentina into the knockout stage by his own sheer force of will, but the monstrous physical toll exacted on their starters would undoubtedly come back to haunt them later.

We sprinted onto the pitch, gleefully dogpiling Yong-won and ruining his celebration before the final whistle blew shortly after.

And with that, the Olympic group stage officially drew to a close.

The conclusion of the group stage did not mean our schedule ground to a halt.

The players who had put in a shift today were ferried to the training grounds allocated to the Korean squad for light recovery drills. Meanwhile, those of us who had rested arrived earlier at the team hotel and headed straight to the tactical meeting room.

"The entire knockout bracket has been confirmed," Head Coach Kim Shin-tae announced, projecting the tournament tree onto the main screen.

"Mexico, huh?"

"Isn't that pretty manageable?"

"Not just manageable—it's downright favorable. Just look at the other side."

Having advanced to the Round of 16, Korea and Japan had drawn Mexico and Peru respectively. While neither could be taken lightly, they were far from impossible hurdles. The opposite bracket, however, was a vision of pure carnage. Whether by bizarre seeding or sheer fate, it had assembled an absolute chamber of horrors: Brazil, France, the Netherlands, Spain, and Argentina, who had tumbled into the gauntlet after finishing second in our group.

"...Man, look at that."

"I get chills just imagining being placed over there."

The players shook their heads, though broad smiles broke out across their faces nonetheless.

"Feeling good, are we? Grinning ear to ear," Coach Kim observed, his voice calm and dry as he watched the squad beam.

"As you can see, our side of the draw is far more forgiving than the slaughterhouse on the left. First off, this draw is the fruit of your labor and the dedication of the lads currently sweating through recovery drills at the pitch. You've earned the right to be pleased."

Yet as the underlying weight of his words settled into the room, the smiles gradually evaporated.

"The stage has been set for you to win an Olympic medal and secure your military exemption," the coach continued, his eyes hardening. "So you all know exactly what happens if you choke now, don't you?"

Silence gripped the room.

"People keep saying the juggernauts are all piled onto the other side, but does that make Mexico an easy meal? What if Japan makes it past the Round of 16 and meets us in the quarterfinals? Do you think they'll roll over?"

Not a single syllable was wrong.

No matter how distinct Olympic squads were from full senior national teams, and no matter how raw some of the younger prospects were, there was no such thing as an opponent you could afford to overlook in the knockout rounds.

"We have a little over three days until the whistle blows. Am I right?"

"Yes, Boss!" the room answered in unison.

"Then what should we be doing if we want to return home with medals around our necks?"

"Training, Boss!"

"You know the drill. Since you lot didn't run a single meter in today's match, get your boots on. We're heading out to train."

"......"

Part of me wondered if we shouldn't have just stayed at the pitch with the others from the start. But recognizing that telling the exhausted substitutes who had fought like dogs today not to get complacent would hardly sit well, we quietly climbed back aboard the team bus.

"Oh, by the way," Coach Kim added casually as the engine hummed. "Our training regimen for this phase comes courtesy of Luton Town. The club where our Han plays. Their manager and head fitness coach donated their valuable time to hand it over to us free of charge. So make sure you put your backs into it."

Instantly, every pair of eyes on the bus snapped toward me in a collective, burning glare.

I felt entirely wronged.

It was deeply unfair, but there was nothing I could do.

Australia had spared no expense in preparing for these Olympic Games, and the facilities provided to the athletes were remarkably modern. Above all else, the greatest perk was that the squad had been assigned single rooms rather than the customary double occupancy.

Thanks to that privacy, I was able to conduct our usual written correspondence with Lee Yeon without fear of being branded an escaped lunatic.

"...You ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠want me to start against Mexico...?"

Typically, South American sides were defined by individual flair, dazzling dribbling, and erratic, unpredictable movement. Mexico, however, possessed a distinctly different texture. They traded a fraction of that unpredictability for rigid collective organization and towering physicality. Among all the Latin American nations that had reached the knockout rounds, they possessed the largest average build, particularly in height.

Facing such a side would be challenging enough if we had our full Luton Town setup behind us, but having Lee Yeon attempt to carve through their defense purely on his own would be an uphill battle. Above all, having witnessed his displays against Argentina, the Mexican coaching staff would undoubtedly instruct their players to swarm his dribbling channels with raw hostility.

Given Mexico's notoriously abrasive style of play, they would almost certainly assign a designated marker to shadow him while compressing their defensive lines to suffocating levels.

Under those conditions, it made far more tactical sense for me to take the pitch instead of Yeon. When it came to utilizing physical leverage, contesting aerial balls, and holding up play against sheer mass, my game was a class above his.

We reached a swift consensus.

Promptly thereafter, Yeon grumbled about being thoroughly exhausted from having to sit through three group matches—conveniently ignoring that he hadn't touched the grass for a single second in the third—and handed over physical control before retreating to sleep.

I took the piece of paper containing our scribbled conversation, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket.

Should I give Adelia a call?

I hesitated. The time difference meant she was likely in the middle of a packed workday in England, and disturbing her felt inconsiderate. After turning the phone over in my hands and deliberating for several minutes, exhaustion took over, and I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I woke to a barrage of over a dozen missed calls and text notifications. The moment my fingers brushed the screen, the handset rattled furiously with fresh incoming alerts, nearly giving me a heart attack.

"...What on earth?"

Assuming something urgent had happened with Adelia, I quickly unlocked the device and pulled up the notification center. To my surprise, there was only a single missed call from her; the rest of the onslaught belonged entirely to an assortment of familiar names.

The call count was ridiculous, to say nothing of the wall of unread messages.

I tapped out a quick text to Adelia letting her know that I had fallen asleep early the previous night, then dialed Dominic, whose name accounted for half of the missed call logs. The dial tone had barely buzzed twice before the connection snapped open.

"What are you on about?"

A creeping sense of foreboding tightened in my chest as I swiped over to the Luton Town team chat.

Standing in front of the colossal terminal welcome sign—the very same banner I had walked past when I first landed in Australia—was a neat lineup of familiar, grinning faces posing for the camera.

"Why on earth are you lot here?!" I yelled into the receiver.

I had been granted explicit permission by the club to skip pre-season camp for the Olympics, but the rest of the Luton Town squad had finished their holidays. By all accounts, they should have been sweating through grueling double sessions back at the training ground in England.

"What...?"

"No, she bloody well didn't!"

Now that I thought about it, whenever Adelia and I were together, our conversations naturally gravitated toward each other rather than club administration. Pre-season logistics had never once come up in detail. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention.

The voice over the speaker shifted; Captain Teddy must have wrested the phone away from Dominic's grasp.

"And how long are you staying?"

You really didn't need ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to do that...

"...That's hardly something I can guarantee on my own, Captain."

The fans back in Korea were currently running wild on optimism, but objectively ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠speaking, nobody would be surprised if our Olympic squad fell to Mexico in the Round of 16.

"...Well, about that—"

"Dominic, shut your mouth and stop yelling down the receiver," I snapped, rubbing my temple. The situation was dizzying enough without Dominic's unsolicited patriotic fervor giving me a throbbing headache.

"Anyway... is she..."

I started to ask if Adelia had traveled with them, but froze mid-sentence when I remembered Dominic was hovering right beside the phone. Fortunately, Teddy caught on immediately.

Unlike a certain noisy winger, the club captain actually possessed tact.

"Right. Thanks, Captain. I'll see you at the stadium."

The call cut off with a flat beep, and the hotel room sank back into morning silence.

Unfortunately, the thoughts churning inside my head were anything but quiet.