Quarterfinals: The Korea-Japan Derby (Part 2)
The day of the Olympic quarterfinals arrived.
A staggering crowd packed the stands to the brim, on a scale incomparable to any of the previous matches.
Listening to the broadcast echoing from the staff members' smartphones lined along the tunnel, I went through my final warm-up stretches. Beside us, a few Japanese players slowly taking their places in line shot piercing daggers in my direction.
"Those boys certainly hold quite a grudge against you," Taeha hyung remarked casually.
"...Why would they?" As far as my memory served, I had never faced them before.
"Don't you remember? From when you played in the senior A-match."
"......Ah."
Taeha hyung smirked, asking if I was truly as relaxed as I looked. Now that he mentioned it, that face did ring a bell. In the highlight reels of the senior Korea-Japan derby, that was the exact center-back who collapsed to the turf in despair every time Lee Han scored, repeatedly highlighted in tragic slow-motion zooms.
How many did he put past them back then? I seemed to recall Lee Han bagging at least three.
"Taeha hyung."
"What? You want an herbal tranquilizer?"
"No. I'm planning on putting about four goals away today, so make sure you provide proper service."
"......Riiiight."
Having grown into a magnanimous captain through the grueling training camp and the Olympic tournament, Taeha hyung indulged my audacity with an easygoing nod.
"Is that kind of insanity how someone becomes top scorer?"
"You know he loses a screw now and then. Why are you surprised?"
"Fair point."
As a few of our teammates nearby chimed in with remarks that bordered on insubordination, Taeha hyung quickly stepped in to quiet them down.
"Watch what you say to the kid. He's on our team, after all—"
Of course, since his tone lacked any real authority, the locker-room banter immediately fired back at him from every direction.
"Are you seriously saying that after watching him hammer in five goals during practice matches?"
"That guy stopped being a mere prospect ages ago..."
"Taeha hyung, please look after our mental health instead!"
The captain's defense on my behalf simply dissipated into thin air. The revered leader of our Olympic national team glanced back and forth between me and the rest of the squad—especially the defenders—before letting out a long, defeated sigh and beating a hasty retreat to the front of the queue.
"What are you all dawdling for? Move your legs! The fans are waiting."
"......"
If we had been any other squad, studs-up tackles would have flown in the second the whistle blew, judging by how murderous the players' glares were. Technically speaking, Taeha hyung had done nothing wrong; he hadn't taken sides and had merely tried to mediate, but in this world, whatever is said last always leaves the deepest impression.
So that's what being captain is like...
Whether at Luton Town or on the national team, wearing the captain's armband was clearly a thankless curse. Watching Captain Teddy or Taeha hyung visibly age ten years before my eyes was practically heartbreaking.
Regardless, we fell into line behind Taeha hyung and strode out onto the pitch.
Kicking off from South Korea's touch, the match ignited from the opening second, living up to every ounce of the fans' expectations. Korea refused to circulate possession backward, thrusting directly into central midfield, while Japan threw everything they had into holding the defensive line. Had we not deployed a false nine system with me dropping deep into midfield, it could have devolved into a grueling war of attrition.
That didn't mean Taeha hyung had cleanly bypassed Japan's dense, interlocking midfield block, of course. Even so, it was a masterful display of press resistance that bought just enough time to feed me the ball.
"Return it!" Taeha hyung shouted.
Right as the Japanese markers converged to shut down the passing lane, Taeha slipped the ball cleanly between an opposing midfielder's legs, threading it straight toward my feet. I prepared to lay the return pass right back into his stride, but in that split second, I spotted the swarm of markers clinging desperately to him despite his surging run.
Then I just won't pass it there.
He had struck a crisp, firm ball to ensure the defenders couldn't cut it out. Rather than arresting its momentum, I used the outside of my boot to redirect its trajectory while imparting a wicked spin.
Over the past three days of training, there was one rule I had drilled into them above all else: just sprint, and I'll deliver the ball on a silver platter.
Curving dramatically with outside spin, the ball grazed along the touch of the end line before checking its momentum and biting back into the pitch. A ball that anyone would have written off as a goal kick miraculously came to a halt right inside the pocket of space Ahn Jaehyun was storming into.
Only then did the Japanese defenders realize my touch was never an errant mistake, scrambling into defensive positions. But they were already a beat behind the Korean attackers who had surged forward on sheer faith.
True to his reputation as Fast Garbage, Ahn Jaehyun sent in an abysmal cross.
Yet, for what I intended to pull off, it was more than sufficient.
A cross consistently curving outside the box instead of inward only happens when a player puts too much raw force behind his strike. All I had to do was read the angle of his plant foot at the moment of impact and position myself slightly behind his expected trajectory.
Swiiish!
Just like that, despite not being aimed at me in the slightest, the ball sailed straight toward my path.
No matter how deeply a false nine operated during buildup, Japan's defenders had assumed that on a crossing opportunity, the center forward would naturally be stationed inside the penalty area. That tactical assumption shattered in an instant.
I materialized outside the penalty box. Even as the lone striker, I wasn't central—I was emerging from deep on the left flank. The Japanese center-backs were naturally anchored inside the box, while the holding midfielders had their attention entirely hijacked by the penetrating runs of Taeha hyung and our left winger, Jinho. Neither could step out to track my run.
The suffocating bodies that had swarmed the midfield were nowhere near me now.
Still, the distance to the target was formidable, and the heart of the box was clogged with bodies. A direct, low shot would almost certainly hit a wall of flesh. But that hardly meant I lacked the means to put it away. Finishing from impossible situations and dragging the team to victory was the fundamental duty of a striker.
I twisted my upper body as though cushioning the ball on my chest. Leveraging that rotational torque, I pushed off the turf, spinning my lower body mid-air to meet the incoming cross.
A scissors kick.
For striking first-time while imparting violent dip and spin, nothing suited the moment better. Struck crisply off the instep as if pushing through the sphere, the ball cleared the tangled sea of Korean and Japanese shirts inside the penalty area.
And the instant it cleared them, its trajectory plummeted with a sharp, vicious hook.
Determined not to repeat the blunder Daniwara had committed moments ago, the Japanese goalkeeper kept his eyes glued to the ball and launched himself into a desperate dive. It was utterly futile. Mocking his outstretched fingertips, the ball grazed past his gloves and slammed into the side netting.
Rippppple!
Spinning furiously, the ball rolled gently down the inside of the net. From the moment my boot connected to the instant the net bulged, a fleeting hush fell over the ground—and then the stadium detonated.
A roar beyond anything heard in the previous Olympic fixtures reverberated across the stadium. The fans packing the stands screamed South Korea at the top of their lungs, as if desperate to prove they were no mere spectators. A thunderous wall of noise echoed in my ears, making it impossible to believe half the stadium had been plunged into stunned silence.
Staying completely still at a moment like this would be bad manners. I had originally intended to save this for a poker, but unveiling it now and repeating it three more times sounded just as sweet.
I broke into an easy, deliberate jog along the perimeter of the pitch.
The roar from the Korean supporters, which had seemed impossible to amplify any further, surged to an even more deafening crescendo. The crowd realized my celebration was no aimless jog—it was a statement.
Perhaps out of reverence for the celebration's storied history, our teammates held back unlike their usual chaotic selves, waiting until I came to a halt before mobbing me. Not that I was particularly grateful. Since I hadn't been running particularly fast, most of the squad caught up in no time, burying me beneath a mountain of bodies.
"There's actually a guy who prints assists out of pure dogshit service!"
"Man, that is sweet."
"Seriously, you really don't want to come to Everton? Let's link up, man!"
"Wasn't that a brilliant pass from me?"
Their chaotic banter battered my eardrums. Hearing lines that sounded like they belonged in Dominic's mouth confirmed that a few of our national team members were definitely missing a few screws.
"Get off me. I've got more goals to score."
"......Just how many goals are you planning on scoring today?" veteran Seokhyun hyung asked, shaking his head in amused disbelief.
"As many as possible. I need to bag more than we did in the senior derby to save face."
If I settled for a mere hat-trick against an Olympic side, I would never hear the end of it from Lee Han for matching his tally against full senior internationals.
"So," I added, narrowing my eyes at Ahn Jaehyun, "if you send in another garbage pass like that, I will crack your skull open."
"Come on! If you scored, that makes it a world-class pass!"
"Keep talking and I'll spit out every single pass you send my way."
"......Okay, let's not go that far."
Good. That finally shut them up.
"So, what's the plan?" Taeha hyung asked.
"Stick to what we prepared. But I'm going to drop down even deeper."
A football match is both agonizingly short and endlessly long. Depending on a squad's mental and tactical condition, ninety minutes can yield zero goals or a relentless avalanche. My goal right now was to dictate the opponent's psychological state—to manufacture an atmosphere where I could produce a goal whenever I felt like it. That was the primary objective for this match.
Usually, countless variables disrupted such ambitions. My dribbles could be snuffed out, or teammates might squander chances even when fed on a silver platter. But today was different. My form felt exceptionally sharp.
I wouldn't just feed them chances on a platter; I could arrange it so that merely standing in the right spot would ricochet the ball into the net.
"Who wants to score?"
At my question, every single hand shot into the air.