I Came to Win the Gold Medal (2)
Brazil's manager, Ticello, had a raging headache.
Damn it all…
Reaching the final was fine enough on paper, but the road there had been sheer hell.
The group stage had gone smoothly. They locked up first place early, affording them the luxury of resting starters in the third match. But once the knockout rounds commenced, it had been a relentless gauntlet of agony. They drew Portugal in the Round of 16, followed by Germany in the quarterfinals and archrival Argentina in the semifinals—both of which dragged on through grueling extra time.
Naturally, since the opposition had all been continental giants, the media had not yet laid the blame at Ticello's feet. Not yet, anyway.
Regardless of how hard-fought the journey had been, if Brazil lost to South Korea in this Olympic final, critics would sprout like weeds after rain to demand his head on a spike. Such was the fate of anyone steering a football powerhouse.
Come to think of it… there's already one critic singing that tune.
Lee Han.
The breakout sensation of these Olympic Games and South Korea's lethal striker. In all Ticello's years analyzing opposing players, this kid was hands down the most formidable and downright bizarre prodigy he had ever encountered. And yet, this youngster—not even a third of Ticello's age—had brazenly tossed an enormous provocation right into his face.
Some might wonder why a seasoned manager would care about the lip of a twenty-year-old kid. But even if the mainstream press was holding its fire, Brazilian public opinion had already soured over Ticello running the young squad's stamina into the ground. Never mind that no manager on earth could comfortably rotate their squad against the likes of Germany and Argentina—the latter their fiercest geopolitical rival—fans were never known for empathy. To make matters worse, the opposing ace had publicly proclaimed that Brazil would lose because their manager failed to select the better player. There was no longer anywhere left to retreat.
He had to prove Lee Han wrong.
The gold medal belonged to Brazil. It had to.
"Has everyone reviewed the scouting reports?"
Snapping out of his reverie, Ticello looked across the conference table at his staff. Reassured by their prompt nods, he opened the tactical meeting.
"South Korea's balance is remarkably solid," Harson, the tactical analyst, spoke up first. "To start with their wildcards, their goalkeeper specializes almost purely in shot-stopping, so there isn't much to say tactically. We can skip over him."
While that exceptional shot-stopping had preserved their victories, it didn't factor heavily into systemic planning. Average build-up distribution paired with elite reflexes made him a difficult subject for tactical intervention. Goalkeeping saves ultimately came down to an isolated duel between striker and keeper rather than tactical blueprints; the staff could adjust their pressing lines slightly, but little else. Harson moved swiftly to the next overage selection.
"Everton's Choi Seokhyun commands the defensive midfield, anchoring both their fundamental build-up and defensive transitions. His progressive passing and late arrivals into the box are surprisingly sharp. He'll be a nuisance in several ways."
"Are you suggesting we assign a dedicated man-marker?" Ticello asked with a frown.
"No. The moment we do, he'll simply bypass the press with one-touch layoffs. It's safer to guard the passing lanes and hold our zones. For all his composure, his creativity isn't extraordinary." Harson took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "The real danger begins when Choi Seokhyun feeds the ball forward to Atletico Madrid's midfielder, Lee Taeha, who conducts their entire attack."
On the conference projector, arrows flared out in every direction from a single dot labeled with Lee Taeha's name.
"His command of the center of the pitch, along with the incisive vision he displays while driving forward, is unquestioned world-class."
Yet even players of that caliber wouldn't normally force Brazil to scramble like this. Solid defense and crisp distribution meant nothing if no one could put the ball in the back of the net. Everyone seated in the room knew the truth: they had not yet touched upon the man responsible for finishing off every single sequence Korea orchestrated.
"Now, though he is not a wildcard, we come to the player who demands our absolute vigilance."
Lee Han's face flashed onto the screen.
"He is averaging over a goal per game this season. In this tournament alone, he has registered two separate four-trick hauls, and every single match he has started, he has scored at least a brace."
"......"
They had heard the media hype ad nauseam, but seeing the raw, suffocating reality of Lee Han's goals and assists laid bare on the tactical display gripped the room in heavy silence.
"His strengths are practically too numerous to list," Harson said grimly. "As an out-and-out number nine, his ball-striking, aerial ability, raw pace, line-breaking instincts, and link-up play are peerless—to say nothing of the false nine role he executed against Japan. In plain terms, he's simply absurdly good at football."
Such lavish praise—usually reserved in Brazil's talent-rich ranks for the likes of Nauzinho and a handful of decorated veterans—was being poured without hesitation onto an opposing youngster.
If only the bastard were a wildcard, we wouldn't feel quite so swindled, both Ticello and his staff thought in unison. In truth, Nauzinho was a regular starter for Real Madrid without taking up a wildcard spot either, but human nature dictated that injustice always felt sharper when you were on the receiving end.
"Does he have any weaknesses?" Ticello asked quietly.
"Fortunately, yes." Harson pulled up a statistical chart that had by now become familiar to every coach who had ever faced Lee Han. "This is his detailed breakdown. Across virtually all his appearances this season, there is almost no record of him utilizing his feet and his head concurrently."
"...What sort of ridiculous flaw is that?"
"I was stunned as well, but it's an open secret among Championship clubs. Whether it stems from a psychological block or something else, he cannot seamlessly deploy both his head and feet at an elite level in the same match."
Ticello furrowed his brow, leaning closer to inspect the data. "You said 'almost.' That implies there were exceptions."
"A few, yes, but even then, his skill sets were strictly partitioned between the first and second halves. He has never once engaged his full arsenal across an entire ninety minutes. That is why our consensus was to devise a targeted game plan to exploit this divide."
Other squads had shattered under Lee Han's sheer brilliance, but Brazil possessed the quality to capitalize. Or so the backroom staff believed. Ticello, the ultimate decision-maker, saw it differently.
"Mmh..."
A manager's duty was to make choices. Such an overt, enticing weakness dangling before him felt less like an opportunity and more like bait—a siren song tempting him to alter his structure in pursuit of an easy victory. And Ticello knew better than to bite.
"We stick to our roots. We maintain our 4-3-3 shape."
"Boss, with respect—"
"It is true that we are better footballers than they are," Ticello interrupted firmly. "That much is undeniable. But a final is an entirely different beast."
He had managed elite clubs across the globe, stacking silverware and trophies along the way. That pedigree, which had earned him concurrent control of both the senior Seleção and this Olympic squad, granted him an edge of hard-won wisdom his younger staff lacked.
"In a final, you double down on what you do best. You do not gamble on superfluous parlor tricks."
To modern tacticians, it might have sounded like the stubborn dogma of an aging manager. Indeed, several of the younger analysts wore scowls of clear frustration, bewildered that he would refuse to attack South Korea's glaring flaw. But Ticello stood resolute.
"I have no intention of staking my players and an Olympic gold medal on a game of probabilities."
"......"
"I repeat: we play to our strengths."
Given the grueling minutes their bodies had endured and the youthful impulsiveness inherent to an under-23 roster, sticking to second nature was by far the most rational course. If they committed to an bespoke scheme only for Lee Han to defy his patterns as he had in those sporadic outlier matches, Brazil's setup would unravel catastrophically.
Having laid down the law, Ticello tapped his tablet, projecting their standard 4-3-3 layout onto the screen. "That said, we will make minor tactical adjustments."
Fortunately, his staff were true professionals. Though their initial Plan A had been dismissed, they did not waste time sulking. For the sake of Brazil's triumph and their own coaching reputations, they immediately began building targeted micro-tactics onto the manager's 4-3-3 foundation.
"We must isolate Lee Han at all costs," Harson chimed in. "On current form, he is objectively one of the top three players in this entire tournament."
"And how do you propose we cut him off?"
"By neutralizing the source: Lee Taeha. Korea deploys a double pivot regardless of formation, and whenever their initial progression bogs down, Lee Taeha instinctively drops deep to orchestrate."
It was a habit ingrained over years of captaining their senior national team. Surrounded by younger, less experienced peers at the Olympics, that protective impulse would only intensify.
"Therefore, we push our attacking midfielder, Cardoso, higher up the pitch."
Cardoso was an experienced wildcard. Even without expending excessive stamina in wild chasing, nudging his starting position slightly forward would let him clog the passing lanes and exert suffocating pressure on Korea's deep progression.
How ironic, Ticello mused quietly.
Dominic Moss, the winger Lee Han had made such a fuss about, could have theoretically occupied Cardoso's roster spot. But when finalizing the squad, Ticello had scoffed at the idea of calling up someone from the English second division. Instead, he had welcomed Cardoso as a wildcard and selected Aldemia—who had put together three consistently solid seasons in La Liga—as their bench option.
I hope tomorrow settles the debate for good.
Tomorrow's final would be the grand stage where he proved that the young striker's arrogant banter was nothing more than empty, hot-headed nonsense.
"Very well. If that settles Cardoso's role, what about the midfield spacing?"
"Our primary concern lies along the left half-space..."
The tactical debate rolled deep into the evening.
Meanwhile, in the lobby of the team hotel, our squad was huddled together in scattered clusters.
With the final looming tomorrow, training had wrapped up early, leaving us with nothing to do. Sitting alone in our rooms would only invite nervous overthinking about the match, so drifting downstairs into the lobby to shoot the breeze was a far better alternative as dusk settled over the city.
"...Man, feels like somebody's talking shit about me," I muttered, rubbing my ear.
"Ear itching?" someone asked.
"You know how it is. Wear earbuds all day on the bus and your ears start acting up."
Having spent weeks bleeding together on the pitch, the camaraderie had smoothed out any lingering awkwardness. Or perhaps securing the military exemption had stripped away everyone's sharp edges. Either way, easy banter flowed back and forth. I scratched at my inner ear with my pinky before leaning back into the circle.
"Hey, Taeha hyung. Is Nauzinho really that insane?" I asked, looking over at him. Having played against him regularly in La Liga, he would know better than anyone.
"He's ridiculous," Taeha hyung replied without missing a beat. "The kind of player who makes you look at him and think, so that's what god-given talent looks like."
I was the one who asked the question, but it was our defenders whose complexions visibly drained.
"Though honestly," Taeha hyung added, glancing my way, "watching you lately, I think you might be the better footballer."
"Whoa," I chuckled. "Look at you, hyping up your junior!"
"I'm not blowing smoke up your ass. You really are that good."
"Well, I can't deny I'm pretty fantastic," I said smoothly.
"......Look at this guy swallowing the compliment whole without even blinking," Choi Seokhyun sighed.
"Conceited bastard," someone else scoffed, tossing a cushion.
What? What did I do?
All I did was agree with the objective truth Taeha hyung just spoke. Why was the room suddenly freezing me out?
...What a truly warm and harmonious brotherhood we were.