Here to Win the Gold (3)
“We are coming to you live from Brisbane Stadium, the venue for the men’s football final of the 2032 Brisbane Olympic Games: South Korea versus Brazil, Brazil versus South Korea!”
“Capable of holding over fifty thousand spectators, this stadium is absolutely boiling over with the passion of football fans who’ve packed the stands for this final!”
“Aside from a select few, most of our players have never played under the glare of such an enormous crowd, but thankfully, their expressions look bright.”
“And what a grueling road it was to reach this final. Over that arduous journey, they’ve shared their know-how and built tremendous chemistry as they grew accustomed to one another’s play.”
“Indeed. Lee Tae-ha and Choi Seok-hyun, both accustomed to massive home grounds, alongside Lee Han, who contested the FA Cup final at Wembley Stadium last season, have surely passed on invaluable advice on how to handle an audience of this magnitude.”
“So many players have truly come into their own over the course of these Olympics, but Lee Han stands head and shoulders above the rest.”
“Within the scope of this Olympic tournament, there’s even considerable talk that he’s outshining Argentina and Manchester City superstar Adrian, or Brazil and Real Madrid’s own Nauzinho.”
“Indeed, and that’s no empty praise. It’s the consensus among scouts who’ve watched Lee Han in person. To command that kind of evaluation at this stage is simply extraordinary.”
“Whatever the outcome of today’s match, South Korea has unquestionably found a new superstar.”
The strains of the Brazilian national anthem echoing across Brisbane Stadium came to an end, followed immediately by a familiar melody.
“Until the East Sea’s waters run dry and Mount Baekdu wears away—”
Refusing to be outdone by the Brazilian squad’s roaring voices, we sang Aegukga with everything we had.
Before long, following a round of applause, the brief anthem ceremonies concluded, and we walked down the line to shake hands with the Brazilian players.
Wearing the captain’s armband, Tae-ha hyung met Brazil’s captain, Cardoso, with the referee standing between them.
I couldn’t understand Spanish, but given their cordial tones and relaxed smiles prior to the coin toss, it looked as though they were wishing each other a good match. As club teammates at Atlético Madrid, they naturally seemed close.
“They’re smiling, but they’re swearing up a storm,” Kim Il-won muttered.
“…What?”
“They’re calling each other puta.”
Il-won, who played in Spain’s Segunda División, kindly provided the translation.
Guess it’s like friends tossing around profanities back home.
Watching them wage such a meticulous war of nerves made it sink in—a final truly was a final.
For the record, Tae-ha hyung took the victory in that psychological battle. Thanks to him calling heads, kickoff belonged to us.
“Now, the final football match of the Olympics on the closing day of the Games—all that remains is the kickoff!”
“A truly heart-pounding moment. Only the football gods know how this will end, but we hope our players leave everything on the pitch with zero regrets against a powerhouse like Brazil.”
The moment every player took up their position—
Tweet!
The referee’s whistle pierced the air, and without hesitation, I rolled the ball forward from the center circle.
The match was underway.
“Stay calm! Don’t tense up! Play our game!”
Receiving the ball, Tae-ha hyung shook off a charging Cardoso with an upper-body feint before cycling possession backward.
No matter how much mental visualization they had done, most of our squad had never featured in a match of this magnitude, let alone performed in front of such a colossal crowd. Scrapping to claim the initial possession at kickoff was intended precisely to help the players acclimate to the environment, making safety and composure the top priority.
Yet under Brazil’s relentless harrying, Tae-ha hyung was inevitably forced deeper and deeper into our own half.
This isn’t good.
If Tae-ha hyung, the fulcrum of our midfield, dropped that deep, the front line would inevitably be isolated. Of course, he knew that better than anyone, but with Brazil pressing so aggressively high up the pitch, there was virtually no alternative.
Thus began the struggle: not to break Brazil’s high press just yet, but merely to retain possession and weather the opening storm of the first half.
“Ah, Brazil’s early press is undeniably fierce!”
“Brazil knows the stakes, too. If they can’t decide this match early, they’ll be the ones to gas out first under this kind of intensity.”
“Our players still look a bit unsettled in these early stages, but they must weather this storm somehow.”
“A truly fierce contest worthy of a final!”
Generally speaking, it is easier to read the overall flow and passing lanes from a broadcast camera than from down on the pitch. Yet even as a player running out on the grass, a mere glance told me that far too many dangerous passes were circulating in our defensive third.
It was not a good omen.
Inevitably, those risky passes coughed up possession. Fortunately, we had prepared for this very scenario by keeping our defensive lines compact and pulled tight to our penalty area. Whenever one of our players lost the ball, teammates swarmed in even greater numbers than Brazil’s pressing pack to snatch it right back.
“Nauzinho! Slipping into the pocket of space, dropping his shoulder, and driving forward!”
“He shoots—!”
Even our defensive density couldn’t completely shackle Brazil. In a span of just minutes, Nauzinho repeatedly tore open our flank and unleashed dangerous efforts. Every time the ball left his boot, hearts leaped into throats.
Still, throwing bodies into the line of fire, we gritted our teeth and weathered the first ten minutes. Whatever the underlying metrics might have said, the scoreboard remained untouched—we had successfully held our ground.
“Brazil is easing up on the high press slightly.”
“While suffocating South Korea’s attacking attempts means their press wasn’t an outright failure, Coach Ticello will surely rue missing out on those turnovers in the attacking third.”
Possession traded hands amid frantic duels, yet everyone knew Brazil held the upper hand. However, when relentless pressure yields no goals, maintaining momentum becomes impossible. Inevitably, frustration creeps into the side doing the pressing.
“Il-won! Push forward!”
Collecting a backpass from Tae-ha hyung, our goalkeeper Jeong Won-woo knew his distribution wasn’t his strongest suit. Rather than dallying on the ball and inviting pressure, he clipped a pass wide to Kim Il-won.
Hearing Won-woo hyung’s shout, Il-won hesitated for a split second before spotting the vast expanse left behind by Brazil’s aggressively pushed-up fullback. Trusting his instincts, he knocked the ball forward and sprinted.
That bold decision successfully bypassed the pressure in our danger zone.
Yet that wasn’t the end of Brazil’s trap.
Thud!
A Brazilian midfielder darted across, clattering into Il-won and sending him tumbling over the touchline. His sliding challenge had cleanly won the ball first—no foul.
Witnessing the individual recovery pace and defensive cohesion required to extinguish that counter so instantly, it was obvious why Brazil had been hailed as tournament favorites.
“Good effort!”
“Keep trying it!”
Even so, the throw-in belonged to us. Knowing the tide needed turning, our coaching staff raised their thumbs from the technical area, shouting encouragement to urge the team into playing boldly.
“Move! Create space for him!”
Tensions spiked over a single throw-in. Deliberating where to direct the ball he had earned, Il-won eventually hurled it toward me as I dropped deep to meet him.
With every Korean outfield player tightly shadowed, my sudden check off the frontline allowed me to receive the throw, but it came at a price: Brazilian shirts instantly converged on me from every angle.
Naturally, I hadn’t stepped into that pocket blindly.
As the ball soared toward me, I angled my torso as if preparing a first-time return pass back to Il-won, coaxing the defenders into shifting their center of gravity forward. The moment the leather met my boot, I snapped my ankle, letting the ball ride its original trajectory instead.
“Fall back! Drop off!”
Expecting an immediate one-two, the Brazilian midfielders bit hard on my dummy. Having already cheated toward the touchline for the throw-in, their defensive shape ruptured, leaving a generous seam for me to slip right through.
I flicked the rolling ball up with the tip of my boot and cushioned it onto my chest. When the frantic midfielders pivoted to scramble back, a subtle shift in how I brought the ball down sent them stumbling off-balance once more.
Now the ball was glued to the grass.
From here on, all that was left was to do what I do best.
A delicate sole-drag, snapping the ball back toward my frame.
Anticipating a burst of acceleration, Brazil’s central midfielder tangled his own feet and tumbled helplessly to the turf.
Rather than waiting for the right central midfielder of Brazil’s 4-3-3 to close me down, I took the initiative, driving aggressively diagonally upward toward him. Maintaining forward momentum, I positioned the duel so I engaged him at an angle rather than head-on.
Catching the defender on the back foot, I sliced through the midfield with my dribble. Weaving in a measured blend of skill moves, I rapidly traversed the pitch until I hovered right along the far right touchline.
Hugging the touchline presents an attacker with two classic choices.
Inverting into the final third—cutting inside to open an angle for a curling strike—is one. The other is staying wide like an old-fashioned winger, hugging the flank to deliver a cutback or a whipped cross.
Naturally, defenders know this dilemma inside and out. It typically leads to a game of psychological cat-and-mouse, or double-teaming designed to seal off both avenues entirely. Brazil was textbook in their approach, perfectly positioning themselves to smother both routes. While forcing my way through wasn’t entirely impossible, it would have been a high-risk gamble with a significant chance of a turnover.
Much as I relished taking defenders on and flirting with danger, losing the ball early in the match when the team was relying on me—and potentially conceding on the counter—would be disastrous for our morale.
So I opted for a third option.
I executed what I had already mapped out the moment I nudged the ball toward the chalk. Mocking the defenders’ cautious retreat—spacing themselves to avoid being burned by my dribble—I abandoned the ball right on the touchline and simply took off into a sprint.
Befuddled over whether to track my off-the-ball run or secure the stationary ball, the defenders froze for a fraction of a second. In elite football, even a split second is an eternity.
Tap.
“Moon Ju-sung on the overlap!”
“He slides a through-ball right onto the ball Lee Han left behind into the vacant space!”
Up to this final, nearly every opponent had concentrated their attacks down our left flank. Even today, Brazil deployed Nauzinho on that side, saying all that needed to be said.
Consequently, our right fullback, Moon Ju-sung hyung, had plenty in the tank. Without hesitation, he bombed forward to take over the playmaking duty that would normally fall to Tae-ha hyung, stabbing a precision pass into my path.
Though driven with pace along the turf, I was already at full stride. I collected the ball cleanly before it could run out of play, penetrating the side of the penalty area in the blink of an eye.
“Lee Han! Lee Han! He’s tearing Brazil’s box apart!”
“The support is lagging behind! He has to finish this on his own!!”
A sea of yellow jerseys swarmed the box. Midfielders clamped down to intercept incoming runners, while the center-backs dug into their stances, their eyes darting feverishly to track the ball shifting beneath my feet. Near the right post, the goalkeeper stood poised with arms outstretched, locking down the near post.
To the naked eye, there was zero shooting angle.
None whatsoever.
Except to me.
Whoosh!
If there is no angle, you create one.
Chopping downward with the instep of my right big toe, I imparted vicious clockwise spin on the ball. Curling at breathtaking speed, the trajectory mirrored a direct strike from a corner kick, arching serenely over the heads of the rooted defenders and the helpless keeper.
Just as their panicked gazes tracked toward the far post—
Clang!
The ball rattled against the far upright.
Rustle!
Riding its violent spin, it was sucked straight into the side netting. The fierce rotation didn’t halt there; it rode the mesh in a full arc before popping right back out toward the near post where I stood.
And there, at my feet, the ball came to a gentle rest.
“Waaaah! Where in the world do you see a goal like that?! A preposterous strike that leaves players and spectators alike struck dumb is written into Olympic history!”
“It’s as if the ball had a mind of its own! Finding an angle invisible even on camera—no, creating an angle out of nothing! Lee Han with an unbelievable opening goal!”
“Fifteen minutes into the first half! South Korea takes the lead!!”
Thunderous Korean drumbeats battered against my eardrums.
A venue rivaling the majesty of Wembley Stadium was painted a fiery red, ringing with the beloved cadences of our national chants.
I rested my boot atop the ball that had returned faithfully to my feet.
Moments later, Kim Il-won and Tae-ha hyung—having sprinted into the box to support the attack—wasted no time dropping to one knee, playfully pretending to shine my boot.
A flawless goal, and a flawless celebration.