On a Stormy Day (2)
St James’ Park.
Newcastle United’s iconic home ground was the stage for today’s clash. It was renowned for its towering, asymmetrical grandstands—where two of the four sides loomed seven tiers into the sky—as well as the stark, notorious disparity between the lavish home facilities and the abysmal away dressing rooms and dugouts.
Right now, however, petty stadium politics and home-side favoritism were the least of our concerns.
The real problem was the deluge hammering down from the heavens.
“Are you kidding me? It was completely clear yesterday!”
“...Can we even play in this?”
It was a once-in-a-blue-moon tempest.
When our chartered flight had landed in Newcastle yesterday afternoon, the sky had been an unbroken canvas of blue. Today, looking up revealed neither sun nor sky—only a bruised, roiling canopy of black storm clouds unleashing furious sheets of rain. It was the sort of miserable weather that made you want to march into the boardroom and demand why on earth Newcastle hadn't built a roof over the place.
Evidently just as blindsided by the unforecasted downpour, Newcastle’s ground staff were darting across the pitch in a frantic, splashing frenzy.
“Think they’ll actually call it off?”
“Doubt it. They’ll play if they can.”
Newcastle had poured endless oil money into modernizing the stadium over the past few years. Their drainage system was bound to be state-of-the-art.
“They’ll probably kick off the moment the worst of it lets up.”
Even if the squall eased, one look at the sky made it abundantly clear that this wasn't going to be a clean contest. It was going to be an all-out, waterlogged war.
Could this actually work in our favor...?
Newcastle was a side built on fluid interplay, intricate combinations, and crisp ground passing. Meanwhile, with me starting up front today instead of Yeon, Luton Town’s game plan was heavily weighted toward aerial dominance and direct headers. A pitch so thoroughly waterlogged that the turf was practically drowning would hinder them far more than us. If anything, the weather played right into our hands.
“Alright, lads! Time to head out!”
Before long, the blinding sheet of rain dialed back into heavy, steady drops. At the stewards' beckoning, the two files of Newcastle and Luton Town players stepped out of the tunnel and onto the drenched pitch. Through the dull thrum of the downpour, the guttural roar of fifty thousand supporters crashed against our ears.
“This is Round 5 of the Premier League, coming to you live from St James’ Park for Newcastle United versus Luton Town!”
“Whew... it’s pouring out there. The players will have to be careful not to catch a chill in conditions like this.”
“It’s a long season ahead, so staying healthy is priority number one.”
“The Premier League doesn't really have official criteria for weather postponements. With both teams already lined up on the pitch, the match will almost certainly proceed unless the drainage system completely gives out.”
“With the rain introducing a massive wild card, predicting the outcome of today’s fixture has become virtually impossible.”
During the coin toss, a sudden gust of wind caught the coin mid-flip, carrying it several yards away until it slapped into a puddle right at Captain Teddy’s boots. Seeing that, I genuinely wondered whether any cross would be able to fly straight today.
“Why is it so bloody freezing?”
“I’d rather start running already.”
“You and me both.”
Whether it was the northern chill or the relentless soak of the rain, everyone was shivering. The Newcastle players looked no warmer. Fortunately, once ends and kickoffs were settled, the captains returned to their ranks, and preparations wrapped up without further delay.
The players took up their positions under the gray deluge.
—Fweeeet!
With an unusually sharp blast of the referee’s whistle, the match was underway.
“Luton Town gets us started with the kickoff! Luton attacks from left to right, Newcastle from right to left!”
“Ah, the kickoff pass doesn't make it back properly! Did it catch a puddle?”
Dominic laid the ball off as he always did, but the ball ground to a dead halt before it had even traveled halfway across the center circle.
“Get to it! Grab it and send it all the way back!” Captain Teddy yelled, sprinting toward the dead ball as the manager bellowed instructions from the touchline. Teddy swung his boot to sweep it deep into our half.
Though Teddy possessed a thoroughly dependable long pass, today the ball swerved off on a bizarre, unnatural arc.
“It’s curling wildly! The wind is ferocious!”
“The fierce headwind blowing against Luton Town’s backline completely ruins Teddy Bennett’s clearance! A ball meant for the keeper drifts so freakishly that Mick, the fullback, barely traps it right on the touchline!”
“The rain isn't the only hazard the players have to contend with today!”
Low passes bogged down in puddles that the drainage hadn't cleared; lofted passes were hijacked by unpredictable gusts. To make matters worse, the asymmetrical stands acted like an erratic wind tunnel, whipping the gale into violent crosswinds.
“...This is going to be a grueling afternoon,” I muttered.
“Tell me about it,” agreed Murek Matip, Newcastle’s center-back, who had been glued to my ribs since the opening second.
Though we jostled relentlessly for position, there was no personal malice between us. With the ball kicked out of bounds near the far sideline for a throw-in, we exchanged a brief bit of banter.
“How about you just let us bag three goals? That way we can both sit on the bench and take a warm shower.”
“Ha, keep dreaming. You’re not getting a single one past me.”
“You know I wasn't really asking for your permission. A little polite courtesy wouldn't kill you.”
“No ball gets behind me today. Period.”
“......”
Despite my casual words, the situation on the pitch was far from comfortable for Luton Town. Deep inside our own third, Teddy and Dominic—the twin engines of our tactical buildup—were being suffocated by Newcastle’s high press.
It was our throw-in, but with Newcastle pressing aggressively, there were virtually no passing lanes open. Launching it long down the touchline was technically an option, but in this gale, a misjudged heave could easily blow backward into our defensive third and hand them a lethal turnover.
Recognizing the danger, Luke tracked back from the opposing half, collected the ball from Mick, and took the throw-in back to Mick as the fullback retreated to reform the backline.
“Take it!”
“Play it back, quick!”
“Man on! Press behind you!”
Urgent shouts cut through the steady drumming of the storm as the ball was scrambled back toward our goalkeeper, Mathias. Through the gray curtain of rain, Mathias and I locked eyes.
“Mathias claims the ball safely after Jackson’s emergency header under heavy pressure!”
“He’s looking for an outlet... and he launches it long!”
The ball cut into the storm, spinning erratically against the sodden sky.
“The wind is blowing straight from Newcastle’s half toward Luton Town! The big question is whether a clearance launched this high can even reach the opposing half in these conditions!”
“Ah, just as expected, the ball dies midair! Looking at its trajectory, it’s going to drop just past the center circle!”
The headwind was turbulent and violent, but that was a variable I could account for on the run. Normally, the ball traveled faster than any sprinting player. But against a fierce headwind that stalled the ball while I sprinted with the gale at my back, for this fleeting second, I was faster than the ball.
“The first to react is Lee Han! He’s charging up from the edge of the penalty box!”
“He gets his head to it first!”
There wasn't even an aerial duel. Not a single Newcastle defender occupied the space I was charging into. None of them had anticipated Mathias’s knuckleball-like clearance to plummet so abruptly.
None of them except me.
Neither Newcastle’s backline, nor Luke—who had been dragged deep into our half for the throw-in—nor Nesto on the opposite flank had started their runs in time. Well, Emir would have been sprinting instinctively, but since Nesto was still acclimating to buildup play outside the penalty box, it couldn't be helped. Besides, Nesto's sharpness inside the eighteen-yard box was exceptional; it would be unfair to fault him for this.
Isolated in the middle of the pitch, my course of action was clear.
“Lee Han pops the ball up with his head—and balances it right on his forehead!”
“A circus routine in the middle of a torrential downpour! He turns his body away from the challenge without losing possession!”
With no passing outlets available, I swiveled my frame toward Newcastle’s goal while keeping the ball balanced atop my brow. If the wind prevented long aerial passes and standing water swallowed ground dribbles whole, there was only one way to advance: take it forward through the air.
“He’s driving forward! Bouncing the ball on his forehead, he surges past the center circle!”
“Newcastle’s midfielder tries desperately to haul him down, but he can't stop him! He keeps going!”
The greatest virtue of the Seal Dribble—advancing while repeatedly bouncing the ball on your forehead—was that because the ball was nowhere near your feet, defenders couldn't sneak in a sly trip or an ankle tap. Even if they threw their full body weight into me, Newcastle's midfield possessed nowhere near the physical bulk required to break my core balance.
To stop me, they would have had to hack at my shins with blatant, unsportsmanlike violence—an offense that would earn an immediate red card, not just a yellow. Shielded by their hesitation, I bulldozed forward, shrugging off the desperate tugs and shoulder charges while keeping the ball dancing rhythmically on my brow.
“Like a fish in water—no, a seal in the open ocean!”
“Lee Han powers through the storm with an unstoppable seal dribble! He’s already reached the edge of the penalty box!”
The technique’s primary drawback was pure foot speed. By the time I arrived at the eighteen-yard line, Newcastle’s defensive ranks had already swarmed back into the box. Naturally, I had anticipated that. I hadn't carried the ball this far just to show off.
“Dominic!” I roared.
From what I’d seen of Newcastle’s defensive shape, their manager had clearly instructed them to suffocate Dominic and Captain Teddy at all costs. With the tension boiling over at the edge of the box, barking Dominic’s name naturally drew every Newcastle defender’s gaze straight toward him.
Everyone’s, that is, except Nesto’s.
Having rehearsed these movements with me dozens of times over the past few days, Nesto saw where my eyes flicked and darted into the seam between the center-backs without a heartbeat’s hesitation. Outside the box was another story, but inside the penalty area, our Cutback routines were second nature. Nesto didn't disappoint.
Timing his run to perfection with my headed flick, he cushioned the ball on his chest just before it crossed the endline.
“The defensive line is breached in an instant!”
“They need a quick decision here—!”
The angle was virtually identical to the spot where Coach Allen and I had practiced cutbacks over a hundred times. No one on this pitch knew how to exploit this exact scenario better than I did.
A pass struck with the ferocious pace of a shot tore across the face of the goal. True to his sharp attacking instincts, Nesto didn't attempt a floated cross that the wind would swallow, nor a ground cutback that would stall in the puddles; he lashed a waist-high bullet across the teeth of the box.
“Ah! The delivery is struck with tremendous power!”
“It’s blazing past everyone!”
Caught off guard by the waist-high rocket threading between them, Newcastle’s defenders couldn't adjust their feet in time. I, however, was already in motion.
A delivery this low and venomous required no downward nod or intricate technique. Merely getting your forehead to it was difficult enough, which meant the goalkeeper’s reaction would inevitably lag behind—especially on a cutback where the keeper’s momentum was drifting the wrong way. All I needed to do was redirect its path toward the net.
—Thwack!
Dipping my waist, I met the ball as it whipped past a defender’s flailing arm, snapping my forehead through its flight.
The goalkeeper stood frozen, rooted to his line. Before anyone could track its trajectory, the ball was sucked violently into the back of the net.
—Rippp!
Even over the howling squall, the sharp snap of the netting echoed across the ground with absolute clarity.
“In the teeth of this blinding tempest, they’ve broken the deadlock!”
“That is his tenth league goal of the season! Neither the storm nor Newcastle United could stop him! Luton Town strikes first in the thirty-eighth minute to take the lead at St James’ Park!”
Despite the biting gale and freezing rain, the pitch erupted into sweltering heat. Now, not a single player on our squad was shivering from the cold.