The Assist Vending Machine (1)
The morning after the clash against Watford, I pushed myself up slowly and checked the clock. I had woken up earlier than expected.
Come to think of it, we played a full match yesterday. Why haven't we swapped?
Nursing a mild sense of curiosity, I instinctively reached for the phone on my nightstand. The screen was practically drowned in missed calls and an avalanche of messages.
Sly bastard.
I knew full well that he couldn't switch bodies on a whim, but I couldn't resist taking a petty jab at him in my head anyway. Shaking off the idle thought, I began tapping out replies to the congratulatory texts one by one.
After spending an hour clearing my notifications, my eyes drifted toward the sheet of ground rules taped to the back of my bedroom door. Nothing new seemed to have been jotted down.
To put it simply, these rules were our way of maintaining mutual respect. The steady exchange of written notes throughout our month of preseason had given us ample time to come to terms with our bizarre situation and chart out a sensible plan for my football career.
Truth be told, I had been terrified at first. I had spent sleepless nights racking my brain until it felt ready to split open, obsessing over what would happen to me whenever another consciousness seized control of my body.
Yet, both he and I were equally possessed by the game. Since there was no undoing what had already been done, we had no choice but to cooperate for the sake of football.
And so began my cohabitation with this peculiar companion in earnest.
Yesterday had marked the very first step in "our" shared career, and judging by the morning headlines, it had been a picture-perfect debut.
...The match after next will be his turn to take the pitch.
To align with our opponents' tactical profiles and avoid abrupt, mid-match disruptions, we had agreed that I would start through Round 2 against Swansea City if possible, while Lee Yeon would take over for Round 3. Naturally, since there was no ironclad guarantee that a sudden swap wouldn't catch us off guard midway through a match, we would just have to see how events unfolded.
I just hope nothing goes sideways.
The opening three fixtures played an enormous role in setting the tone for the entire first half of the campaign, so walking away with victories was paramount.
Well, that's his problem. As long as he nets just enough to scrape a win—a goal or two, tops.
While official statistics wouldn't distinguish between our individual contributions, my petty pride demanded that I stay ahead in goal contributions. Of course, since both of us ultimately had to root for each other to steer the club toward victory, I decided against wishing any real misfortune upon him.
Still, if we ever ended up swapping back and forth mid-game down the road, how on earth would we prove who scored which goal? The absurd thought crossed my mind out of nowhere.
Renowned back home in Korea as a club where prominent national team stars had previously plied their trade, Swansea City had nonetheless spent the last decade languishing in the second tier. Recently, however, backed by new ownership and an extensive squad rebuild, they were tipped as one of the frontrunners for promotion this season.
In short: another team objectively stronger than us on paper.
First Watford, now Swansea City, followed by Sheffield United in Round 3 where Lee Yeon would likely step in. There wasn't a single breather in sight. Whoever drew up this fixture list had to be a closet Luton hater.
“Alright, gather round and focus!”
Manager Gordon stepped into the away dressing room, clapping his hands to draw everyone's eyes toward a portable whiteboard that looked thoroughly antiquated—a fitting staple of an away locker room.
“Our shape today remains our familiar 4-4-2. On paper, they possess superior individual quality, but their center-backs are still unpolished in their defensive coordination. That’s the gap we are going to exploit. Understood?”
“Yes, Boss!”
“As we covered yesterday, this will practically operate as a 4-2-4 with both wingers pushed high to prioritize wide deliveries and direct attacking play. When the crosses fly in, stay sharp, and keep your concentration locked on securing the second balls.”
It was an unspoken ultimatum: slack off on your assignments, and you'll be yanked off the pitch without a second thought. We listened with rapt attention, absorbing Gordon's every word.
The silver lining was that this dynamic setup closely mirrored the tactical structure I had played under for the national team, which had made adapting to it during training remarkably seamless.
“Han. You understand why I prepared this game plan, don't you?”
“I won't let your faith go to waste, Boss.”
“Good lad. I'm counting on you.”
He was placing absolute trust in my aerial dominance, and as a professional, it was my duty to repay the manager's faith.
“We welcome you to Liberty Stadium, the stage for today’s clash between Swansea City and Luton Town FC! The fervor from the home supporters is absolutely electric!”
“Indeed. With this ground boasting roughly double the capacity of Luton Town’s home stadium, the roar reverberating through the stands is deafening.”
“Lee Han, who registered a sensational brace and an assist in the opening fixture, features once again in the starting eleven.”
“Yes. With Ben Cabango—Swansea’s veteran stalwart who ranked second in aerial duel win rate last season—having hung up his boots at the end of the previous campaign, Luton are clearly aiming to breach Swansea’s backline by capitalizing on Lee Han’s aerial prowess.”
“Considering the absolute dominance Lee Han displayed in the air during his recent international duty, expectations are understandably sky-high today.”
Walking out out of the tunnel into the crescendo of crowd noise always stirred something primal in the chest.
“Go get battered, you lot!”
“Hand over the three points and piss off back home!”
“Just wander around like headless chickens like you did last season!”
...Or perhaps it was just the sting of hearing that vitriol that got my blood pumping.
They really know which nerves to pinch.
Last season's trip to Swansea City had been the absolute nadir of my campaign in the EFL Championship—the very performance that had spawned mocked touch compilations on online football forums. If I wanted to offer excuses, I could point to the brutal flu that had wrecked my condition, compounded by our paper-thin squad depth that left the manager with no viable substitute on the bench. But an excuse was just an excuse; I had simply played dreadfully.
“Han, you're not letting those blokes get under your skin, are you?” Dominic asked, casting a worried glance my way.
My expression didn't so much as flicker.
“Over that? Not a chance. What they're saying isn't wrong—at least, up until today.”
I was never too proud to admit my past shortcomings. Though, of course, I had no intention of letting them keep wagging their tongues.
“Instead, I'll make sure they don't have the breath to say it again after ninety minutes.”
“Think a hat-trick ought to shut them up?”
“Oh?”
“What do you mean, hat-trick? He's gotta bag a four-trick so my assist tally goes through the roof!” Emir chimed in.
“Emir, you bloody genius! Han, you've got this in the bag, right?”
The two of them seemed far more ecstatic about the prospect than I was. Then again, Emir was a traditional, natural-footed winger brought in specifically to whip in deliveries, while Dominic was an attacking midfielder renowned for floating pinpoint crosses into dangerous pockets. Both were visibly thrilled to unleash their best attributes within this system.
Reflecting on our recent training sessions, whenever a decent cross found its way into the box, I had consistently converted it into a shot on target, a goal, or a cushioned assist. Watching them look at me, I genuinely couldn't tell whether that ravenous gleam in their eyes was competitive spirit or the sheer madness of assist junkies.
To them, I was probably little more than an assist vending machine.
“Quit flapping your gums and just put the deliveries where they belong.”
“Mate, that goes without saying!”
“That's bread and butter for us!”
I wondered if those two even realized how many scuffed, awkward balls I had salvaged for them in practice. Still, if they ever had to feed a different striker down the line, they were the ones who would suffer, not me. That was a worry for another day. With the coin toss wrapping up, it was time to lock in.
“Bring it in before we kick off!” Teddy called out.
“Our teddy-bear captain's got a sermon for us! Form up, lads!”
“Good grief... forget it. Why do I even bother?”
Teddy let out a helpless chuckle at the relentless banter, once again failing to cultivate an air of stern gravity before kickoff. Trying to forge a menacing atmosphere under a captain whose very name conjured images of a stuffed plushie was a lost cause anyway. Dual consciousness or not, one constant that remained blissfully unchanged this season was our hopelessly cheeky squad.
“Jokes aside—don't let down the supporters who traveled all this way for us.”
“Yes, Cap!”
“Understood!”
“You can count on us!”
“...You lot only find your manners at times like this.”
With those parting words, we scattered to our assigned stations across the turf. Perhaps our captain's willingness to serve as the locker-room punchline had done the trick, because the squad carried just the right balance of sharp tension and quiet confidence. Teddy’s understated way of steering this youthful group was remarkably effective in its own right.
Now, all that mattered was the ball resting on the center spot.
Twiiiit!
The referee's sharp whistle sliced cleanly through the deafening roar of the stands, and the ball began to roll across the pristine grass, destined sooner or later to descend from above.
By the time thirty minutes had ticked off the clock, the deadlock remained unbroken.
Swansea City's manager had clearly prepared meticulously. Emir and Dominic, who had boldly sworn to run riot down the flanks, had spent the opening half-hour thoroughly smothered and neutralized by the home side's suffocating press.
“What are you waiting for?! Move your feet! Stop ball-watching like a bunch of statues!”
Gordon paced the edge of the technical area, his face contorted in fury as he bellowed orders at the top of his lungs. While none of his barbs were aimed at me, I was hardly blameless in this stalemate. It was time I did something about it.
Just then, a memory of Lee Yeon's press-breaking run during the last national team fixture flashed across my mind. Watching the replay, I had simply thought it looked flashy. But sprinting across the pitch in real time, the gears in my head clicked in an entirely different direction.
If he can shatter a press like that with his feet, why can't I do it with my head?
Stung by the manager's wrath, Emir pressed furiously, forcing a Swansea defender to bundle the ball out over the touchline. Possession swung back to Luton.
“Dominic,” I called out sharply. “Drop slightly lower than me, then float a high ball into the space right in front of where I'm going to run.”
“What are you planning?”
“No time to explain. Just hit it.”
Leaving Dominic with that clipped instruction, I darted straight into the corridor between their two center-backs.
“Back for more, are you?”
“Just looking to score.”
“Why don't you drop deep instead? Not like anyone's passing to you up here anyway.”
“Great minds think alike. That's exactly where I'm headed.”
“......What?”
Perhaps because he was a recent academy promotee lacking seasoned poise, the young center-back tried to throw me off with clumsy trash talk as he shadowed my heels.
At that exact split-second, our left-back Wright took the throw-in, launching the ball toward Dominic, who had drifted into open space a short distance away. Dominic cushioned it cleanly on his chest, slipped effortlessly past a closing marker, and hoisted a soaring ball forward before the rest of the pressing pack could swarm him.
The looping ball drifted not into the channel between the goalkeeper and backline, but directly into the pocket separating Swansea's defenders from their midfield pivot.
Because I had burst into motion the instant Dominic made contact, the flat-footed center-back was left clutching empty air.
True to Swansea's aggressive pressing blueprint, two central midfielders converged on the ball's landing zone the moment they tracked its trajectory—precisely what I had anticipated.
Leaping in unison with both midfielders, I met the plummeting ball and cushioned it back upward against gravity. Landing firmly on both feet, I brushed off a cynical tug at my jersey with pure physical strength. Tilting my gaze skyward and loosening the tension in my neck, I began to bounce the ball delicately off my forehead.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Neither midfielder was particularly tall, and having had their balance utterly shattered in the initial aerial collision, they could only watch in despair as three successive, feather-light headers steered the ball cleanly over their outstretched frames.
“Lee Han! Look at Lee Han! Like a sea lion at an aquarium, he’s carrying the ball forward, juggling it freely atop his forehead!”
“Controlling the ball with his head with more finesse than most players manage with their boots! In the blink of an eye, Swansea City’s entire midfield line has been sliced wide open!”
“Lee Han surges forward, bouncing the ball on his head! Luton have the numbers! It’s an overload! A massive opening!”
Now, only Swansea's retreating last line stood between me and four of our attackers surging forward on Gordon's orders.
With the ball hovering above my brow, I popped it upward once more. Defying the backline's frantic expectations, the ball curved in a graceful, dipping arc, dropping softly into the path of Dominic, who was tearing along the flank.
And as last season's third-highest goalscorer in the division, Dominic Moss was never one to squander a golden gift.
Thwack!
A clinical strike sent the keeper diving in vain, ripping into the side netting and shattering the deadlock.
“Dominic! Dominic Moss! He latches onto Lee Han’s exquisite cushioned header and finishes with ice-cold precision! Nil to one, the visitors Luton Town take the lead!”
“What an extraordinary piece of header dribbling by Lee Han! And what a lethal curling finish by Dominic! Having combined for fifteen goals last season, this duo displays telepathic chemistry once again!”
Leaving the crestfallen defenders hanging their heads, we drank in the pure rush of taking the lead.
“Look at their faces,” Dominic snickered. “Why do they look like their dog just died?”
“Beats me,” Emir grinned. “Folding after just one goal? Weak.”
“We’re easily putting three more past them today.”
“You two have an awful lot to say for blokes who did absolutely nothing until thirty seconds ago,” I pointed out dryly.
“A forward does his job the second the ball hits the net. That's all that counts.”
For once in his life, Dominic was speaking absolute sense.
Either way, we had seized the advantage. But Gordon was far from satisfied with a solitary goal.
“Han! The first half is almost over! Keep the pressure on, they're about to run out of gas!”
Just as the manager said, Swansea City’s relentless pressing throughout the opening half-hour was beginning to take a heavy toll on their legs.
And that meant one thing: the crosses were about to start raining down.
Much like Gordon, I had zero intention of stopping here.
It was time to give that charming little center-back a rough, thorough pat on the head.