First Half, Rainbow Flick?! Zenit (6)

The Stadium of Light thundered with a roar so fierce it raised goosebumps—Sunderland fans belting out their anthem at full volume.

"~~~And it's Sunderland, Sunderland FC. We're by far the greatest team the world has ever seen!!"

Bellingham and Abdullah lined up for kickoff wearing expressions every bit as grim as any league match. Bellingham covered his mouth with his palm, steeling himself.

"Today's match—we win it for the gaffer no matter what. Abdullah."

"Yeah. Jobe. Go bury that hat-trick you missed last time."

"Heh. You know how to score too."

"You're the captain! Show them what that armband means."

A fluorescent captain's armband glowed on Bellingham's arm.

A little earlier, before kickoff.

Han Shin had asked Emily to keep Zenit's racist remarks under wraps, worried they would rattle the squad. He had insisted on absolute silence—yet a few staff members had let it slip anyway.

In the locker room, while Han Shin was elsewhere, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the players gathered in small clusters and talked it over. Even on Monday, while he was off interviewing coaches, they had drilled the tactics themselves, shouting "Shark! Tiger!" until the moves were second nature.

Men slowly forging themselves into one unit with Han Shin as their core.

Bellingham tied and untied the laces of his black boots twice—his pre-match ritual.

"You heard? Those bastards insulted Gaffer Han Shin."

Nazari, listed among the substitutes, exploded.

"Fuck! Cowards—couldn't say it to his face, so they did it behind his back!"

Youngest player Chris checked the tape on his ankles one last time.

"Maybe that's why the gaffer told us yesterday to win by five goals?"

Bellingham finished the perfect knot.

"Five goals? We're going to leave those Zenit lads so wrecked they can't even walk off the pitch."

Abdullah, seeing the ritual complete, snickered.

"Jobe! How long has it been since you talked about leaving the club? Now you're straight-up Han Shin's warrior?"

"Who's Han Shin's warrior?! I just… can't stand those cheap bastards."

Abdullah flicked Bellingham's short curly hair.

"Sure, sure. Han Shin's warrior."

"No, fucking—it's not like that!"

Meanwhile Nazari clasped hands with Håkon beside him.

"Do it for me out there, Håkon."

"If I can't, I'm counting on you, Nazari."

"You're a fake striker and now your confidence is fake too? Stand up straight, you bastard. Look at those shoulders!"

Nazari corrected the posture of a man who towered a good twenty centimetres over him.

Then Han Shin strode into the locker room.

"Everyone sit down."

He sketched the opposition formation on the board.

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Zenit had submitted a 3-4-3. It was nothing like Conte's classic version. Where wing-backs normally dropped into a back five, both of Zenit's wingers were pure attackers. In reality it was closer to a 3-2-5—five forwards. They even fielded only one holding midfielder to shield the three centre-backs.

It looked like a Sunday-league or high-school tournament shape. Either Zenit were openly disrespecting Sunderland…

Or they took my bait.

"Their lineup is almost exactly what I expected. The winger with the minor knock showing up is a small surprise, but if we stick to the plan we win."

"Yes, boss!"

"Just one thing—when Wendel gets the ball in the middle, don't close him down too hard."

One Brazilian twist and he could feed any of those five attackers. Han Shin kept the full truth to himself.

"Remember—this is a counter-attacking system! Keep the back five tight. The diamond's wide men, open up a little more."

"Understood!"

"Who knows the single most important thing for this match?"

Clarke, who had once felt ridiculous shouting tiger, shark and kung-fu panda but had seen the Korean cues work wonders, answered.

"Free position switches on the calls, right?"

"No. Something even more basic if you want to execute the tactics."

"What is it?"

"Cold blood and clear heads."

Han Shin mimed pulling a yellow card from his suit like a referee.

"You do not get booked because you get sucked into their atmosphere. Whatever Zenit say, let it wash over you like a Buddha. Hold the leash on your emotions. Only then can you play the system. Clear?!"

"Yes!!!!"

"No matter what they do, no matter how hard they wind you up—never, ever slide in from behind like Abdullah."

"Boss, that was—!"

"Abdullah. Understood?"

Abdullah flushed, remembering the reckless tackle in the practice match.

"Captain today is Bellingham. Vice-captain is Dan Neil. Give them a round of applause."

They had been so busy filling Ballard's absence that only now did the reality hit.

He's really gone.

Bellingham, armband already on, declared proudly,

"Thank you for the captaincy! I'll give everything!"

"Congratulations!"

Han Shin gestured.

"Circle up."

Arms around shoulders, they formed a ring.

"This is the first match of Han Shin's Sunderland. Don't forget that. Don't take the bait. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Stay ice-cold. Show the fans the absolute peak of what we've trained for!"

"Stay cold and give everything!"

"Captain's words!"

Bellingham led cleanly.

"Win it five-nil! Ha'way the laaaads!!!"

"Ha'way the lads!! Waaaaaah!"

The match was delayed nearly an hour by the chaos outside. The overheated atmosphere forced both teams' press conferences to be cancelled.

Both sides finished their preparations. In the red tunnel, lined up and waiting, the mind games began.

Wendel waved a fist mockingly.

"Jackie Chan manager~ Jackie Chan~ Hook, hook!"

Goalkeeper Sergei joined in.

"Kung fu! Kung fu!"

Whatever Zenit shouted, no one on Sunderland's side even glanced their way.

At the front, captain Aleksandr addressed Bellingham.

"Calling yourself a Bellingham too… pfft… pathetic."

Jobe Bellingham, number 10 and the name proudly printed across his back, let it slide.

What the hell is this bastard saying in Russian?

They emerged from the red tunnel into the roar of nearly forty thousand.

"We are Sunderland, We are Sunderland~!!"

The wall of sound was immense. Flags of every colour—including the Taegeukgi—whipped in the air until the skin prickled.

A giant banner unfurled: a black cat and the words ['Til the End].

No more phantom cheers from practice matches. This was real. A true battlefield.

Forty thousand voices rose in the Elvis Presley-inspired anthem "Wise Men Say."

The earthquake of sound sent seagulls scattering in panic.

Clap-clap-clap—

Sunderland—!

Clap-clap-clap—!

Sunderland—!

Stadium announcer Rolls Fellow—blond curls, distinctive M-shaped bald patch, rainbow polka-dot shirt—bellowed the names into the microphone.

"Number 10! Our captain~~~~ Jobe Bellingham!!!!"

"Bellingham! Bellingham!"

A few slower fans noticed Ballard's name missing from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sheet and felt a sudden, quiet certainty that he was leaving.

Meanwhile, on holiday, Nelson Weiper and Lea sat on the sofa, remote in hand, and switched on the television.

"You're ridiculous~ Said you'd only check the result and now you're watching the whole thing?"

"How am I supposed to resist? You know I don't even watch our own matches or the World Cup."

"Oh I know~ Maybe I should look up house prices in Sunderland."

All weekend Weiper's mind had been stuck on Sunderland.

I'll show them who the real number 9 is.

On screen, thirty-year BBC Newcastle veteran commentator Nick Barron and presenter Gary Garnett discussed the transfer rumours.

"They're talking about you."

"Quiet a second."

Weiper turned the volume up and leaned in.

"Babe~ Have you been taking something behind my back? Heh. Explains a lot."

"A promise is a promise. If Sunderland don't score two, I'm not going."

"So cold. Oh! There's the manager! Look at him—camera loves him."

Han Shin appeared. His mouth watered as if he had bitten a sour lemon. His heart hammered like he was about to skydive; sweat poured from his palms. Hands trembling. Adrenaline he could not name flooded every vein.

The Russian away fans spotted him and hurled bananas.

"Oo-oo-oo!!!"

Han Shin ignored the jeers, picked up the cleanest banana, and called out,

"Thank you!"

He peeled it and ate it as performance art, then exchanged a brief greeting with Manager Igor.

"Spasiba! They threw bananas so I could recharge."

"Nonsense."

Han Shin spread his left hand for five and made a fist with his right for zero.

"Heard my predicted score? Five-nil~"

"You'll be the zero. Ha-ha."

The referee's coin toss settled, both teams took their positions.

Peeeeep!

Sunderland kicked off. Korean commentator Bae Seung-beom announced it.

Renowned Korean football expert Lee Jun-hee broke down the tactics.

Third minute of the first half.

Riding the home roar, Bellingham slipped a through-ball. Håkon took it. Perfect chance. Low drive toward the far post.

"Goaaaaaal!"

A goal so early it felt almost unfair. Han Shin, tactics clicking perfectly, threw uppercuts in pure joy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

Waaaaaaaaah—!

The perfect chance after three minutes was chalked off for offside.

Furious, Han Shin protested hard.

"Hey, ref! How is that offside?! VAR! VAR~~~!!!"

He drew an imaginary box in the air demanding a review. The referee, after a brief earpiece conversation, shook his head firmly.

"Boooooooooo!"

Fans howled their dissent.

"Ref's eyes are broken!!!"

"How is that offside?!"

Play continued. Zenit's keeper started the build-up. Han Shin, still seething, kicked the air.

"Fuck!!!!"

This real-life match engine is pure scripted bullshit.

He glared at the assistant who had flagged a non-offside. His blood pressure spiked ten times higher than any game. The dopamine and adrenaline of fifty thousand roaring fans hit like a drug. Yet he forced himself calm and called to the players.

"It's fine!! Back!! Drop deep!!"

Possession flipped. Zenit poured forward.

Central midfielder Wendel rolled the ball gently, advancing. He eyed Claudinho racing right. Bellingham turned to cover—only for Wendel to switch left in a flash.

Number ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠7 left winger Malcom took over. Full-back Timothy and midfielder Dan Neil closed in. On the touchline Malcom stopped the ball, smiled, and trapped it at an angle with both feet.

Timothy recognised the wind-up instantly and lost his temper.

"Fuck you!!"

Malcom scooped the ball with his heel and lofted it high over Timothy's head.

In Korea they called it the "sapo." The rainbow flick—first shown to the world by Alexandre de Carvalho Kaneko of Santos FC in 1968. A showpiece of South American technicians like J.J. Okocha and Neymar Jr.

The rainbow flick.

Spectacular, almost never practical. Using it in a real match was widely considered bad manners—pure showmanship. Malcom's provocation.

They're taking the absolute piss—pulling a rainbow flick on us?

Han Shin, the coaches, and the entire crowd leapt to their feet.

Malcom stuck his tongue out at Timothy, mocking him. The ball sailed over the full-back's head. He sprinted.

"You son of a—!"

Timothy lunged for the shirt and missed. The sudden rainbow flick shattered the defensive shape.

Five Zenit attackers against four Sunderland defenders. Five-on-four. Dire.

Malcom cut the ball back to striker Gabriel. Gabriel redirected it with a heel-kick and shot from the edge of the six-yard box!

Wrong way. Goalkeeper Anthony Patterson was caught flat-footed. The ball rolled in slow motion. Patterson stretched every inch. The ball kissed past his gloves.

Just before Gabriel's shot crossed the line—

Everyone stood.

Everyone connected to Sunderland: the bench, Kirill, Speakman, Maxwell, even groundsman Tom. Emily felt a tear slip free without realising.

"Manager, what do we do, what do we do!!!"

The Korean commentary team rose as one.

The local English commentary was no calmer.

On the sofa Nelson Weiper and Maherdi—who had already decided to join—clutched their heads.

"What are you doing, Manager Han Shin?! Are the Sunderland defenders joking?!"

"If I'd been there… what would I have done?"

The Three Musketeers and forty thousand fans threw both hands skyward.

"No!! Anthony, please!! Save it!"

Black Cats production crew, commentators, and reporters hammered their shutters without pause. Costa Coffee barista Emily had closed the shop and was already deep into pints at the pub.

On the other side of the planet, Korea was the same. One YouTuber who farmed engagement by playing Han Shin's anti-fan jeered,

"Sunderland!! Kkosupno, kkisupno, kkasupno, kkusupno, kkwosupno, kkoesupno!!"

And finally, at home, Han Shin's family watched while holding homemade pickets. His mother buried herself in her husband's arms.

"My heart's racing—I can't watch! Han Shin's dad!!"

"Close your eyes then, love!!"

Only Han Shin's little sister, who knew nothing about football, stayed glued to the sofa.

"Why is everyone freaking out? Dad, who's winning? Is Oppa's team losing?"

"Don't say that."

"What, I can't even talk? Anyway—idiot, dummy, poop-stain, loser Oppa, but fighting!!!"

"If you're going to talk like that, go to your room!"

"Aww why~~ I already bragged to my friends that Oppa's on TV. Gotta post it on Insta~"

Click-click—she snapped selfies.

"Ha..."

No one burned hotter than Han Shin.

"Shit!!"

The perfect chance Håkon and Bellingham had created was wiped out by a dubious offside. One Zenit attack later and a goal was about to go in.

A situation that dragged curses from the gut.

But the twenty-two pairs of hands and feet on the grass were already beyond him.

All that remained was to leave it to the heavens.