Yakubu-Level Miss Leaves Zenit in Despair (7)
Caster Bae Seung-beom let out a groan of pure despair.
Gabriel’s shot had sailed wide.
An absolute sitter. A chance he simply had to bury.
The merciless ball rolled harmlessly beyond the goal line.
“Hoo… haah…”
Thank God.
Han Shin drew a long, steadying breath.
Too many fans. Live television. I nearly lost my cool. Focus.
He slapped both cheeks hard, once, twice, snapping his mind back into place.
“Keep going exactly as we are!”
As the teams reset, Malcom rounded on Gabriel in fury.
“You idiot! How do you miss that?”
“Sorry!”
Still nursing an injury, Gabriel could not understand why Manager Igor had thrown him into a mere friendly from the first whistle. It wasn’t even a proper cup tie. Of course any player should be glad of a starting berth, yet his form was so far off that he had squandered the gilt-edged chance Malcom had spoon-fed him. Right now he resented the manager more than anyone.
“Can’t even put that away? Hahaha, look at you!”
The Sunderland supporters piled on with their own mockery. Gabriel finally cracked. He spun a finger in the air, demanding a substitution.
Igor shook his head once, firm and final, and ignored him completely.
Goalkeeper Anthony, who felt he had aged ten years in the last thirty seconds, rolled the ball out to Jacob and the build-up began again.
We dodged a bullet. That should have been game over.
Jacob found Abdullah. Five Zenit attackers pressed high, so Dan Neil, Chris and both full-backs formed a tight pentagon to wriggle free. Zenit had only two central midfielders. The ball found Bellingham in the diamond’s number-ten pocket with almost insulting ease.
Bellingham took the ball. Han Shin’s voice cut through the roar and straight into his ear.
“Tiger!”
The entire Sunderland side moved as one.
Håkon, who everyone had marked as the pure striker, suddenly dropped deep. Zenit’s vice-captain Andrei followed him for the one-on-one, leaving a split-second of daylight.
Bellingham and Clarke needed no glance, no word.
I pursue “system football.”
Every one of the eleven players still heard Han Shin’s old lecture on the K-Hannibal system ringing in their heads. Their bodies simply obeyed the plan.
Chris and Clarke burst forward. Zenit’s two centre-backs retreated with them, opening a vast empty corridor. Bellingham exploded into it like a figure skater on ice, pure speed and balance.
Andrei, dragged out by Håkon, tried a last desperate lunge from behind, hands clasped behind his back.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Inside the box Bellingham took a soft touch, body shielding the ball, back to Andrei. Then the heel drag, the pivot — Zinedine Zidane’s signature move, the same classic Marseille turn that had once left Abdullah for dead. A perfect, elegant 180-degree spin on a sixpence. Andrei was gone.
Goalkeeper Sergei rushed out to shrink the angle, arms spread wide.
A flicker of the eyes.
Bellingham checked the empty net. Time elapsed: 0.3 seconds.
He planted his front foot and shaped as if to chip.
Chip shot!
The veteran Sergei read it, arms already rising.
Got you.
But it was pure feint. Bellingham kept the ball glued to his foot, shuffled forward two more steps, and left the keeper sprawling. An open goal. Jobe Bellingham was not the man to miss that.
“Waaaaaaaaaah——!!!”
Thunder cracked across a clear sky and rolled through the cracked earth. Red blood boiled in every vein.
Bellingham sprinted all the way to the touchline and launched into a knee-slide that carved twin grooves into the turf. Then he snapped a sharp salute toward the fans and Han Shin.
Han Shin simply nodded.
“Yes!!! That’s it! Fucking perfect!”
Bellingham thumped his chest and roared so the whole stadium heard him.
“Boss! Last time I couldn’t get the hat-trick — today I pay you back!!!”
He bounced up, slapped the captain’s armband again and again, and windmilled both arms, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
“We are Sunderland! We are Sunderland!”
No one celebrated harder than his family watching from Korea.
“Oppa!!! Oppa’s team just scored!! Kyaaaaaah!”
And Emily. She and Speakman were locked in a wild hug, pure festival joy.
Commissioner Lee Jun-hee was practically spraying spit with excitement.
Gabriel, still reeling from the miss, finally collapsed onto the turf.
Igor clicked his tongue in disgust.
“Kids these days… tsk tsk, no hunger. In my day… Fine. Get the sub ready.”
He glanced up at the vice-chairman watching from the stands, then gave Coach Vladimir the signal.
Why are that kid’s hands so swollen?
Igor had already pumped Gabriel full of painkillers. Chief Coach Tymoshchuk had rebelled against a decision that risked a player’s career; as punishment he had been banned from the bench and exiled to the stands.
Gabriel limped off.
Han Shin sorted the picture from the touchline.
Disciplinary sub? Or injury?
Gabriel, still hobbling, snatched a water bottle from a coach and hurled it to the ground.
Injury. They’re so desperate they started a half-fit striker.
Gabriel rounded on Igor.
“Why the hell did you put me on?”
“Sit on the bench.”
Gabriel kicked the seat hard before dropping into it, still seething.
Han Shin strolled over.
“Manager Igor. Feeling the pressure already?”
“Don’t get cocky over one goal. Football lasts ninety minutes.”
“Yes, of course. Hahaha.”
“And that over-the-top celebration — a manager should keep some dignity. Where’s the respect for the opposition?”
“Respect? Since when have you shown any? You lot started it, didn’t you?”
“Us? What are you talking about? You and I only met today.”
Igor had stayed isolated from his squad the entire time; he had no idea his players and coaches had been spouting racist abuse. He was a figurehead manager no one respected. FC Zenit had even fielded three Korean players over the years. A lifelong Zenit fan himself, Igor harboured no particular animus toward Asians. He simply assumed Han Shin was Chinese because of the name.
Both sides had been chaotic in the opening exchanges. Zenit’s early substitution after conceding did nothing to stop Sunderland’s counters from rocking them again and again. Possession sat at a clear 65 % for Zenit, yet Håkon Hildegard still found the net for a second.
Twenty-fifth minute. Score: 2–0.
Carving them open? Exactly.
The second goal left Zenit helpless. The squad, already split between Russian and Brazilian factions, began to fracture from within.
Wendel, who had nearly opened the scoring with a rainbow flick, muttered at Russian captain Aleksandr.
“Is Igor senile or what? I can’t see a single gap to attack against Sunderland.”
“The manager has his reasons.”
Internal noise plus the opponent’s steel. Sunderland’s constant shape-shifting inside a free-flowing system was driving Wendel mad.
“Fuck, they even pumped Gabriel full of painkillers and still subbed him after eight minutes. What are we supposed to do?”
“Stop whining and pass!”
“Yes, yes!”
With nowhere else to go, Wendel recycled the ball to Aleksandr and killed a few seconds on the grass.
“Shark!”
Wendel’s ears pricked at Han Shin’s latest coded shout.
That’s it. Every time that monkey yells something, their whole shape changes.
Sunderland were pure street cats — crouched, black-furred, giving Zenit not an inch of space no matter how hard they pushed. The score stayed 2–0 all the way to half-time.
Both teams headed for the tunnel. The Sunderland fans, still high on the two blistering goals, linked arms and sang of their heroes’ bravery.
Wendel was trudging off with a bitter face when a voice called him.
“Wendel!!!”
It was the sharp, cerebral chief coach Tymoshchuk, banished to the stands.
“Coach?”
From the crowd Tymoshchuk passed on the full decryption of Han Shin’s Korean signals.
“When that Han Shin guy shouts ‘Tiger,’ the tall one drops and Bellingham surges. When he shouts ‘Shark’~…”
All half he had been translating on the fly and had cracked every Korean cue perfectly.
“Share it with the rest of the lads!”
“Got it, Coach. But why are you up there?”
“Adult business. You don’t need to know. Now go!”