The Man Everyone's Watching (8)
Halftime ended, and the players gathered in the locker room one by one. Their expressions weren't exactly bright, but they were a far cry from the gloom after falling two goals behind. Still, we hadn't managed to equalize after my free-kick goal in the 32nd minute, right up until the whistle blew, so the mood couldn't be great.
"It's still 2-1. We're only down by one. No time to lie down."
"Don't just stand there when you receive the ball. Move! They have nowhere to pass it."
"We're losing right now. Joni, go for it with confidence. Let's stick to the plan."
"We gotta grab every rebound. That's our chance. We conceded because we couldn't control that ball."
"Don't be scared—fight together! We've gotta win this! We've been good so far!"
As we caught our breath and pointed out each other's shortcomings, Coach Jordi Calavera stepped into the locker room.
"Everyone, drink some water and catch your breath."
The room fell silent. Coach Jordi Calavera began breaking down the first half's regrets.
"The midfielders need to move more. And the wingers have to support the link-up play. The ball's just bouncing around in their half right now. Look here—this empty space where we should have numerical superiority, but it's wide open. Midfielders, you need to fill that."
Coach Jordi Calavera used the beam projector on the portable screen to replay first-half moments, repositioning the players.
"Look at them. Even when we're trying to drag their line up, they just hold position. That's proof our forward runs aren't sharp enough. And like I've said a million times, keep moving constantly. To break down that bus they parked, we have to run twice as much as they do."
To dismantle the bus their opponent had set up, we needed to drag their line higher and slip precise passes into the space behind—or disrupt their defensive shape with link-up play. If that failed, a dribbler had to break through directly, or we resorted to crosses for aerial battles, or long-range shots for goals.
"Chances will come. They definitely will. But if we just stand around waiting, even when they come, we won't convert. To capitalize, we have to run more than them. Concentration has to be double. Don't forget—we're down a goal. No room for complacency."
Coach Jordi Calavera pointed it out like he was addressing those who'd lazily passed the ball sideways just because there was no space—irresponsibly dumping it off. But he didn't call anyone out specifically. I hadn't earned a single word of praise in that half either. It seemed like he believed we were all responsible for being behind. I agreed, so no complaints from me.
As halftime wound down, players started heading out. Coach Jordi Calavera, feeling the fifteen minutes were too short, grabbed each one in the tunnel to explain their roles.
"Theo, Miguel."
He stopped me and Miguel Amaro, issuing a special order.
"If this doesn't work, you two create chances with dribbles. Attack with confidence. I've already instructed the team to cut off counters with aggressive pressing if your dribbles fail, so don't hesitate."
"Yes, Coach."
"Got it."
"Timing for breakthroughs is up to your judgment. Go for it whenever you're confident. If it fails, I won't blame you. You two know from last year with me, right?"
We nodded instead of replying and stepped onto the pitch through the tunnel.
"Hoo... "
I exhaled slowly. Truth be told, even without Coach Jordi Calavera saying it, I planned to keep attempting breakthroughs. Their bus defense was solid and well-organized, just like last season's defensive setups. Break it with passing and link-up right now? I didn't rate our chances highly. That left relying on individual skill to equalize, like my first-half goal. Once level, they couldn't just sit back. Plus, turning a two-goal deficit into a tie would surge our team's confidence. With that momentum, overturning it wouldn't be hard.
Peep!
The ref's whistle signaled the start of the second half. RCD Espanyol parked the bus again, just like the first half—only two up top for counters, the rest sealing the box airtight.
Our link-up improved slightly from the first half, but it wasn't enough to pierce RCD Espanyol's wall. If there was a huge gap in quality, maybe—but their squad matched ours. Except for one player. Me.
Thwack!
There was only one way. Whether me, Miguel Amaro, or someone else—someone had to step up as the crack, the game-changer. And right now, the best for that role was...
Tap.
Me. I received the ball not deep in the box, but in front of their double line of defense. With my back to goal, I knocked it back and half-turned. Their reaction was different when others had the ball—tension prickling the air. And for good reason. In the first half, I hadn't fully breached their wall alone, but I'd cracked it. So now, even in prime free-kick spots, they avoided fouls, playing it cautious while blocking paths and space.
Still, I had to break through. And in the first half, I'd glimpsed the possibility. Especially now—the perfect timing. Fresh off fifteen minutes' rest, their focus not fully dialed in yet. Right in this slight chaos was ideal for a dribble.
I drove right. Teammates kept moving, preventing their markers from closing on me. I slipped through the gaps to the box's edge.
With my marker and their center-back squared up, I wound up for a long-range shot.
Tap! No—a fake. They bit, both twisting away.
A sliver of space opened. I drove into it. Now inside the box. Without hesitation, I cocked my left leg for a shot. Defenders twisted again to block with their bodies.
Tap! Fake again. I nudged with my left, then right, creating a left-footed angle.
Now three defenders on me. But in the box, they hesitated on tackles. I exploited that, threading between them toward goal.
They lunged late—the ball had already rolled ahead. Squeezing my shoulder through the tight gap to claim it, my original marker charged.
Tap! To avoid losing it, I flicked it outside with my right outfront—more instinct than calculation.
Right-footed angle made. Their keeper anticipated, hugging the near post to narrow it, stepping up.
Tempting chance. But my read said no.
Tap! Third fake—I recreated the left angle. Fooled once, twice, three times—they bit every time. They knew I could score from nowhere, so they had to.
"......!"
Not just my marker—the keeper dipped too, tricked.
Perfect goal chance spotted. I pocketed the ball on the fake and pushed it left-footed into the gap.
Thud!
A casual left-footed shot flew far-post top corner. A brave defender dove for a header...
Clang!
Nothing but hands could stop it.
Second half, 2nd minute. The score was level at last.
Korean time, 6 AM.
In this early dawn just before sunrise, people were awake watching AD Alcorcon vs. RCD Espanyol in La Liga 2 Round 3. Soccer fans, of course. Many now Cha Tae-oh fans. But not just fans—industry folks, especially those who had to watch him, pulled all-nighters too.
"He's so calm in that box."
"Yeah."
It was the South Korea senior national team's coaching staff. Head coach Joao Martins. Assistant Luis Miranda. Plus coaches Kang In-hyeok, Dani Monteiro, and GK coach/power analyst Carlos Orta. These five watched for one reason: Cha Tae-oh.
More precisely, to decide his inclusion in the final squad for the last two 2038 World Cup Asian 3rd Round qualifiers in two weeks. Crucial games deciding World Cup tickets.
Truthfully, Joao Martins and his staff hadn't planned new call-ups. Korea sat 2nd in the group. Far behind 1st-place Iran, so hold 2nd. Just 1 point above 3rd-place Qatar. Drop to 3rd here, and it's 4th round. Even then, Korea's chances were high—48 teams since 2026. But fans wanted 2nd in 3rd round for early qualification. Coaches agreed.
Problem: Last two opponents—group-leading Iran (home in Seoul), then away to Qatar in Doha.
Korea always struggled with Iran's organized defense. Winless first leg plus away loss? Straight to 4th round.
No room for experiments. But...
"Exactly the forward our national team needs."
Minds changed. Joao Martins stared at the screen, eyes full of awe.
"How did we miss this guy all this time?"
The question everyone had, he felt too. On-screen Cha Tae-oh was the striker he'd hunted. Every coach would want one. Who rejects a crack who shatters a parked bus solo, especially now?
"He's starter-ready for Iran, right?"
Assistant Luis Miranda's words drew a slow nod from Joao Martins. Skilled linker-upper, and perfect to solo Iran's sticky defense. No issue starting him.
He'd leaned toward calling Cha Tae-oh anyway. But today, breaching RCD Espanyol's bus for two goals? No more debate.
After Cha Tae-oh's 2nd-minute equalizer—three shot fakes dismantling the defense—Joao Martins tapped the desk.
"No need to watch more. Pull Zeus, insert Theo."
No coach objected.