The Man Everyone's Watching (12)
36-37: 27 games, 9 goals, 4 assists
37-38: 3 games, 0 goals, 1 assist
2036: 30 games, 11 goals, 2 assists
2037: 22 games, 8 goals, 1 assist
36-37: 14 games, 75 goals
37-38: 4 games, 12 goals, 4 assists
Who should start against Iran?
Our round 5 opponents were Real Unión, a newly promoted side. Not bad with 1 win, 2 draws, and 1 loss for a team fresh from the third division—but aside from their opening win, they hadn't notched a victory in three games. Plus, two key players got injured in the first half of round 3 and were out for today, so they weren't much of a threat.
Especially since this was our home game at Estadio Municipal de Santo Domingo…
Pang!
Naturally, we dominated possession. The ball flowed smoothly from back to front, players linking up organically with fluid movement. Jordi Calavera's tactics were finally starting to gel with the team, shining through.
“Focus on defense!”
“Keep tracking back!”
“Space keeps opening up!”
“No, don't chase too far. The line's getting messed up!”
“Damn it. Whose orders do I follow?”
With their two key attackers sidelined, Real Unión set up a deep defensive wall against us. But it was nowhere near as solid as RCD Espanyol's. Just watching Maurinho and David Fraile get free balls in the half-spaces showed their lock wasn't holding.
We dragged their line high, then exploited the gaps with runs from teammates to create chances in their half. Maybe because I'd bagged 12 goals in four games, they marked me extra tight…
Tok!
I turned it against them, focusing on creating space and chances for my teammates.
Pung!Cholreong!
The first goal came at the 14th minute. Maurinho, tasting success last round, took it. He'd been a core player last season, and you could feel his form peaking since the previous game. In fundamentals—excluding me—no one was better.
And for good reason. He was a product of FC Barcelona's famed La Masia academy.
…Though he'd been booted after just one season on the B team and dropped to the third tier.
Tudok!
Buoyed by his first goal, Maurinho pressed high five minutes later, shaking a defender with silky ball retention and driving inside. I timed a run between the center-backs, drawing all eyes. Instead of forcing a pass to me, he slipped it calmly to Nico Salaberria waiting on the edge.
Ppueong!
Nico didn't waste it, rifling his favored left foot into the far corner for our second. 2-0 by the 20th minute, and Real Unión finally pushed forward—not with a high line, but long balls over our backline from deep.
They even carved a dangerous chance by the 30th, exploiting our slow center-backs.
But.
Chwak!
In the nick of time, holding midfielder Pierre Mvubu nailed a perfect sliding tackle, nicking the ball clean. No shot on target for them, ball back to us.
Pierre Mvubu… chewy soccer in a nutshell. Big frame, quick feet, technical, solid passer. His one flaw? Positional discipline. But as an ex-center-back, he shines in one-on-ones. Crucial in Jordi Calavera's system too.
Modern football's all about that holding mid role.
Tok tok!
Around the 35th, Miguel Amaro finally ignited on the right. Slick body feints and a direction change fooled two defenders. I surged into the box; he slid it low to me.
Pang!
The center-backs lunged to clear it first. Amid the shoulder barges, I muscled through, stretching a foot.
And moments later.
Tong!
“……!”
The ball hit my boot.
Dawn, before sunrise.
Cha Tae-oh's father, Cha Dong-il, sat alone on the sofa watching his son's game.
Score 2-0. AD Alcorcón toying with Real Unión at home. Usually Cha Tae-oh stole the show solo, but today the whole squad shone. He hadn't even scored yet.
Cha Dong-il couldn't care less about the win or teammates. Only his son's goal contributions mattered. That's why he was up at dawn, cracking a beer and chomping squid jerky, cheering wildly.
The caster's voice leaked softly from the TV. Wife Han Mi-yeon slept in the bedroom, so volume was low.
Quiet till now, Cha Dong-il couldn't hold back.
“That's it! Smash it!”
Cha Tae-oh won the box battle, toe-poking first…
…and rattled the net.
Cha Dong-il roared, fists clenched.
“Uwaaaah! Yes! That's it! Exactly! Haha!”
Pumped from the goal, he forgot the hour, flailing arms wildly.
“…Ah.”
Realizing too late, he glanced at the bedroom, holding breath. Wife still asleep, no door opening. Maybe she let it slide for her son's game.
“Phew.”
Relieved, he slumped on the sofa, grabbing his phone. Stream running, but chat took half the screen.
He hammered the keyboard.
Flood of chats; his popped up.
Great performance—drawing defenders, creating chances—but no goal till 35', so some viewers trashed him earlier. Dad remembered, sniping back.
Grinning at the chats, Cha Dong-il paused at national team mentions.
‘Come to think of it…’
Post-game, Cha Tae-oh was flying from Madrid to Korea tonight.
‘Heh. Got me all excited.’
Son selected for the national team—pure pride. Cha Dong-il floated on clouds for over a week, same as Tae-oh. Neighbors treated him different; monumental milestone. On track to soccer success.
‘World Cup… World Cup…’
Imagining son in Red Devils kit at the World Cup, heart raced.
Then.
Excited caster blared from TV.
Eyes back on screen, Cha Dong-il leaped up, wide-eyed.
“Yes! Shoot! Shoot! One more! One more!”
Cholreong!
“Woooah! Yes! That's it! My son, son of this Cha Dong-il! Hahaha!”
Cha Tae-oh's late first-half brace. Overjoyed, dawn forgotten, booming laughs.
Same time.
Han Mi-yeon stirred in bed from hubby's noisy solo cheers in the living room. Poor sleep meant bad day, so son's game or not, dawn viewing was tough. Couldn't nag him for doing her part.
Wanna join cheers, but heavy body wouldn't rise. Grabbed phone instead, muted stream.
‘…Our boy's got two already.’
Smile bloomed.
‘Filial from afar. You don't know your dad's hardcore fanboying.’
Sleep tugged again. Shut phone, eyes closed, drifting off amid menu thoughts.
‘When Tae-oh comes, galbi jjim, kimchi jjigae… japchae too. Maybe buy some soy crab…’
Zzz…
Back asleep, smile lingering.