First A-Match (5)
On the day of the open training session, the stands set up along one side of the training ground were packed to the brim with fans, hardly a single empty seat in sight. There were a lot of female fans, but plenty of males too—not to mention a good number of kids.
“Kyaaah!”
“Moon Tae-seong!”
“Moon Tae-seong oppa!”
The player drawing the most cheers from the women was the winger, Moon Tae-seong. A Suwon Blues alum who'd done his military service in the Sangmu team, he'd since passed through Huddersfield Town AFC, Norwich City, and Atalanta BC before landing at his current club, VfL Wolfsburg. He was nicknamed the Left-footed Statue—a moniker born from his dominant left foot and those chiseled good looks that could pass for a sculpture. He was about 10cm shorter than me, but his proportions were spot-on. A regular starter on the national team and handsome to boot, he currently boasted the most female fans among Korean soccer players. The only active player with over a million Instagram followers, he was by far the most popular guy on the national team roster.
After him came Kim Min-woo and Oh Seong-jin, both getting solid cheers from the crowd here today. Their appeal seemed more about skill than looks. Kim Min-woo went without saying, but Oh Seong-jin was a mainstay center-back in his fourth season at SC Freiburg in the Bundesliga, and the national team's top option at the position.
Me? I hadn't really made my mark on the national stage yet, so I shrugged it off and headed to my spot to warm up.
But then...
“Cha Tae-oh!”
“Chaaaa Tae-ohhhh!”
“Over here! Look this way!”
The star players had entered first amid their cheers, and when I followed—entry order wasn't set or anything—the roar that erupted was right on Moon Tae-seong's level. I glanced toward the fans and spotted a bunch holding up AD Alcorcon jerseys. Who wouldn't feel good about that? I flashed them a grin and waved a few times.
“...Told you, looks are what matter.”
I faintly caught Jo Jun-seop muttering from behind me, half-grumbling.
After warming up, we kicked off light training in front of the fans and reporters. Group runs first, then passing drills—including rondos—capping off with shooting practice. Nothing too intense; just enough to build form gradually.
Thwump!
I focused mainly on observing the national teamers' kicking power. Kim Min-woo's stood out the most, no question.
Thwump! Thwump!
Ryu Sang-heon and Jo Jun-seop—my striker rivals—had some hefty shots too. But beyond them, not many had that razor-sharp kick. Especially the wingers... a bit disappointing, honestly. They weren't the type to resolve things with a shot; they preferred dribbling into the box for close-range finishes. No real knack for curling one in from distance.
Then came my turn for shooting drills. I went at it like always, fully locked in.
Thwump!
My shot rocketed away, burying itself dead in the top corner. Instep drive or full lace—didn't matter; every one arrowed into the spots no keeper could reach.
The national team guys watching let out a stream of awed reactions.
“Damn, that shooting's insane.”
“No wonder he bags 75 goals a season.”
“Min-woo, watch out—your free kicks might get snatched.”
The coaches nodded along with similar vibes. But this level of props wasn't enough. Shooting alone didn't explain how I was demolishing La Liga 2 with AD Alcorcon. My true worth would shine on the pitch, in a real match. This was their chance for a preview.
After open training wrapped and we grabbed lunch, we huddled in the analysis room for a breakdown of Iran's key tactics and counters. Then came the afternoon's closed session.
With morning warm-ups out of the way, things ramped up now. And the finale?
“Treat practice like the real thing. To beat Iran, we need tighter organization. This drill's perfect for building it.”
A mini-game.
◆ Arms crossed, sunglasses on, Joao Martins stood ramrod straight behind the sideline, eyes glued to the pitch. Up top, the national teamers were split into two squads, locked in the mini-game.
Day two of camp. No one was at peak form yet, but they knew how crucial this A-match window was—showing more fire than last camp. The coaching staff matched that energy.
Truth be told, the starting lineup was pretty much set before this drill. Joao Martins wasn't one for frequent rotations. Except for one spot.
Thwump!
Splash!
Striker. Ryu Sang-heon led the vested team; I fronted the unvested one. The staff was using this to decide who started against Iran. Jo Jun-seop was locked in as a super-sub, so he was out of the equation.
About ten minutes in...
“No more deliberating needed.”
Joao Martins uncrossed his arms. Luis Miranda, the assistant, didn't need details—he knew it matched his own read.
Pop!
As time ticked, their gazes locked more and more on me. Couldn't be helped.
Even Oh Seong-jin—the national team's top center-back, 189cm of solid build, known for his roughhouse style in the Bundesliga—was getting shoved aside like nothing.
Rock-solid physicality. Elite ball-carrying into the box. Unyielding strength and aerial dominance. Pinpoint finishing, plus sharp link-up play.
It was obvious. I was a clear class above Ryu Sang-heon.
“Lucky for us.”
“Lucky?”
“Sang-heon's already solid, but now we've got someone who fixes his flaws and amps up the strengths.”
Luis Miranda's words drew a slow nod from Joao Martins.
“Makes you think Borja Navas knew what he was doing.”
The manager let out a small chuckle. Top agents didn't sign no-name second-divisioners on a whim.
Big club bound before long.
The Korean national team was stacked, no doubt. Asia's powerhouse, after all—the country's top 25 pros. Plenty in Europe's top flight too; nothing subpar here.
But I was a cut—or several—above them, proving it on first camp. Big clubs? Not a stretch.
The players on the pitch felt it too, mid-mini-game. Especially Kim Min-woo, who'd worn the symbolic number 7 for nearly four years. He couldn't hide his awe.
Whoa... what the hell is this guy?
It was just a mini-game, sure. "Play like it's real," but practice wasn't match intensity. Some guys bombed drills but lit up games—especially on a national team that rarely trained together. That's why starters rarely got yanked.
But.
Guys who shine in practice? They don't flop in the real thing.
Among the nation's elite, standing out here meant standing out there. Toying with the center-backs, showing a different level—it hit Kim Min-woo hard.
Tweeeet!
The whistle blew. Twenty minutes done, and the vested team collapsed in heaps. They'd burned extra gas just trying to contain me.
“Ugh... felt like 70 minutes, not 20.”
“Kid's built like a tank. Never faced anyone tankier in the Bundesliga...”
“Scary as hell, for real.”
They gawked at me, coolly catching my breath like I'd just jogged a lap.
Stamina's no joke either.
The more you touch the ball, the more it drains you. But I was fresh as could be.
Kim Min-woo stared, then his eyes sharpened with a sudden realization.
This guy's the one...!
The killer blow to his Liverpool transfer last window. The anchor on his career: military service.
Turning 27 soon, if he didn't snag Asian Games gold next year, he'd be dragged back like Jeon Se-hyeon. Sangmu at least to stretch into his 30s.
So he was as hyped for the Games as the World Cup. Problem? Gold wasn't a lock. Korea dominated Asian Games soccer, but the last two were silver and bronze. Missing a clutch finisher. Ryu Sang-heon was good, but useless as a solver in A-matches.
Korea was still the favorite, but uncertainty gnawed at Kim Min-woo. Then this new savior drops in—eyes rolling back in shock.
...Gotta deliver.
A guy who might rocket his career forward. Expectation burned fierce in Kim Min-woo's gaze as he watched me.