Charge Forward Again: Boom!
If I see an opportunity, I'll charge up with the ball again— BOOM!!WHAM!!
"Did he block that?"
While fending off Joe Cole charging in from the left, I spun quickly toward the center and rushed at Carrick. Just as expected, Carrick unleashed a mid-range shot right in front of the arc. I leaped and flicked the powerful strike hurtling toward goal away with my head.
"Yeong-ung! You okay?!"
"I'm fine."
The thunderous impact left everyone stunned. A direct hit would've caused a concussion for sure. Thanks to the daily heading drills in my past life—pushing until I was puking—I'd instinctively angled my body to minimize the shock to my brain.
Should I send a thank-you postcard to that damn Coach Park In-gyu?
Looks like there's no such thing as wasted effort in this world.
Next came the opponent's corner kick chance. Whoosh—Kanouté, the first-team striker, barreled into the box with his massive frame. The black player from Mali stood at 192 cm tall. Paired with the 171 cm Jermain Defoe up top in a big-and-small combo, they were supposed to terrorize the league, but something felt off-kilter.
Thud—I positioned myself shoulder-to-shoulder with Kanouté. Our heights were similar, but his build made him look even more gigantic. I dropped low, tensed my hips, and blocked his path to goal. Then Kanouté shoved me with his arm.
"Where do you think you're going!"
I shook off his arm and pressed my lower body against his, shoving him back with my own physique. Whoosh—he shoved me irritably in response. That's when Di Canio took the corner. The instant Kanouté went to jump, I yanked his jersey hard. As he stumbled and tried to shake free, I surged forward and leaped.
WHAM!!
"Yeong-ung cleared it!"
I soared higher than anyone, heading the ball clear. On landing, I shot Kanouté a quick glance.
"Cheeky little brat."
He spat curses in French. I didn't know the exact words, but you always know a curse when you hear one. Ignoring him, I grinned like a madman and refocused on defense.
"That Eastern kid... what the hell?"
The first-team players' expressions turned serious. So far in this match, I'd been the standout. From the bench, I could see Coach Tony and the director deep in grave conversation.
"Now the real fun begins."
I was buzzing. I'd thought the first team was still out of reach, but up close, they seemed manageable. Years of pro experience in the K League from my past life, combined with obsessive heading practice, synergized perfectly with the effort I'd honed in this one.
WHAM!
"He stole it again!"
BOOM!
"That Eastern kid knows how to use his left foot too?!"
Now it was time to show off my left-footed clearance. I'd blocked an attack from the left flank and fired a diagonal forward pass. A timing only possible with my left—no right foot could've done it half a beat faster.
The problem was...
Thud! Thunk!
"Damn! He missed it!"
...our right winger couldn't keep up with that timing.
Not like he's in the second team for nothing.
Even arrogant thoughts crept in unbidden.
For the first 25 minutes of the half, Anton and I desperately held off the first team's onslaught. Our coordination with the fullbacks was improving too.
"Anton! Push up! Number 2! Cover him! Leave the back to me!"
Before I knew it, I was commanding the back four. They obeyed without question because following my calls actually stopped attacks. Like right now.
WHAM!!
"He cut the pass again! The guy's insane?!"
I read Di Canio's pass timing perfectly and sliced it away with a sliding tackle. Then I popped up, dribbled forward myself.
"Wh-what the hell?!"
Everyone panicked. In 2002, even the holding midfielder rarely dribbled from deep into enemy territory in the Premier League, let alone a defender. My bold move threw the opposition into chaos.
Thud-thud—
I sliced through the empty midfield, advancing relentlessly. Mark Noble infiltrated from the left, our striker made a run into the box raising his hand. The opponents still hadn't picked up their marker on me—they flailed in confusion.
In that case...
Tap—
From 35 meters out, I nudged the ball forward and raised my right foot.
"Mid-range shot!"
WHAM!!
The instant I struck it, Joe Cole burst from behind and poked the ball away with a tackle.
"Counterattack!!"
Joe Cole booted the stolen ball long toward our end. Kanouté and Anton contested the aerial duel. Kanouté won.
"No!"
Thud—BOOM!!
Kanouté nodded it down, and Jermain Defoe smashed it home from close range.
"Goooaaal~!"
The net bulged violently from the ferocious shot. Jermain sauntered back casually, like it was nothing.
"Nice run, Korean Bobby Moore."
The first-teamers jeered. Dribbling from deep into their half to set up a goal? That was Bobby Moore's signature. I'd shown off solo and handed them one—no excuses.
A sinner now, I slunk back to the defensive line.
"Here they come again! Number 5! Help!"
After their first goal, the first team ramped up the pressure. They knew instinctively to finish us off before we could climb back.
Pat-pat!
"Not on my watch!"
Damn Joe Cole came solo-dribbling this time. I linked with the left back to shut down his run. Then...
"Huh?!"
Tap-tap-tap—BOOM!!
Joe Cole herded us both to the left, then spun out with a 270-degree turn and rifled a left-footed shot.
"Goooaaal~!"
No angle at all—yet somehow, the ball nestled in the net like magic.
"My win again, kid~ Heh."
Joe Cole wagged a finger at me, laughing. He'd spotted the gap in my mind and struck like a killer.
"..."
I stood frozen in shock. The moment I'd thought we were even, we'd conceded twice in five minutes. Both my fatal errors.
Beep! Beep! BEEEp!!
The first half ended 2-0. After those goals, I barely remembered how I played. Even the opponents took a breather.
"Hey! Asian. Don't show off alone. Fuck up again in the second half, and I'll kill you."
Back in the dressing room, our team striker Chris snarled at me. Tall, skinny white guy with a northern English accent. Some players looked pissed at me too.
"Got it. But who are you? Were you even on the pitch in the first half?"
"What the fuck, you little shit?!"
I fired back British-style, and Chris exploded, lunging at me. I stepped up too. Anton and the defenders jumped in to separate us. Others clutched their stomachs laughing.
"Puhaha! Chris, looks like he got you good this time?"
"Yeong-ung's right. Our attack was too passive. Let's ramp it up in the second half."
Luckily, the scuffle ended in my victory.
"Mark! Your movement's too timid. In the second half, drop back to me and carry the ball into their half yourself. You can do more than this."
"Uh... got it."
Mark glanced nervously at the seniors as I barked orders. Ignoring them, I actively shared ideas with Anton and the fullbacks, hashing things out. They were speechless at my audacity—until Coach Kevin, who'd overheard outside, strode in.
"Yeong-ung's right. We need to run harder and harass them in the second half. And you, Yeong-ung."
"Yes, Coach."
"If you see an opening, charge up with the ball again."
"Understood."
"It was a mistake, sure, but a good attempt. I want you all playing adventurous like Yeong-ung! Got it?"
Kevin's public backing soured the faces of the second-teamers who hated me. Anton and the fullbacks, though, nodded trustingly.
"Joe Cole's the real problem."
"We know, but we can't stop him."
"Take him out before he gets in the box. A few rolls on the turf, and he won't strut so much."
"Heh heh. Sounds good."
We grinned wickedly, plotting like criminals. That's the beauty of defense—ordinary defenders ganging up to neutralize a hotshot attacker.
Soccer's not just about scoring.
BEEEp!!
The second half kicked off. The first team came out aggressive, determined to bury us early. But...
WHAM!!
Beep!!
"Second team number 38—charging foul!"
We executed our plan: use physicality to shove their attackers off the ball. Small, quick dynamos like Joe Cole and Jermain Defoe were perfect prey.
WHAM!
"Ow! This is a practice match! You trying to kill a teammate?! What if someone gets hurt?!"
I shouldered Joe Cole flying into a safe zone.