Whirlwind of Beatings
“Yeongung! Get up!”
I woke to someone calling my name. Blinking my eyes open, a familiar sight unfolded before me.
This is... the school classroom?
A blackboard and teacher's desk stood at the front, while crew-cut kids in uniforms dashed around. I turned my head to check the calendar hanging on the wall.
[September 2001]
If it's 2001 now, does that mean I've regressed to my second year of middle school?
I was seated at the very back by the window—the soccer team's designated spot. Before I could even gather my wits, my buddies piled on me from behind.
“Agh!”
“Na Yeongung! What the hell were you up to last night that you're still sleeping?”
“Hurry up, man. The seniors said all second-years assemble before practice.”
“...Fuck.”
The cozy feeling vanished in an instant. Dragged along by my soccer teammates, I left the classroom. Hustling to the club room, I pieced together the situation in my head.
Is this a dream? Or have I really gone back to the past?
It felt too vivid for a dream. The hallways, classrooms, kids chattering, and the youthful faces of friends I hadn't seen in ages. But...
Believing it was real was too absurd. Me, regressing to the past?
Was it that blinding white light from the Yeouido crosswalk that brought me here?
Moments later, my questions were answered simply.
Thwack—!!
The second I stepped into the club room, fists came flying from the seniors. Us second-years stood at ease in a line, taking our beatings from the third-years.
“Grit your teeth. Unless you want dentures.”
Thwack—!!!
“Thank you!”
Thanking the senior who hit you—it was our soccer team's tradition. Our crime? Not washing the third-years' stockings properly.
After my jaw spun from the blows, everything clicked.
This is reality.
I nearly burst out laughing in front of the seniors.
I've really gone back to the past...
Once the third-years had their fill of pounding us second-years and left, it was our turn to round up the first-years. Seeing their terrified faces tugged at my heart.
“Guys, let's stop this.”
“Stop what? The first-years handle stockings. We got beat because of these punks—think we're just gonna let it slide?”
“How long are we gonna keep this up? Let's at least not hit the kids. This shit has to end.”
“Hey, Na Yeongung, don't act all high and mighty. If you hate it, get the fuck out.”
“Pretending to be the good guy alone. Fucking annoying.”
My second-year classmates glared coldly. Out of all of us, I was the only one who'd make it pro later. The rest hung up their cleats after high school or college.
What the hell had we been doing, beating each other senseless all that time?
“We joined the soccer team to get good at soccer. Not to take beatings or dish them out. Our team's fucked up. We can't just accept this as normal.”
I stormed out of the club room alone. My swollen cheek stung with the taste of blood. Rinsing my mouth at the faucet, I overheard the third-years talking.
“Yong-su's hurt bad, huh?”
“Yeah. Dumbass. Why ride a motorcycle he can't even handle and fuck around like that.”
“What do we do for this tournament?”
My mind snapped alert. I remembered what day it was.
The day I switched from defender to striker. The day I'd soaked my pillow with tears night after night, regretting it a hundred, a thousand times.
Third-year ace striker Lee Yong-su had broken his leg in a motorcycle crash, and I'd stepped in as the lone forward, transforming into a striker.
Soon after, Coach Park In-gyu, furious about Lee Yong-su's injury, summoned the third-years to his office.
“Why the fuck don't you look out for each other!? You selfish bastards!”
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
Park In-gyu laid into the third-years with his hockey stick. Even teammates weren't exempt—under the banner of collective responsibility, he beat them mercilessly, whether they were around 24/7 or not.
Whirlwind of beatings.
I'd forgotten how brutal it was, being so long ago. Surviving three years of this was a miracle.
“Hey, Na Yeongung. Coach wants you.”
After thrashing the third-years, Park In-gyu called for me. Same sequence as before.
Entering the coach's office, the air was thick with lingering heat. Sticky sweat and the stench of violence hung heavy.
“Yeongung, sit here.”
Park In-gyu's voice was calm. This was his kingdom, and he was the absolute ruler. No need to raise it.
I sat beside him. A hockey stick wrapped in black tape leaned against the wall.
“You heard about Yong-su?”
“Yes. He's hurt...”
“Fucking idiot. Thinking about it pisses me off again. What the hell's he doing right before nationals? Tsk.”
It wasn't concern for the player.
“As you know, without Yong-su, we got no one to finish at the goal.”
“Right...”
“So, Yeongung, you're taking striker.”
“Me?”
“Don't worry. Just for this tournament. One week left—intense training, and you'll manage.”
Park In-gyu's tactics were brutally simple. Seven defenders locked down our goal, speedy wingers on the flanks rained endless crosses, and tall striker Lee Yong-su headed them in.
No Yong-su? Stick the tallest, burliest guy on the team—me—up top. Simple as that.
And with that simple idea, I'd deliver peak results. Our middle school would win the autumn national youth tournament. I'd claim top scorer and MVP, then play striker ever after.
“I've never played striker...”
“It's nothing. At middle school level, physicality rules. Just body-check defenders like in defense, head it toward goal. Master that, and no one stops you.”
He was right, in the end. I excelled beyond expectations, dominating middle school and even high school.
The problem? Obsessing over that role left no time for basics—lifting, trapping, dribbling, shooting. I just stood at the goalmouth, shoving defenders and heading balls, day in, day out.
Some days I'd collapse from concussions or nosebleeds from unknown causes. But I loved scoring. Loved the praise. So I gritted through the pain and kept at it.
“Sorry, I can't decide right now.”
“What?”
“I'll talk to Dad tonight and let you know tomorrow.”
“...”
Park In-gyu tilted his head.
Has this kid lost his mind?
He hadn't suggested—he'd ordered. I played dumb.
“Dad's a former defender, super attached to the position. Better tell him upfront to avoid issues.”
“Ah, yeah? Can't be helped then. Not much time till the tournament—talk tonight. Striker training starts tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
I finally escaped outside, drenched in cold sweat. Right after regressing, I'd negotiated a crucial standoff.
Now it's clear.
Flat-out refusing might've unleashed hell from him. Accepting blindly? He'd spread lies later about my “betrayal.” Dodging commitment for a day's grace—that was best.
“Fucking insane...”
Outside, players ran laps in formation. Goal to goal, nonstop till the coach yelled stop. The infamous spinner.
Dark bruises marred the third-years' thighs. Second- and first-years' faces were puffy and swollen. Watching them spin like that jolted me.
...I'd played soccer in this ridiculous hell.
Back then, I had complaints but loved soccer enough to endure, desperate for pro success. Thought it was the only path.
...This ain't it.
In the past twenty years, I'd learned plenty post-retirement. Devouring advanced European soccer theory exposed how backward my environment had been.
Korea's youth soccer is rotten from the roots.
Mindless laps were exhibit A. Useless for soccer players—wrecks the body. Build stamina with shuttles, explosiveness with plyos. Long-distance jogging at steady pace? Pointless for ballers.
I skipped joining the spinning pack. Third-years shot me murderous glares.
Crazy fuck? Why isn't he running?
No soccer player loves laps. Training was just forced drudgery from the coach. Even in games—if you didn't follow orders or held the ball too long: “Hey, asshole! Process it quick!?” Curses flew.
That was Korean youth soccer in 2001.
I decided.
...I'm going home.
Crossing the field, teammates thought I'd join. When I blew past the pack instead, they panicked.
“Hey! Na Yeongung! Where you going!?”
“What the fuck!? Join up!”
“You're dead meat! We'll see you later!”
I ignored the furious shouts behind me and passed through the school gate.
This was my last day attending middle school.