Clutch Time
October 3rd. The basketball final between Iran and South Korea.
The date overlapped with the Gaecheonjeol holiday, pushing public interest to record levels. With the next day being a Saturday weekend, people cheered without a care for what might come afterward.
By tip-off at 6:15 p.m., most pubs in Seoul were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, while university districts and public squares overflowed with street cheering crowds. Yet the actual fever for the matchup itself remained surprisingly subdued.
“Did you know? Every game Lee Seo-jun has started, they’ve won. From his European days until now—every single one!”
“Not a single loss?”
“Not one!”
The fans were drunk on the promise of victory. Overwhelming dominance, an undefeated streak, games that looked far too easy.
“I checked—apparently he lost at the U-19 World Cup?”
“That doesn’t count. Against Asian teams, we’re basically the United States. Iran is nothing.”
The absolute certainty that Seo-jun’s presence guaranteed no defeat brought a strange sense of relief. Citizens cheering from all over the country, spectators filling the arena—everyone believed victory was inevitable.
…And that belief summoned the irony of being the top dog.
The obsession that they had to win, the growing fear of failure, snowballed until it flipped the actual power dynamic on its head.
In truth, South Korea was the favorite and Iran the underdog. The problem was that, excluding Seo-jun, the real talent gap made Korea the underdog. That difference in perception weighed heaviest on the other players.
The unprecedented 48 percent expected viewership rating across three networks crushed their ambition. Rather than risk becoming villains, they preferred to ride Seo-jun’s coattails and just get the game over with. That mindset triggered the first-quarter disaster.
But the moment Bahrami planted his feet, he whipped a pocket pass to Hamed Haddadi cutting behind him. The 7-foot-3 Iranian center overwhelmed Choi Ju-seong with his massive frame and threw down a thunderous two-handed dunk.
The score read 11-21. South Korea was being dragged along.
The commentators immediately sounded the alarm. First came SBC’s Kim Jin-young.
Next was NTBC’s Kim Jun-ki.
Finally, KBC’s Seo Jung-hoon lost his temper.
Severe shooting slumps combined with shaky defense left the national team trailing. Even while Seo-jun drew fouls and scored 14 points—including six free throws—the rest of the team shot a dismal 4-for-15. By the end of the second quarter the score stood at 25-42, a 17-point deficit. Iran had also struggled with their own shooting in the second period, yet Korea still couldn’t keep up.
The locker room at halftime was thick with tension. Coach Lee Jae-hak kicked a locker with a thunderous bang, his rage completely unfiltered.
“What the hell are you idiots doing—! Play properly!”
His shout was so loud it whipped the players’ hair back.
“Because you guys can’t make a single outside shot, Seo-jun has no room to drive! Huh!? Am I wrong!?”
-…….
“Answer me! Are you deaf!?”
-No, sir….
This was the core issue. Both the Philippines and Japan had packed the paint to stop his drives, yet Korea had still won those games because the team’s three-point shooting had hovered around 33 percent. Today, however, they were 2-for-12 from deep—under 20 percent—and one of those makes had been Seo-jun’s own.
As a result, the opponent could focus entirely on sealing the paint to cut off his drives. If he kicked the ball out to an open three, they simply closed out late. It was that simple.
“Huu…!”
A tired sigh escaped him.
Proper headwind’s blowing.
It was the kind of game that happened sometimes in a player’s career—like the team had been possessed by a ghost. Manchester United losing 4-0 to a fourth-tier side. Brazil getting crushed 7-1 by Germany. When it happened on a stage this pressurized, it almost made sense.
More than anything, Im Ju-chan and Choi Ju-seong had already completed their military service and didn’t need the benefits. Their motivation had never been high to begin with, so the sudden World Cup-level attention left them rattled.
On the other hand, Heo Seung-won, who was about to enlist, desperately needed the military exemption and felt crushing pressure. None of the players showed any confidence or energy.
Still…
“Hey, Shin Su-bin. What’s wrong with you?”
“…”
Seo-jun hadn’t expected Su-bin to go 0-for-4 from three either. The kid’s greatest strength had always been his unshakable composure and consistent shooting percentage.
It could have been simple bad luck, four straight misses, but the look on his face said otherwise. Su-bin seemed genuinely lost.
“Is there a problem?”
Maybe he had broken up with his girlfriend after things got awkward, or that actress who kept asking for his number was bothering him again. But Su-bin simply shook his head.
“No problem. I’ll play better in the second half.”
“…All right. Let’s talk after we win.”
The players walked back to the court with heavy steps. Even after the coach’s tirade, they still showed no signs of recovery. Seo-jun made his decision.
“Seniors, starting in the third quarter I’m just going to iso and shoot. So please focus everything on rebounding and defense. I’m counting on you.”
It was a request that could bruise egos, yet everyone accepted it quietly. They all understood exactly how fierce the backlash would be if they failed to win gold today.
So I’ll give them a place to hide.
If the storm hit after a loss, and Seo-jun had taken every shot and flamed out, the others could avoid the worst of the criticism. It wasn’t the worst outcome for them.
I’ve taken the measures I can, but…
Whether this was truly the best choice, he couldn’t say. Giving trapped players an escape route might improve defense in the short term, but it could kill their offensive aggression.
I have to lift the team’s spirit with my own offense.
The entire comeback now rested on his shoulders.
The third quarter began with Korea’s possession. Score: 25-42. Even if it was ugly, he had to cut the deficit to single digits before the fourth quarter.
Let’s go.
He wasn’t afraid. He didn’t think the situation was unfair. If anything, he felt excited.
That’s right. This isn’t baseball—there’s no way earning a military exemption should be this easy.
In his previous life, the Asian Games gold medal had been war. He had gone through it, and so had his brother Heung-min. The greater the reward, the harsher the trial. You had to overcome it yourself and seize it.
This was the clutch time of his life.
“Suu…! Haa…!”
He exhaled. A pleasant sensation, like a switch had been flipped.
“Hyung, I’ll create a mismatch for you.”
“No need. Even setting up the offense is a waste of time. Just bring the ball up.”
Seo-jun stood at the left 45-degree angle, waiting for Su-bin to deliver the ball. He wasn’t going to manufacture mismatches; he would simply hunt his direct assignment, Samad Nikkhah Bahrami.
Hamed Haddadi. And… Samad Nikkhah Bahrami. Those two are Iran’s engines.
He had tried to hunt Haddadi into foul trouble, but the big man was too careful, help defense was always nearby, and the referees were calling things tightly. It hadn’t been efficient. So now he would hunt Bahrami and sap Iran’s mobility.
It’ll cost me stamina too, but…
He had no choice but to do it now.
Thump. The moment he caught the ball, he began his attack with a jab step. Creeak. Creak. He stabbed his left foot in different directions while looking away from Bahrami, reading how the defense would react.
Just as I thought—if I drive, they’ll collapse the paint.
Then he would go the other way.
Bang! He ripped through the gap. The Iranian defender in the corner rotated to help on Haddadi. Passing to the corner would create an open look, but that was just repeating the first half.
I’ll do it myself…!
Thud! He used his shoulder to bump Bahrami, who had slid over quickly from the wing, creating space to rise up.
“Hup…!”
The jumper released after the bump. Thump. Swish. The ball kissed the rim and dropped through.
Huu. 27-42. Fifteen-point deficit….
Iran’s counterattack was calmly snuffed out. Iran’s energy had come from fast breaks off defensive rebounds after Korea’s missed shots. Making them in the half-court offense took away that momentum.
Their set-offense defense is solid. They prepared well.
Korea’s defensive concept was simple: prevent Haddadi from receiving the ball near the basket. If he did get deep position, deny him the entry pass. Right now Haddadi was trying to bully the smaller Choi Ju-seong down low.
“Go!”
At Seo-jun’s signal, Im Ju-chan—who had been at the right 45—blitzed the ball handler Sajjad Mashayekhi with a double team. Mehdi Kamrani tried to cut from the opposite 45, but Choi Ju-seong abandoned Haddadi, flashed out, and took away the passing lane.
“Ugh…!?”
Mashayekhi, who had been about to pass to Kamrani, froze and lost timing. The double team tightened, and he lost his composure.
“Here!”
Bahrami on the left 45 stepped back, offering a release valve. If he received the ball and immediately entered it to Haddadi, it would be an easy two points. But Seo-jun had been waiting exactly for this moment.
Before the ball even left Mashayekhi’s hands, Seo-jun exploded forward, tipped the ball toward the opposite court, sprinted after it, caught it in mid-air, and slammed it home with two hands.
Boom!
A one-man fast break ended in a two-handed slam. 29-42. Thirteen-point deficit. Even the dejected fans began to roar.
“DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!”
Seo-jun had been wary of an Iranian timeout here, but their coach apparently still felt comfortable and stayed seated.
You’ll regret that decision.
The previous defensive stand had revealed another opening. Iran’s next possession began. Their point guard Mashayekhi, still irritated by the earlier turnover, snapped at his teammates. In a double-team situation, the movement of the other players mattered more than the handler’s own actions. That was what had angered him.
He doesn’t want to fall for the same thing twice, huh?
Then they would simply change the variation.
“Seung-won hyung! Ju-chan hyung!”
Seo-jun signaled with his eyes and a hand gesture.
“…Okay!”
“…”
Both men nodded. Once again, as Haddadi bullied Choi Ju-seong deep, Seo-jun called for the double team even faster.
“Now!”
The detail was different this time. Im Ju-chan left his man and blitzed, but Heo Seung-won—who had been in the right corner—also left his assignment, rotated to the 45, and took Kamrani instead of Im Ju-chan. Mashayekhi, having learned from the previous mistake, hesitated again when trying to pass quickly to Kamrani. He then looked toward the baseline cut, but the double team blocked his vision. When he finally turned to the left—
Creeeak! Seo-jun was already there.
You thought I wouldn’t notice you looking right first?
It was part of Iran’s defensive scheme. To prevent Seo-jun from helping, his direct mark Bahrami rarely left the perimeter during set offense. So when Mashayekhi saw penetration, his first thought was to look right instead of left. That psychological gap had been exploited. The moment Seo-jun closed in, it became an inescapable triple team.
“Kgh…!?”
Mashayekhi flailed, searching for an outlet. But Heo Seung-won slapped the ball loose, creating a scramble. Seo-jun immediately sprinted. Bahrami chased alongside him, but when Seo-jun leaped powerfully, Bahrami swung his arm hard—
Whack.
It was a clear foul. Seo-jun’s shooting arm was knocked completely off the ball. Still, he never lost focus. The ball was barely balanced on his left palm. Suddenly, Micic’s advice flashed through his mind.
When the release feels awkward, aim for the backboard…!
With his off-hand, precise aiming was impossible. So he simply lofted the ball toward the backboard. The ball floated, hit the square high on the glass, caromed off the inside of the rim, then the outside, and finally trickled in.
Seo-jun roared out every ounce of boiling passion inside him.
“Aaaand OOOONE—!!”
31-42. Eleven-point deficit. The free throw splashed through, making it 32-42. In an instant the gap was back to ten. Only then did the whistle blow— the Iranian coach, shaking with fury, called timeout.
Seo-jun’s explosion of seven straight points continued. From the start of the third quarter, he monopolized every single shot attempt for a full eight minutes, waging a lonely war of pursuit.
Reactions were split. NTBC guest commentator Kim Jun-ki, who had praised Seo-jun’s play against the Philippines, now sounded worried.
KBC’s Seo Jung-hoon, however, took the opposite stance. The same man who had harshly criticized Seo-jun against the Philippines now showered him with praise.
What Seo-jun was aggressively using was the pull-up jumper—specifically, the bump-and-jumper. With the paint completely clogged, bully-ball drives were ineffective. Even his jab-step jumper had lost efficiency; once Bahrami was beaten, Haddadi was always waiting behind him, so the defender could ignore the drive and focus solely on contesting the shot.
That was why Seo-jun chose the bump. He used his body to forcefully create space, then rose for a mid-range jumper.
Thud. Bahrami was knocked backward. Seo-jun leaned slightly away and released a free-throw-line jumper.
“Tsk…!”
Bahrami stretched desperately to contest, but Seo-jun’s quick release and high release point won out. Swish. The shot fell cleanly.
Seo-jun kept chasing relentlessly while Iran barely maintained the lead. Both teams traded empty possessions until only 59 seconds remained in the third quarter. Seo-jun, drenched in sweat, faced Bahrami once more. Bahrami looked equally exhausted.
That monster-like bastard…!
Bahrami had always taken pride in his defense. Against players of the same size and position, he believed he could dominate. Yet against Seo-jun he was barely hanging on. Seo-jun’s field-goal percentage was 52 percent—well below his career 64.3 percent—so one could say he was being contained, but objectively the defense was failing. The bigger problem was that guarding him was becoming harder and harder.
Seo-jun knew it too. With a tired smile, he spoke.
“The fact that you can’t stop me even though I’m only shooting jumpers means you can’t handle me.”
“…!”
“Hup!”
Creeeak! Thud! Another attack. Bahrami clenched his teeth and held his ground, then rushed forward to contest the shot. But Seo-jun never went into his shooting motion. He used the bump’s deceleration as a hesitation move, blew past Bahrami, attacked Haddadi, drew his help, and kicked the ball out to Choi Ju-seong, who finished with a hook shot.
“Nice pass!”
“Good finish.”
Slap! Choi Ju-seong’s focus had clearly returned. Consecutive defensive stops had restored his confidence, and it showed on offense. The same was happening with the other players.
Haddadi made two free throws, keeping the score at 45-55 with 35 seconds left. Seo-jun then called for a two-for-one. Before Iran could set their defense, Heo Seung-won in the left corner made a surprise baseline cut.
Iran’s attention had been so focused on Seo-jun that Heo Seung-won, who had been invisible all game, finally found a gap. A crisp bounce pass headed toward the basket. Heo caught it and laid it in a split second before Haddadi could contest.
47-55. Back to an eight-point game.
“Haa… haa… damn it….”
Bahrami finally understood what Seo-jun’s earlier trash talk had meant. All those jumpers had been forced attempts while waiting for his teammates to step up. The fact that Iran couldn’t even stop that meant that now, with other options activating, they were completely helpless.
Still, the game is tight.
Bahrami clapped his hands loudly, trying to wake up his teammates.
“We just need to finish the quarter strong! If we focus, these guys are nothing! Let’s go!”
The national team scored in just 6.5 seconds, leaving 27.9 seconds on the clock. Burdened by the need to use all 24 seconds of the shot clock, Iran forced the issue and committed a senseless turnover. Ironically, the pass that caused it came from Bahrami himself. It was clear his stamina was completely spent and his concentration broken.
“Waaaaaah!!”
47-55. The eight-point gap remained. The fans’ energy surged.
“Press!”
“Deny the pass!”
Screeech! Creeeak! Iran applied full-court pressure to prevent Korea from using the remaining 6.7 seconds effectively. Coach Lee Jae-hak chose not to call timeout, thinking ahead to the fourth-quarter climax.
“Run it! Seung-won, you take the ball!”
At the coach’s shout, Heo Seung-won received the inbound and attacked. When an Iranian defender stuck to him, he swung the ball to Seo-jun near the center circle. 4.1 seconds remained.
Instead of dribbling, Seo-jun fired a one-touch pass to Su-bin, who was sprinting along the right sideline.
“Su-bin!”
“…!”
Su-bin understood the intent instantly. He charged toward the rim, drawing every eye, then whipped a kick-out pass to Seo-jun, who had flared wide to the left corner. With 0.9 seconds left, Seo-jun caught the ball in the corner and let it fly.
Swish.
The arena fell silent as the ball traced a perfect arc through the air.
Beeeeep! Swish! The buzzer sounded and the ball passed through the net. The entire arena—and the whole of South Korea—exploded.