Regression

The 2050 World Cup group stage.

Stoppage time: the ninety-sixth minute.

Korea had begun its last counterattack.

Comments flooded in in real time.

Hope, wild speculation, anxiety, and outright negativity about the Round of 16 all mixed together in the chat.

Even the commentators were rising half out of their seats, anticipation lifting them from their chairs.

At the edge of the penalty box, Han Seonwoo — who had driven the ball all the way from box to box — looked at the striker standing in front of goal, Kim Woohyuk, and played the pass.

But Kim Woohyuk did not strike it first-time toward goal. He chose to take a touch and then shoot.

The touch had been a little long, but Kim Woohyuk did not panic. He sprinted onto it and struck the shot.

The result:

In real time, comments condemning the player who missed and condemning Korea itself poured in, and the commentators sank back into their seats. At the same time, more than half the viewers switched off.

Preeeep—!

The keeper launched a long clearance toward the center circle, and the referee blew the whistle.

Click.

When the match ended, I — who had watched the World Cup qualifier from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the first minute to the last — looked at the screen with a skeptical eye and switched off the TV.

In the dark living room, moonlight spilled through the window and made everything feel heavier still.

"That shot…"

I dragged a hand down my face and muttered.

"Just hit it first-time."

I could understand the decision. In a previous match he had already blasted one first-time and sent it into orbit, so of course he wanted to play it safe.

"Then at least take a clean touch."

Even so — what kind of striker takes a touch like that and throws the chance away?

It wasn't even the keeper who stopped it.

"Haa…"

I let out a breath and lifted my head. At the end of my gaze sat a small gold trophy. Engraved on it in tiny letters:

Baek Yujin. My name.

Beside the trophy, more awards stood in a neat row. MVPs from smaller tournaments, top scorer trophies, best player awards — and somewhere out of sight, the championship cups as well.

I know it now, of course: I was a footballer.

I hadn't stopped playing because I wanted to.

I had wanted to keep running for as long as my body would let me, but an injury forced me into early retirement.

A ruptured Achilles tendon.

The injury every athlete dreads most — the infamous Achilles rupture.

And it hadn't even happened on the pitch.

Seventeen years old.

Everyone called me a prospect. Active EPL players were telling me I could make it in Europe. And what hit me instead was a drowsy-driving accident.

I'd trained alone late into the night and was heading home when a man dozed off at the wheel and rear-ended me. Trying to dodge, I slammed my leg and tore the Achilles.

A stranger had shattered my life.

There was a trial and all the rest, but that wasn't what mattered.

I can still hear the doctor's words after the first surgery as clearly as if they were spoken yesterday.

He never finished the sentence, but I understood.

I understood that I would never play again.

The memory of crying alone in that quiet house still sat somewhere deep in my chest.

I rehabbed hard enough that everyday life became manageable. Football, though — football never came back.

Fifteen years since the accident.

I thought I had let go of every last scrap of attachment to the game. Apparently not.

Thinking about that striker's mistake costing us a draw and the Round of 16 made something boil up hot and ugly in my gut.

If it had been me…

If I had been that striker — what then?

I probably wouldn't have taken a touch like that.

At the very least, I was confident I would never butcher a first touch that badly.

"Haa…"

What was the point of thinking about it?

It wasn't going to heal my leg.

I reached for my phone to check the news online and fumbled it, dropping it by accident. It was an old phone; a straight fall would crack it for sure. On pure instinct I moved the foot that didn't hurt, cushioning the impact the way you trap a ball — and the phone never hit the floor. It settled cleanly on the top of my foot.

A trap done entirely by feel.

I could still do this. I could still do it well. And the fact that I couldn't set foot on a pitch anyway made the sky itself feel cruel.

"…Tsk."

In a foul mood, I picked up the phone, stood, and went outside.

Nights like this needed a little cold air.

I took a slow walk through the late-night streets, and I was on my way home again when it happened.

BAAAAANG—!

"…!"

Crossing on a green light, I saw a truck barreling straight at me, horn blaring. Looking closer, the driver's head was slumped against the wheel.

"Ah, shit."

A curse I hadn't used in years tore out of my mouth on its own.

Drowsy driving was going to kill me twice.

The driver snapped awake and tried to wrench the wheel, but it was already too late. With my leg the way it was, I couldn't dodge. I simply closed my eyes.

Their words flashed through my mind.

Honestly, if there was a god, I wanted to ask him something.

What did I do wrong?

I played football because I loved it, and in a single moment the dream was gone. I clawed my way through, got married, thought I could finally be happy — and now another accident.

Wasn't that a little much?

If a god existed, I had one request.

After my leg healed.

"Football…"

Just once more, I wanted to kick a ball.

Joyfully.

My passion for the game was still every bit as fierce as it had been at seventeen.

Only at the moment of dying did I finally become honest with my own heart.

And of course, the last thing that rose in my mind was my wife's beautiful face.

"Ah."

That was where my memory ended.

If there was a god, I wanted to ask him again.

"Is this a dream?"

I was certain a truck had hit me — yet when I opened my eyes, I was in a bed.

I could feel everything. An impossible situation.

It has to be a dream.

I dismissed it as a dream. A dying flashback, nothing more.

Something like this couldn't happen in real life, could it?

My life had been too dark for me to believe this was reality.

"Right. There's no way—"

I rose from the bed as naturally as breathing and stood on the floor — and the words died in my throat.

They had to.

"My leg… doesn't hurt…?"

It had never been agonizing on ordinary days, but there had always been at least a faint ache.

Now, strangely, there was nothing. No sensation of pain at all.

As if I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never been injured.

"…"

I couldn't tell dream from reality.

Was my leg painless because this was a dream — or was there some other reason?

Was I dead? Was this the afterlife?

"…This isn't the time."

I'd been standing there blankly, startled by the layout of the house I used to live in years ago — but I dressed quickly, grabbed my football bag, and went outside.

I'd already decided, before dying, what I would do if my leg ever healed.

"…Seongil High School?"

Right. It was a dream — of course I could end up back where I'd lived in high school. That was within the realm of possibility.

Thud!

For the first time in a very long while, I ran.

How many years had it been since I'd run?

"Haha!"

After fifteen years of nothing but walking, the full-body sensation of sprinting made me so happy I could barely stand it. I could feel, in real time, that I was alive.

People around me seemed to be staring, but the only thought in my head was that I hoped this wasn't a dream.

And so I arrived at the football club pitch at Seongil High School.

I changed into my boots as fast as I could and pulled out a ball.

I was so excited the smile wouldn't leave my face.

Fifteen years.

The years I had lived without football.

The years I couldn't let go of the regret and only watched from a corner of a room.

I had been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

"Nice grass."

The turf felt familiar and soft, as if I had come here only yesterday. Right now, even the worst pitch in the world would have felt good under my feet.

Now it was time — the moment I had waited and waited for — to kick a football.

I didn't even think about warming up. After fifteen years of wanting this, I just needed to touch the ball with my foot.

And honestly, there had only ever been one way I warmed up.

Thwack!

I took the ball out and immediately launched it high into the sky.

It climbed so far I couldn't tell how many apartment floors it had cleared, then began to fall.

It accelerated on the way down, but somehow — after fifteen years of imagining this exact moment every single day — it didn't look fast to me at all.

It was simply a ball I could receive.

Tak.

I snapped my foot out, met the ball, and it killed its spin and settled perfectly between my legs.

Soft Trapping.

The technique I had practiced steadily since I was a child — still possible.

I tried again, and it stuck to me like a magnet, the same perfect result. A third time, a fourth, a fifth — every one the same.

Whoooosh~

"…"

I slowly opened my arms and let the cool wind wash over my whole body.

I forgot the cold and sank into a world of my own.

It was as if the wind itself were speaking to me.

You've come back. Baek Yujin's leg is healed.

"Is this a dream…"

I didn't know.

It was far too vivid, and far too impossible, to tell ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dream from reality.

"…Haha. Does it even matter?"

Dream or reality — what mattered right now was that I could kick a ball.

So what if it was a dream?

I wanted to savor this time — which might be the last — for all it was worth.