Practice Match (3)
Seongil High's corner-kick situation.
With so little time to prepare, they hadn't drilled many set-piece routines. The basic idea was simple enough: Do Woojun and the defensive midfielder senior would use their height inside the box to win headers, while the rest of the attackers and midfielders hunted the second ball.
My own jump was decent, but against guys who cleared a hundred and eighty centimeters at minimum, a heading duel was a lost cause. Second balls in open space were the play.
Standing just outside the penalty area, I started easing into position before Han Seonwoo even struck the corner.
No set-piece formula? Then invent one.
This was a practice match. Perfect time to try something already mapped out in my head. Do Woojun was a genius in his own right—he'd understand what I wanted on the first attempt.
Thwack—!
Just as expected, Seonwoo's kick curved toward Do Woojun, who was glued to the near post. While every pair of eyes locked onto the ball, I slipped behind the pack and sprinted toward the far post.
Before he jumped for the header, Do Woojun—who'd been scanning the area the whole time—met my eyes.
"…"
"…"
No words. Just a look that said everything.
Do Woojun rose. With that frame and that leap, he won the aerial contest clean. At the same moment he headed it—not a shot, but a back-header that floated toward me, dropping perfectly into my stride.
I'd come from behind the Seowon High players. No one was marking me. Unless someone had been watching me the entire time, they weren't catching me now.
I braced my core, planted my supporting foot, and prepared to strike—
Thud—!
Kim Minjun appeared out of nowhere and cleared it first. The referee awarded Seongil High a throw-in.
"…What the hell."
It should have at least become a shot. Instead, it died right there.
"Figured you'd try that."
Kim Minjun clapped my dazed shoulder and jogged back to his position. Do Woojun shot me a thumbs-up on his way into defensive shape, as if to say the idea itself had been solid.
Well. At least we didn't get hit on the counter.
That was the consolation prize. What I hadn't expected was how hard it would become to get on the ball after that.
Twentieth minute of the first half.
The score was still locked at 1–0, and both coaches had shifted into full intensity.
"Don't lose your man!!"
"The flanks!! Exploit the open space!!"
They barked instructions from the touchline as if they were about to storm the pitch themselves. The tactics shifted so often it felt like every minute brought a new plan, and the result was that I barely touched the ball.
This is awkward.
Genuinely awkward. Seowon High kept switching formations, so sometimes I had a dedicated marker and sometimes I didn't. Dropping deep to receive felt wrong; standing still felt wrong too.
Whatever chances remained? Long gone, snuffed out by the opposition's marking.
So this is what isolation feels like.
It clicked all at once. Seongil High was on the counter, and I couldn't do a thing.
What am I supposed to do here?
How do I break free and actually play my role? The answer didn't take long.
"Yujin!!! Do whatever you want!!! I trust you!!!"
From way out on the touchline, the instruction came clear.
Whatever I want, huh.
I grinned and decided to take him at his word. No more second-guessing. Try it—if it fails, so be it.
"Pass!!"
I dropped all the way into midfield to receive, and the ball came straight to me. The others looked puzzled, but I had a plan. Instead of driving forward, I immediately returned the pass and joined the buildup rather than the penetration.
If it doesn't work from the striker's spot, do it from deeper.
Until a moment ago I'd been reluctant to drop. Now I trusted my own judgment. Whatever I wanted, right?
I used the chemistry I'd built with Han Seonwoo since we were kids, circulating the ball with clean, fluid touches. My natural position had always leaned more second striker than pure center forward. Passing, technique, link-up play—those were my strengths. I'd only played as a pure number nine because no one around me scored better.
It felt like wings I'd clipped myself were growing back.
Thwack—!
I found Seonwoo, who'd been watching the flanks the whole time, and he one-touched a long ball out to the winger standing in acres of space.
Ahn Hyeonjae took a clean first touch and settled it. But by then every opposing defender had already recovered.
"Behind you!"
As the standoff dragged on, fullback Jang Hoyeon made a half-committed overlapping run. Ahn Hyeonjae glanced back, laid it off, and cut inside at the same time. Jang Hoyeon received and immediately found Seonwoo, who was already closing in—and the ball came to me without a bounce.
"…"
But Seonwoo's eyes weren't on me. Understanding the signal, I let the ball run between my legs, switched with Ahn Hyeonjae, and burst down the flank.
"…!"
Ahn Hyeonjae hadn't seen that coming either—he simply claimed possession. The kind of close control only a winger could pull off. The player marking me lost his bearings in the seamless switch and scrambled after me a beat too late.
"Hyeonjae!! Long!!"
I curved my run from the touchline into the half-space. One opposing fullback and one midfielder were tight on me. Perfect for a deceptive first touch. I hadn't landed a proper trap all match—this one would work for sure.
Ahn Hyeonjae, never the strongest of kickers, hesitated at the edge of the box.
"Just hit it!!"
Thwack—!
My shout must have given him confidence, because a backspin pass came flying over. It looked like it would sail out of play. More shot than pass, honestly.
But I'd accounted for that too.
A bad pass is actually better for creating chaos.
Especially for a player like me. As long as I could get something on it, I could make something happen.
The ball hung in the air, drifting toward the line. Miss it and it would bounce out for certain. Anyone watching would assume that even if I reached it, it'd either ricochet away or drop dead at my feet. It was also in that awkward zone where the keeper couldn't quite commit to coming out.
I arrived at the line and jumped, right foot extended—deliberately opening my instep at an awkward angle, as if I were about to mishit it.
The two defenders lunged to interfere. Before either of them could touch it, the ball met my foot first. The instant of contact, I cocked my toes upward and put reverse spin on it.
Tap.
As if it had come alive, the ball dropped neatly in front of my left foot.
"…!"
"…!"
Both defenders, certain it was going out, bought the fake completely and got caught on the wrong foot. I planted hard with my right, swung my left back—
Boom—!
One bounce, then a clean volley. A zero-angle shot. Lee Juwon had been so sharp that the only available window was a sliver beside the keeper's head.
But if there's one angle, you put it there.
Whish.
The ball, perfectly cushioned on my instep, brushed past Lee Juwon's fingertips. Seongil's attackers and Seowon's defenders, who'd been charging in with the shot, all froze in place.
"…"
It nestled into the side netting.
The second the referee pointed to the center circle, I just stood there staring up at the sky. I couldn't say why. It simply felt like the thing to do.
Got it.
Fifteen years of watching hadn't been empty. I'd spent them imagining what I would have done in every situation, studying players' movements and building the plays I wanted to make. What I'd just pulled off was one piece of that long image training: a perfect trap to deceive the defense, then a zero-angle finish.
Succeeding at a play I'd always wanted to make, looking up at the sky—something tight and raw rose in my chest.
"Yujin. You've improved."
I'd been standing still long enough that Lee Juwon walked over.
"Have I?"
"Yes. You have."
"Why are you talking like that?"
"Is there a problem?"
"Aigoo."
He clearly had no idea what was wrong with the way he spoke. That deadpan delivery cracked me up.
"I've got something even better coming. Stay sharp."
"I'll be waiting."
I smiled and jogged back toward Seongil's half. The stunned faces of the opposing players as I passed them overlapped with memories of middle-school matches.
I used to see faces like that back then, too.
Awe so complete it left no room for frustration. A world that had stopped moving starting up again. That was exactly how it felt. This goal was worth more than I'd expected.
Keep going.
I hadn't started this match planning to lose or draw. The goal was victory. What I hadn't anticipated was that my goal would become a wake-up call for the other side.
Boom—!
Seong Yumin, inspired by my finish, produced a curling strike from the corner of the box that drew gasps of its own—one goal. Then, after a Seongil attack, a Seowon midfielder played an absurd through ball on the counter and they scored again. A scoreline that should have held or flipped without those variables got blown open by a Seowon side jolted awake by my goal.
And just like that, the first half ended.
Halftime score: 3–1.
"Haha. This is fun."
Two goals conceded in a row, and my eyes still hadn't lost their fire.
The moment the first half ended, both squads filed into their locker rooms.
It had been a long time since a match this tense, this full of pure admiration, had been on display. The reporters and coaches who'd been watching in a daze finally found their voices.
"Their level's gone up."
"I came because all anyone's talked about for three years is Baeksan Middle, Baeksan Middle—and the talent is ridiculous."
"What was the name of that Seowon midfielder?"
"Wasn't Seongil's midfielder even more impressive?"
"They're both incredible."
More than half the players on this pitch belonged in the genius category, so the coaches' interest ran deep. Absurd dribbling, earth-splitting passes, defending that snuffed out attacks before they started, saves that shouldn't have been possible, traps that made fools of people—most of the boys had exceeded every expectation.
And amid the praise, several coaches were thinking the same thing.
Is keeping them in Korea really the right call?
This first half had made it obvious. Some of these kids weren't meant to stay domestic. Korean pro contracts only opened at seventeen, so watching them play professionally would mean waiting at least a year or two longer than if they went abroad. Was it right for them to spend that time stuck in school football programs? Was Korea even the place for them to learn?
Any coach without an inflated sense of national pride was probably thinking the same.
"Sunbae, how are you writing today's article?"
A man who'd been half-reading the coaches' thoughts tapped his leg and answered his junior.
"I'm writing that most of the kids who just played can go overseas."
"What? Are you serious?"
"Completely serious. What are kids like that going to learn in Korea? Talent at that level needs to get abroad and learn as soon as possible."
Even with well-known coaches glancing his way, the man didn't flinch. He'd simply said out loud what they were all thinking.
"Especially kids like Yujin and Yumin. They need to go abroad. There aren't many players who can play like that in Korea, and even fewer coaches who can teach it. And they're still young."
"That good?"
"That good. The talent is absurd. You don't see seventeen-year-olds like that often."
There was a fundamental difference between the ones who learned one thing when taught one thing, and the ones who learned ten. And the Baeksan Middle alumni this man favored were the ones who learned ten.
"But sunbae, why are you so invested in developing youth players? You wrote glowing pieces about Baeksan Middle back then, too."
"Because all five of them have that kind of talent. Wait—did I never tell you?"
"No. You didn't."
Hmm. The man rubbed his chin and answered as if it were nothing.
"I want to see Korea win the World Cup."
"…Excuse me?"
"Sounds insane, right? It's just a dream. Those kids look like the raw material that could make it possible. Just forget I said it."
"Right. Then… you're not taking a managerial job? I heard you turned down the national team as well…"
"Ah, you knew about that?"
"You type your name and it comes right up."
Lee Eunho—former first-team coach at a prestigious EPL club. A historic figure who'd become a senior coach in the Premier League in his thirties. These days he'd set coaching and managing aside for a while to pour himself into Korea's youth football. Journalism was part of that work.
"I'll take a managerial job once the association improves a bit. Or once those kids make the national team. Five years at the longest, maybe?"
"You think they'll get called up that fast?"
"Yeah. If talent like that doesn't get a national team call-up, either they quit or the coach is the problem. U-20 has a lot of injuries right now, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Then depending on the coach's thinking, even U-20 might be possible. They're not ordinary geniuses."
"…"
Different eyes, different standards. The junior let it slide with a polite nod.
"They're the kind of kids who make you want to teach. And the kind you feel sorry for, too."
Lee Eunho muttered to himself and stood up.
"I'm going for a smoke. Wait here."
"…Yes, sunbae."
Not long until the second half. Lee Eunho waited out those forty-five minutes, already eager to see what else they could show him.