U20 World Cup (4)

In the dead of night, long after everyone else had fallen asleep, curiosity got the better of me. The night before the quarterfinals, I quietly switched on my phone before bed.

The Arsenal players had supposedly mentioned me. Of course I wanted to know.

I started with the news articles rather than social media. I'd left the stadium so fast I hadn't seen any of it, but there were interviews with my teammates and the coach — and somehow, even transfer rumors linking me to Arsenal.

Reporters really are something else.

There was nowhere for that information to have leaked, yet someone had written an entire article just because Arsenal's manager had shown up to watch. Incredible.

"Hm?"

That was the title of a short clip. I hadn't done a single thing worth panicking over, so rather than flustered, I just felt blank.

Click.

On-screen, a reporter was interviewing Do Woojun.

"…You people really love the sensational stuff, don't you."

It was a perfectly uncontroversial interview. The comments, though — those were probably on fire.

You really shouldn't end it, though.

Beyond that, the comments were full of people calling me "that kid every parent compares you to" and asking in genuine bewilderment whether I was actually good at everything.

If anyone's the perfect kid, it's Yumin.

Born into a well-off family and still pulling decent grades without even trying — Seong Yumin fit that label far better. I only looked like I never worked for anything. In reality, I'd already put in an absurd amount of effort.

…Still. They really think of me like that?

Scrolling further, I found plenty of comments that, like Do Woojun, treated me as the team's baby brother. A little like doting on a younger cousin.

Tomorrow's match would let me show them the footballer, too. Maybe I'd even do an interview.

Just like that comment said — our quarterfinal opponent was Japan.

We had to win.

Even the most recent comments on social media were already loading pressure onto my shoulders.

Just do what I always do.

Whether it was that unexpected weight of expectation or something else, I fell asleep without ever checking the Arsenal mentions that had been my original reason for picking up the phone.

Our quarterfinal opponent was, remarkably enough, Japan.

They'd finished third in a group of death and nearly gone home in the group stage, only to scrape into the Round of 16 by placing inside the top four among third-place teams.

A Korea–Japan match.

A Korea–Japan match. The tension and pressure that phrase carried were enormous.

There were teams that had finished as runners-up and still come home to an empty airport after losing to Japan. Coaches who'd been sacked. Players who'd been buried under abuse. Lose, and the player who became the reason for the loss could turn into a traitor — a sellout — in a single afternoon.

Lose a Korea–Japan match and you didn't even get the "they fought well" consolation. Win only that one match, though, and people would shrug off every other poor performance with, "Well, at least we beat Japan." Either way, defeat meant you would never hear a kind word.

Even for a U20 side rather than the senior national team, that rule held.

"You nervous?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

Everyone except me seemed tense. That kind of pressure could become a massive motivator — but they were wound tight imagining futures that might never arrive.

Knowing how the last life had gone, I stayed calm.

It was a shame, back then.

Objectively speaking, Japan's current U20 side was good enough to be called a golden generation. That was probably why the interest was so high.

But no matter how golden this Japanese generation was, they were about to get dismantled the moment they met us.

Just like last time.

"Hey, don't get so wound up. You've got me, don't you?"

I was so unbothered that the jokes for loosening everyone up came out easily.

"Just give me the ball. I'll put it in somehow."

"…Yeah. Alright."

The players around us who'd overheard Han Seonwoo and me seemed to ease up a little, the tension giving way to something closer to drive.

When we walked out into the stadium and looked up at the stands, red and blue split the seats cleanly in half — not a single gap between them.

…A Korea–Japan match really is something else.

I was the strange one for not being nervous. You could feel it in real time. Knowing this many people had come prepared just for this one match made my heart pound.

Thump. Thump.

Imagining all of them cheering for me — how could I not get excited?

"Let's go."

Time to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠score.

Without question, the hottest name on the current Korean U20 national team was Baek Yujin.

Everyone on the roster was talented, but none of them had flipped a hostile press with a single match the way he had. The reaction around him burned hotter than anyone else's — and the expectations riding on him were just as large.

And of all people, the one who felt that weight of expectation most clearly was Baek Yujin himself, standing on the grass in real time.

Expectation. Put another way, it was proof that people believed in him.

Fortunately, every player in the Korean squad was playing with confidence. Seong Yumin went into his dribble the moment he saw a gap; Han Seonwoo kept scanning for passing lanes.

Tenth minute of the first half.

At last, a chance cracked open the quiet stadium. The ball that had been circulating through midfield found Hong Seoin, who slipped it into the box.

Baek Yujin checked the defender closing from behind, sold a trap to the right, and took it left instead. The defender bought the fake completely and his balance collapsed.

One-on-one with the keeper.

The instant Baek Yujin stepped into the box, Yuichi came flying in with a sliding tackle from the side. Yujin went down with the ball still at his feet, and the ball rolled out of play.

"Referee!!!"

But the referee made no call at all — even as Baek Yujin lay on the ground clutching his ankle.

When the referee still made no call, the Korean players swarmed him to protest. The Japanese players pushed back just as hard, insisting it wasn't a penalty, and eventually the referee went to check VAR.

Baek Yujin got up smiling and jumped a few times to show he was fine, but most of the reaction was still worry. Even when the coaching staff looked ready to ask about a substitution, he shook his head firmly.

Not even an apology.

At the same time, the replay of the incident came up on the screens.

In the end, a penalty was awarded.

Korea decided on a taker.

"Hyung. I'll take it."

"Ddolgaeng-a, you good?"

"Of course. Can't you see me smiling?"

"That smile of yours ain't no smile."

"Come on, what does it matter."

"…You're pissed."

The taker was Baek Yujin.

The whistle blew.

He hit it deliberately, almost mockingly, hard to the right — the keeper dived that way, but the ball kissed his fingertips and went in.

"Wooooooooooo!!!"

Maybe because it was a Korea–Japan match, the roar was even louder than usual.

After finishing his celebration at the corner flag, Baek Yujin turned toward the Japanese players and smiled.

It was a smile that looked nothing like a smile at all — cold as ice.

From the penalty goal onward, Japan's age of suffering began.

Possession: 80 percent.

Korea was essentially attacking without pause. How it had gotten to this point was simple enough — it started after that penalty. From that goal on, for reasons no one could quite name, Japan began losing the possession battle and found themselves on the receiving end of a one-way beating.

Or maybe every Japanese player already knew.

That all of it traced back to Baek Yujin, who was now playing with a completely blank expression.

Baek Yujin, who had been smiling from the opening whistle, put the smile away and started playing in earnest — and the entire flow of the match flipped. Winning the ball in midfield suddenly became nearly impossible; Japan couldn't transition into attack. Even when they did steal possession, Korea read every passing lane as if they already knew the script and took it right back.

At the center of it all was Baek Yujin.

He was smiling now. He had been smiling from the start. The only difference was that not a single person had ever mistaken it for a real smile.

Watching Korea keep racking up goals felt less like a football match and more like a reaper arriving to collect lives.

When the score hit 5–0, the online communities lost their minds.

While the communities were busy enjoying the festival atmosphere, Korea's Hong Seoin added another goal with a long-range strike.

While Korea's fans cheered in pure delight, the Japanese side looked like a funeral. No one wants to watch the team they support take a beating and nothing else.

But reality was not kind.

The final whistle blew.

A Korea–Japan match.

Japan lost 7–0, utterly powerless.

All because of one missing apology.