Unexpected Results (3)

Martin Valde was struggling to put together his squad list for the upcoming third round of World Cup qualifiers.

National team duty isn't that big a deal. The core players are always the same, so you just sweat a few fringe spots and you're done... I'm pretty sure that's what someone told me.

Every time Martin Valde looked at the list laid out in front of him, he clenched his teeth.

He and his coaching staff had poured everything they had into this selection. So why did it still feel so wrong?

PUTA! This is hard as hell—who said this was easy?! I never should've listened to that bastard Rubens! He can spout that nonsense because he's managing England! This is Korea, damn it!

Martin Valde. A young Spanish manager who had proven himself at Galatasaray and Benfica.

When he took the job, the single thing he prioritized above all else was a defensive midfielder.

To people who barely knew football, that position might look like nothing more than the midfielder parked deepest, doing nothing but defending. Anyone who had dug even a little deeper into the game knew better. They knew how critical that role was—and how close it had come to extinction for lack of talent.

Real Madrid went and signed David Beckham, the biggest star in England, chasing their Galácticos dream and an all-out attacking philosophy. Then they casually shipped Claude Makélélé out without a clue what they were doing, never found their defensive balance again, and ended up looking like complete idiots. Liverpool's the same story. They ran Alonso and Mascherano beautifully, sold Alonso, and the hole at defensive midfielder sent them crashing all the way to seventh. Once Mascherano left too, they were fighting relegation.

That was how vital the defensive midfielder had been even in the early 2000s. And now? In an era when Pep Guardiola's positional play had infected every team on earth and build-up from the back had become non-negotiable?

He's the key. Not just defending—when the moment comes, he has to step up deep, distribute, playmake, and hit the long ball. All of it.

Martin Valde knew. Nothing stabilized a side like a proper volante. No matter how brilliant your second-line attackers were, a broken spine meant their aggression never reached the pitch.

"Moon Tae-hwan at Al-Shabab, and Gwangju's Shin Nam-hyuk... are these really the best we've got?"

That was the problem. Whether this caliber of player could deliver on a World Cup stage. Whether he could even implement the system he wanted with this level of quality.

He thought about it day and night without rest. He ran simulation after simulation, and still Valde had no certainty. That was why he had dragged his staff out to watch a Gwangju match.

If their form is up and they can put in a real performance, that would be ideal...

A sliver of hope. That alone was why Martin Valde had come to Jeonju Castle with only four days left until the squad announcement.

"You absolute garbage! The player I've been hunting for was right there! Call him up immediately! I don't want to hear a single reason why not!"

"M-Manager! That kid's a rookie who's only played three league matches! His form is good, sure, but if we pick him the press conference is going to be a bloodbath!"

"Is there some law in Korea that says you need ten league appearances before you can play for the national team? If I say pick him, we pick him! Why is everyone talking so much?!"

The unexpected harvest named Baek Yi-an left him thunderstruck.

That player! The one who could fill every gap that had doomed him during his failed years managing Newcastle!

"Holding midfielder, box-to-box—he can do all of it! Looking at his style, he could even play the anchor! If we don't pick a player like that, who the hell are we supposed to pick?!"

Refusing to select him would be a dereliction of duty as a manager.

Breathing hard through his fury, Martin Valde forced himself to calm down and cast his mind back to his youth-team days. The way senior players had dismissed him for being young. The miserable coaches who, for no reason other than his age, had refused to even put him on the bench despite the quality he showed in training.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

He had chosen the coaching path precisely so he would never become one of those bastards.

Which meant...

I need to put my weight behind him.

For Baek Yi-an's sake—stuck as he was in an ugly adult world—it was time to show what a grown man looked like.

Whoosh!

"M-Manager! What are you—wait, why are you taking off your necktie—?"

Without warning, Valde yanked off his red necktie, gasping for air, and wrapped it around his forehead. The coaches stared at him, utterly blank.

Cinch!

The moment the red band was knotted tight across Valde's brow, they beheld the true face of an ugly adult.

"I object! I object! If you will not accept Baek Yi-an's selection, then I, Martin Valde, will not take a single step back from this spot! I will resist to the very end!"

"M-Manager! Hey—what are you all standing around for?! Get him up!"

"Y-Yes! Manager, please, not here—"

"Don't you touch me! I am not getting up! So you decide! Put Baek Yi-an on the list! Or I die right here!"

The match ended in our victory, just like that.

Three straight league wins—four if you counted the AFC Champions League. An unstoppable run. Maybe people ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had expected this season to limp along the way the last one had. Either way, once Jeonbuk's surge lasted longer than anyone predicted, the communities lit up.

A few of the comments made me want to scowl, but I decided not to bother.

I learned this in my past life as a player. No matter how well I perform, I can't satisfy everyone.

Pleasing every last person was basically impossible. Someone was always going to hate me. So was there any reason to thrash around trying to make them happy?

Why bother? If I perform on the big stage, the people who root for me will multiply on their own.

If it wasn't worth the energy, better to ignore them and listen to the people who actually supported me. Mental health first.

Just like right now.

"Phew. At this level I might actually not get yelled at."

Dad, Mom—and A-yoon beside me, setting her phone down and finally letting out the breath she'd been holding.

For a second I pictured my parents at home bickering over which of them I took after. I decided not to dwell on it.

"Did that crazy brat just say 'hey' to her unnie?"

I turned my head and found A-yoon flaring her nostrils, snorting like a bull ready to charge.

It was their usual WWE match, so I considered ignoring it and just talking to her—but judging by the way both sides of the family were already gearing up for round two in their respective group chats, the smart move was to stay out of the blast radius.

More importantly—what the hell were these guys up to? My phone would not stop vibrating.

"Forty-three? What is this."

I knew the three of them had gotten pretty close lately, but close enough to rack up this many messages?

And what on earth were they talking about that produced a wall of chat like this?

Curiosity won. I opened the room.

"What is this? National team? What are they even talking about?"

Reading through the chat, my eyes went wide with shock.

Yoon Seung-hwan making the national team had been somewhat expected. Six league goals already, barely any minutes played—no national team manager with a pulse was going to ignore that. Especially since Seung-hwan was the original protagonist.

But lying bastards? That meant Seung-hwan wasn't the only one who'd been called up.

Unable to make sense of it, I scrolled back up the chat history.

I got selected?

My jaw dropped open at a result I could barely believe.