National Team Call-Up
Honestly, I hadn't been paying much attention to the national team selections.
It wasn't that I'd already achieved everything in my past life and so didn't care whether I got picked or not.
Nor was it some arrogant certainty that I'd make the cut no matter what.
I simply figured that no matter how well I performed right now, I wouldn't get selected—and it wasn't immediately important anyway.
That was the entire reason.
What I have to do boils down to two things. Win the Ballon d'Or as a defensive midfielder, and take the 2038 England–Ireland World Cup.
It was 2029. Naturally the World Cup qualifiers and everything else were geared toward the 2030 tournament.
Even a little thought made it obvious which of the two—2030 or 2038—mattered more to me.
Besides, it would be weird for me to even crack the World Cup roster, right? I'm still a rookie.
How many matches had I played since the possession?
Three. Exactly three.
Two matches through the second round of K League 1, and even counting the second leg of the ACL round of 16 against Suwon, still only three.
If it had been a player who'd already been putting in solid performances last season or earlier, the early form might have convinced them—"This guy's form is on fire. He's peaking right now!"—and earned a call-up.
But for someone like me who debuts and then explodes upward at an insane rate, history is littered with proof that the crash comes just as hard and just as fast.
So I'd planned to just shrug it off if I didn't get selected for this World Cup and roughly prepare for the 2034 Saudi one instead, but…
Was this really how things were supposed to go?
"Whoa!!! Yi-an!!! You got called up to the national team? Manager Martin Valde said you were the most impressive player!"
I was still staring blankly at my smartphone when A-yoon, startled out of her mind, grabbed my shoulders and shook me every which way.
Her boyfriend had been officially selected for the senior national team—not even an age-group side—and she was thoroughly floored by the news.
Of course I was just as stunned.
The only difference was the reason I was surprised.
Reporter: This is a rather unusual squad list. You've called up a large number of rookies rather than veterans, and among them the selection of Jeonbuk's defensive midfielder Baek Yi-an and striker Yoon Seung-hwan is bound to become a major talking point. What's your take?
Martin Valde, National Team Manager: I honestly don't understand what there is to worry about. Look at what they've accomplished in just three matches. Yoon Seung-hwan has scored six goals combined across the AFC and the league, and Baek Yi-an has one goal and four assists. Not selecting those players would be dereliction of duty as a manager, wouldn't it? I picked them myself. If you don't like it, fire me and hire a new manager—I don't care. So don't criticize the players; curse me instead. I'll prove it with results.
Martin Valde. Wasn't this guy famous for never using rookies? I can't figure out why he's suddenly so obsessed with me.
I genuinely didn't get it.
Even back at Newcastle, where he'd built up a solid career, he'd been notorious for ruthlessly sidelining talented young prospects until they transferred to other clubs in the league—and the fans' goodwill had cratered because of it.
Was there some other reason I didn't know about?
No. I won't know until I meet him in person. The man does care about his players, so he might just be talking like that in interviews to cover for Seung-hwan and me, even if it means taking heat himself.
Until I sat down face-to-face with the manager and actually got on the pitch, I couldn't take his words at face value.
That was one of the hard-earned lessons from my previous life as a footballer, wasn't it?
You never really know until you meet the manager yourself.
With that thought in mind, time slipped by until the day of the national team call-up arrived.
And when I saw Martin Valde waiting for us in his bare feet, I was shocked all over again.
"I've been waiting a long time for a volante like you."
What the hell. Why are his eyes so intense. Shit.
"Hey. Baek Yi-an. This guy seems a little off, doesn't he?"
Time flew, and the day of the national team call-up arrived.
Normally guys like Seung-hwan and me—the youngest on the squad—were supposed to leave a little early, stand barefoot at the door, and wait to greet the seniors.
Unfortunately, the time we actually left was two hours after the scheduled assembly.
"No, seriously—is it right that we still have to sit through morning classes on national team call-up day? This is messed up! It's not some ordinary league match; it's the national team!"
"What can we do? We just have to suck it up. At least we don't have to show up early and play errand boy for the seniors, right?"
Students' right to education and all that—by 2029 it had only gotten stricter, not looser.
How bad was it? Even on national team call-up day they told us to stay in class until lunch and then leave.
Well, in the old days I would've told them to shove it, slapped a field-trip application form on my forehead like Prince Suyang after winning the Gyeyu Incident, and marched straight into the faculty office.
At least for now I had no choice but to play along.
"Ha. Yeah, that's true. I don't even know anymore."
Yoon Seung-hwan kept shaking his head, then flung himself onto the bed like he'd given up thinking about it.
I'd always heard that national team training facilities ran two to a room and usually stuck the rookies with the most senior veterans.
Apparently, since we were still high-schoolers, they'd roomed us together so we could relax without having to watch seniors' faces every second.
Maybe that was why Seung-hwan could casually bring up something that might have been awkward otherwise.
"By the way, you're not bothered at all? If it were me I'd be super nervous every time I saw the seniors."
"Nervous about what? They're pros and I'm a pro—what's there to get nervous about? Maybe if I were some charity case who got in on a free ride while being miles worse, sure."
"That's not what I mean. You've already done stuff in the league. That interview against Ulsan and everything—I figured you'd feel awkward facing the seniors."
Not really?
If you wanted to nitpick, a brand-new junior strutting out with a mocking interview in an official setting might make the seniors a little uncomfortable.
But I wasn't losing any sleep over it.
These days, with so many young players heading to Europe, almost the entire squad except the keepers was made up of overseas players, wasn't it?
Unless someone was deeply plugged into domestic news or just really interested, they probably didn't even know what kind of interview I'd given.
And even if they did, with towering seniors like Ki Seong-ryong and Gu Ja-cheong openly covering for me, none of them could say a word.
Just look at what had happened a little while ago.
"Ah, so you two are Yi-an and Seung-hwan? I've been hearing how well you're doing in the K League and wanted to meet you sometime—never thought it'd be here. Perfect."
"I've wanted to meet you too, hyung! Park Nam-oo! I've been a fan ever since you scored a brace against Celtic in the Scottish Cup last season!"
"Hahaha. Scottish League matches are hard to catch in Korea, so you must've gone out of your way. Thanks. If anything feels awkward or uncomfortable, just say so. I haven't been on many national team call-ups myself, but if there's anything I can help with, I will."
Even a senior who'd come up through Ulsan MR's pure youth system and then transferred to Rangers the season before last—where he was still performing well—held zero ill will toward me.
In other words, at least in this place there was no one who had a grudge against me.
"Ugh, nothing to do anyway. I'm gonna lie down too."
Watching Seung-hwan flop comfortably onto the bed next to me made my own body start feeling stiff and restless.
I kicked the blanket down past my legs and stretched out. The previously quiet Seung-hwan suddenly spoke up.
"Oh right. There's something I've been wondering—can I ask?"
"What is it?"
"When Nam-oo hyung asked if we had any questions, you went 'Can I touch your head a bit?' and started feeling around. Why'd you do that?"
"My head? Ah. That."
So that was what he was curious about?
I supposed it made sense that Seung-hwan wouldn't get it.
When a national team senior tells you to ask whatever you want and you come back with "May I touch your head once?", of course the guy next to you is going to wonder what the hell is wrong with you.
But I couldn't help it. Park Nam-oo is someone who never existed in the life I lived before.
Back when I was Kang Yun-ho, every time a new striker or winger showed up at national team camp I always did the same little routine first thing.
From the perspective of someone like Seung-hwan who knew nothing about it, though, it probably just looked like some weirdo doing weirdo things.
If I say I wanted to check the shape of his skull so the ball doesn't take too crazy a deflection when it hits him, he'll just write me off as a lunatic, right?
Yeah. No matter how I spun it, that explanation would get me branded a genuine psychopath.
Better to paper over it with a decent excuse for now.
"I remembered the headed goals Senior Park scored while he was at Rangers, so I just wanted to absorb a little of that energy."
"Absorb energy? Yeah, go absorb some and actually try a header for once. Stop aiming for my face every damn time, you bastard. You're 191 cm—you're a damn beanpole. Just finish it yourself instead of always using me…"
Seung-hwan muttered under the blanket, clearly venting.
I ignored him and stared up at the ceiling, recalling the sensation still lingering in my fingertips.
Nam-oo… what a perfect name. His head was solid, the curvature ideal. Way better than those bastards in my past life whose heads I hated from crown to sole.
I hadn't had enough time for a perfect analysis, but from everything I knew, Nam-oo hyung was more of a dribbling specialist than a heading one.
Even in the novel there was a throwaway scene later on where he quietly asked Yoon Seung-hwan—by then a world-class striker—to teach him how to head the ball properly.
Right. That was it. Nam-oo hyung never showed it, but deep down he wanted to be good in the air too.
How tragic was that?
The reason he'd polished his dribbling to the extreme was because he'd realized heading was a weakness and was desperately trying to paper over it.
A senior's quiet, painful secret.
Once I understood that, there was no way I could just sit still as a junior.
From what the manager had said earlier, tomorrow was tactical training. If I used that time, I could definitely give him a little help.
I nodded to myself, steeled my resolve, and shouted inwardly.
Who am I?
The same guy who once took a striker who would blast the ball over the bar the second the pressure got a little heavy—even when the pass was stabbed perfectly under his feet—and turned him into a World Cup Silver Boot winner.
For a hyung stuck in a trial like this, I could become the fateful tutor he'd been waiting for.
Tomorrow's going to be fun.
Picturing Nam-oo hyung finally burying all the headed goals he'd ever wanted and then collapsing onto the pitch bawling his eyes out, I closed my eyes.