National Team Call-Up (2)

I went to bed with a firm resolution to make Nam-oo hyung's dream come true, and before I knew it, the next day had arrived.

Maybe because I'd fallen asleep so early, I woke up a full hour ahead of schedule. Since I was already up, I dragged Yoon Seung-hwan out of bed and we left the room together.

"Haaaa... hey. Didn't you say yesterday we could just live without worrying about the seniors? Why the hell are we getting up this early?"

"You really think those two things are the same? Even if you're the youngest, you've got to show a little effort by coming out early."

Of course, the national team didn't have any official rule that the rookies had to get up first and wait for the veterans.

But the unspoken codes of any sports team tended to travel with you no matter where you went.

It could just be my imagination. A senior with half a brain might not be able to stand watching the youngest suffer alone like that.

From my experience, though, most seniors saw the rookies preparing early and thought, Those kids are sharper and more diligent than I expected. They almost never told them to stop doing it next time.

"Still, what are we even going to do coming out an hour early... There's nothing to wait for."

Seung-hwan grumbled about being woken up early, completely oblivious to the fact that I was secretly passing him a tip for making a good first impression on the seniors.

Still, the early-rise strategy seemed to be working pretty well.

"Ugh. I'm dead tired. Huh? What's this? The kids are already out here? Didn't think anyone would beat me in."

"I heard from the team doctor and the cafeteria ladies that those two got up an hour early and went around greeting everyone."

"Really? Oh. Yi-an and Seung-hwan, that's impressive. Love that attitude. Still, don't force yourselves to get up early on purpose. Neglect your rest just because you're young and you'll wreck your bodies."

"Understood. More importantly, would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you like to sit here? I warmed the seat first in case the weather felt chilly, hyung-nim."

"Ahaha. Cut it out, you little bastard. I'd only heard the stories, but you really are a complete lunatic."

See?

Seniors who had been eyeing us strangely at first broke into full-blown smiles the second they got a taste of my flawless service.

Little gestures like these would eventually become the foundation for living comfortably on the national team without constantly watching anyone's face.

By the time the somewhat stiff atmosphere had begun to loosen, most of the players had taken their seats in the dressing room for the tactical briefing. When Manager Martin Valde finally walked in, the lights went out and the screen lit up before our eyes.

"Alright. Now that I can see everyone's here, we'll start the briefing on how we're preparing for Matchday 7 of the third round of qualifiers in a few days—our first game against Iraq."

Fluent Spanish poured out, followed immediately by the interpreter.

Thanks to my past life, I could handle ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Spanish to a decent degree, so I let the interpretation wash past one ear and focused entirely on the changing images on the screen.

"Those of you called up last time already have a fair idea of the tactics I use. Not much has changed. Our base formation is still a 4-2-3-1, and the core is intense pressing."

A 4-2-3-1 with aggressive pressing.

Truthfully, that alone didn't come close to capturing the manager's full philosophy.

A 4-2-3-1 had been a comfort-food formation for ages, and intense pressing itself had basically become the default ever since Arrigo Sacchi created Sacchismo.

In other words, expressing Martin Valde's identity required at least one clear point of distinction.

That distinction was fluidity.

"To me, football is complex and elegant. What I mean is that every player, at every moment, has to find the movement required of him and keep evolving the shape."

Martin Valde was heavily influenced by positional play, so I guess it's not that strange.

The Martin Valde I remembered ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was a manager who introduced an enormous number of system changes over the course of a single match.

He might start in a 4-2-3-1, then suddenly have the keeper step up with the two center-backs to form a back three, creating a 3-2-5-1 shape.

Other times he would push both fullbacks high and shift into a 2-4-1-3 or a 2-2-3-3 attacking structure.

Even more impressive was the fact that those systems never stayed locked in for a set period—they kept mutating.

That's why chemistry between the players is critical and a high level of tactical familiarity is essential... but if you can actually pull it off, it's an absolutely devastating system.

Which was exactly how he had steamrolled Sporting and claimed the title so convincingly during his Benfica days.

He had suffered one failure at Newcastle over squad selection issues, but Manager Martin Valde was preparing for another leap forward.

And for that reason, he began laying out a method for thoroughly dismantling the opponent.

"The team we face in the third-round qualifier on March 21st is Iraq. They get overshadowed by Iran, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia, but there's no denying they're one of the strong sides. They specialize in attacks down the flanks, yet their weakness is surprisingly simple."

The manager worked the remote, and footage of the Iraqi players from the qualifiers filled the screen.

A laser beam shot from the remote and fixed on Iraq's number 6, Ibrahim Sulaka.

"They use a single-pivot, 3-1 build-up—a system that can be quite risky. On top of that, to facilitate their wide attacks, they push the number 6 all the way up to the top of the mid-block. Now do you understand what I'm getting at?"

Manager Valde lowered the laser pointer and swept his gaze across every face in the room.

Silence settled over the tactical meeting room. When the manager's eyes, which had started with the veterans, finally reached the two youngest players—me and Yoon Seung-hwan—I knew it was my moment. I shot my hand up and opened my mouth.

"A 3-1 build-up can look unstable when hit with intense pressing, and because it's a single pivot, the idea is to overload him."

"Exactly right. I thought you only knew how to play the game, but you can read tactics to a certain degree as well? Excellent attitude. For a volante whose core job is tempo control, that kind of awareness is practically a basic requirement."

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

Thwack!

Manager Valde, who had been pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back, hurled the remote at the screen as if he had nothing left to say and raised his voice.

"What you need to show on the pitch is simple! The other side will keep trying to attack the half-spaces from the flanks. At the same time they'll push their volante high and try to win the midfield battle. So we will trap them with even more intense pressing and make damn sure they never get out. And when an opportunity appears in that midfield fight—what do we do?"

The screen flipped the instant he finished speaking. Countless arrows of attacking routes filled the display.

Among them, the arrows starting from my body immediately caught my eye.

I thought with one holding midfielder and two box-to-box types I'd just be responsible for the rear build-up, but it looks like that's not entirely the case.

On the attacking-tactics screen, arrows ran from me positioned near the center circle straight to the strikers—Yoon Seung-hwan and Nam-oo hyung.

Probably meant that the moment the Iraqi players' spacing opened up, I was to thread a through ball into that interval.

Or, if the angle was there, push even higher and recreate the (forced) headed chances that had already been so much fun.

"We go straight at them. Raise the tempo so they never get a second to set their shape and just keep hammering them. Rest periods? We don't need that garbage. Continuous attacks will make them tire first anyway. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good! Excellent! If you understood, get the hell out there and start warming up! We go straight into training."

There are plenty of ways to tell a true master manager from an ordinary one.

People who watch football casually will judge by the path that manager has walked.

Those with a bit more curiosity will look at the tactics he deploys and whether he can produce similar win rates at home and away.

And the deep-dive crowd?

From here it gets more advanced. They examine how the manager handles the wage structure of the squad and whether, every time the transfer window opens, he signs players who fit the picture he is painting.

Take it even further and some people care how a side performs in the league while simultaneously juggling European competitions.

There are many methods for distinguishing a great manager.

But everything listed above is still from the viewer's perspective.

For a player, the way you decide whether the man directing you is a master or not is what he looks like in training.

"Whoa... our manager really is the real deal. He's systematically trying to murder us, huh? Come to think of it, Baek Yi-an, aren't you tired? You were running like crazy earlier."

"Not particularly?"

I answered half-heartedly to Yoon Seung-hwan, who had somehow ended up beside me gasping for air. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and shook his head.

"Yeah, well. I've known about your athleticism and stamina since the youth days. What the hell kind of talent even is that... No, wait. Your dad was a marathon runner, so good stamina isn't that weird, is it?"

"Saying I've got good stamina just because my dad was a marathon runner is a bit much. If you want to credit the fact that we used to run around the field together when I was little for my base fitness, maybe."

"That so?"

If my father ever heard Seung-hwan, he would definitely crow, See that, woman? My son's friend says the boy takes after me!

Honestly, I didn't believe Baek Yi-an became an exceptional runner simply because his father was a marathoner and his mother a short-distance track athlete.

Of course the athletic genes helped.

I just thought the bigger factor was growing up from early childhood constantly around running and sport in general.

A-yoon checking my form every single evening played a part too.

With both parents as former athletes, Baek Yi-an had grown up under systematic diet management and training without even realizing it.

And on top of that, he had received posture coaching from Shin A-yoon every evening.

With a foundation of base fitness and a running form that reduced injury risk and fatigue accumulation already in place, and then the original talent exploding on top of it, ending up with a monstrous body like this wasn't all that strange.

Come to think of it, I miss A-yoon. Around this time we would usually be meeting at the park or her place just to hang out.

I had finally retired, only to get dragged back into the national team to live as the youngest again... That damn striker-obsessed author really didn't have a single redeeming quality.

I was grinding my teeth without realizing it, and Seung-hwan, who had caught a glimpse of my expression, gave an awkward little smile.

"By the way, what are you supposed to do next? I get a short break and then it's dribbling drills and practicing breakouts in numerical disadvantage situations."

"Me? I've got stuff too. I'm just waiting because my partner hasn't shown up yet."

"Waiting? For who?"

Seung-hwan swiveled his head around, scanning the field.

From the word "partner," he seemed to be looking for the midfielder who would form the double pivot with me.

Unfortunately, the partner I was about to train with was not a midfielder.

"Whew! Finally finished. Sorry, Yi-an. My feet got tangled and I ended up a little late."

"No problem. Waiting just means I get to rest, so it's great for me. Shall we go right away then, Nam-oo hyung?"

"Sounds good. Feed me some nice passes. I'll work hard on the chemistry so I can rack up assists for you in the real matches too."

Watching Nam-oo hyung come sprinting over, out of breath, toward us resting on the touchline, I made a pained face on the inside.

How tragic was it that I was about to give this kind-hearted senior nothing but breakaways and then steal all the headers?

A guy named Nam-oo, 189 centimeters tall, with catastrophic heading stats... This is just too much even for fiction.

He possessed a body optimized for heading and still couldn't head the ball. How miserable must that have been?

I couldn't stand by and watch any longer. As a junior, ignoring something like that was simply not an option.

It's fine now, though. Because I'm here.

I was the one who had taken a garbage striker and turned him into a Silver Boot winner off headers.

So if a guy with a body built for heading was in my hands... from now on he would be able to walk into any room and proudly declare that his specialty was aerial play.

"...I will absolutely help you, hyung."

"Huh? Oh, uh, sure, Yi-an. But your eyes look a little too intense? You don't have to put that much pressure on yourself."

Looking at Nam-oo hyung, who took the hand I offered with a slightly unsettled expression, I swallowed tears on the inside.

The training routine assigned to Baek Yi-an and Park Nam-oo was extremely simple in structure.

The position-specific drills they had just finished had mobilized multiple coaches and players in an effort to recreate situations that could actually occur in a match.

This was different.

"So... what the manager wants is that the moment you, Yi-an, suddenly thread a pass, I put it in the net. Right?"

"Yes. But the timing of the pass is entirely based on me reading the tempo of the game, so I won't call it out separately. And you have to be careful not to get caught offside by the mannequins we set up near the goal."

Explained in words alone, it sounded like nothing more than receive a pass and immediately finish with a shot or a header.

In practice, it was not that easy.

An unexpected pass led to a poor first touch and immediately killed the chance.

The whole point of the drill was probably to build chemistry in advance for situations that would unfold at high speed.

I'd better do this well.

That was why Park Nam-oo threw himself into the session with real fire.

He wanted to show a good example as a senior to a junior who had not even taken his first steps as a national-team player yet.

Not that he was trying to parade some senior's dignity or anything—it was more about the things he himself had gone through when he was the youngest.

Even in training, if you made a mistake you felt like you'd committed high treason and just shriveled up. I can't let Yi-an and Seung-hwan go through that kind of experience.

He never said it out loud.

But Park Nam-oo knew. He knew what kind of figure Baek Yi-an cut in the league right now, and what kind of looks he got from the public and from seniors and juniors across the football world.

Even from a casual look, the impression was not good.

He had no idea what incident had burned that reputation onto a rookie, or whether some controversy in the football world had forced legendary players to step in and cover for him.

At the very least, the Baek Yi-an that Park Nam-oo had seen with his own eyes did not look like that bad a kid.

Something had to be wrong.

The football world had cleaned up a lot compared to the old days, but the hierarchical culture unique to sports teams still ran deep. Maybe young Baek Yi-an had simply failed to read the room and earned himself a misunderstanding.

The best way to escape those stares is for the fans to remember him as a good player. Seung-hwan can score goals and become a hero himself... but Yi-an is a defensive midfielder, so...

He would have to help directly.

With that resolve, Park Nam-oo watched Baek Yi-an drive the ball forward near the center circle.

"Nam-oo hyung! Now!"

"Yeah! Send it!"

The second Baek Yi-an's signal dropped, he carved between the mannequins and claimed the perfect spot.

Here!

A position that wouldn't trip the offside line, and one where his height would let him dominate any aerial ball.

Nestled there, Park Nam-oo finished his preparations to jump and simply waited for the ball to come to him.

Huh? What? The ball looks like it's coming in a little low? No... toward my face? That can't be... Why would he fire something with that much power straight at my face?

Watching the ball streak toward him, a sudden question welled up.

What was this...? Maybe because it was the first session, he had put too much power behind it?

If he just blasted it without thinking, the ball should float... but the trajectory is insanely accurate.

His curiosity barely had time to bloom at the incomprehensible situation.

Before he knew it, the ball Baek Yi-an had struck was right in front of his nose.

Thwack!

"Urghk!"

The moment the ball connected with his face, Park Nam-oo's memory cut out like a film reel snapping.

Five seconds.

That was how long Park Nam-oo stayed unconscious after taking Baek Yi-an's shot full in the face.

And when he opened his eyes again, only one thing filled his vision.

"What? I remember the ball flying at me, but why can't I remember anything after that? Why am I lying on the ground?"

"Nam-oo hyung! Did you see that just now? It was unbelievable! Your header got sucked straight into the top corner!"

"Uh? Uh... really? Th-that's because you delivered the ball so well, Yi-an. More importantly, why does my speech keep coming out all slurred..."

Looking at Baek Yi-an, who had come rushing over to proudly recount his own exploits, Park Nam-oo scratched his head.

For some reason the skin on his forehead felt swollen, as if a lump had already formed.