2030 World Cup Third Round Qualifiers (1)

The third round of World Cup qualifiers.

Group C’s seventh matchday, first fixture—our home match against Iraq—was being staged at Sangam World Cup Stadium.

This was a World Cup qualifier, and given how diligently we had banked points so far, today’s result could decide whether we punched our ticket to the finals. That was why Manager Valde stared out at the pitch with the grim intensity of a man whose life hung in the balance.

For a match this important, he would of course field the strongest available starting eleven.

“Aigoo… I really thought I’d be starting. Right, Yi-an?”

“…This bastard’s talking complete nonsense.”

Of course Yoon Seung-hwan and I were beginning the match on the bench as substitutes.

In interviews Valde had said it was only natural to select the best players, yet here he was refusing to start Seung-hwan—a contradiction the striker was currently chewing on with great enthusiasm. I, however, understood the manager’s thinking perfectly well.

Because the opponent is Iraq…

Iraq. Overshadowed by Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar, they had still long been regarded—alongside Jordan—as one of the powerhouses of Middle Eastern football. Of course they couldn’t compare to a Korea side stacked with players starring in Europe, but within Asia they were strong enough that this was no opponent for wild experimental line-ups.

“If you did well in training he’ll probably throw you on after the half and see how it goes. The match hasn’t even started yet—why are you so worked up?”

“I know that, but I really was good in training, okay?”

Seung-hwan glanced around and dropped his voice to a whisper against my ear. Apparently he lacked the guts to spin war stories in front of the seniors.

“Fitness side, drills—I was the best at everything. Figured he’d give me a start at least once.”

“Then he’ll put you in next match. If you’re that desperate, just wait for the second half. If he keeps using Nam-oo hyung the whole time, he’s not going to play him full ninety today anyway.”

“Yeah?”

Seung-hwan mulled it over for a second, scratched his head, and sat up properly again. Why was he so obsessed with starting? The striker pool was just as thin as the defensive midfield one; if he waited a little the chance would come. I was still shaking my head in bewilderment when he carefully asked again.

“Speaking of which—how did that training with Nam-oo hyung go? If it went well, maybe you’ll come on with me in the second half too, right?”

“…Personally I’m satisfied, but whether the manager or the coaches gave it a passing grade, I don’t know.”

The long-range crossing drills with Nam-oo hyung. In those sessions he had successfully put all twenty balls I delivered into the net—thirteen with his head, the other seven by taking them down and finishing. I’d wanted to let him head to his heart’s content, but once we passed the tenth ball his dramatics got so bad I eased off and called it there. Still, if you asked me whether it was good or bad, I could honestly say it was pretty solid.

Is it because his head’s so broad and solid? The deflection wasn’t that severe, so every ball went exactly where I wanted it.

From my previous life right up to now I had honed this technique countless times for the World Cup; just from the way the ball met a striker’s body I could tell whether he was the real deal. By that standard Nam-oo hyung scored nearly as high as Yoon Seung-hwan.

Though unlike Seung-hwan, after a few knocks he immediately started complaining his head hurt…

That much was nothing. Weak ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠strikers whining was something I’d heard day in and day out. At first they fuss and moan, but after a few more they usually quiet right down. Isn’t there an old saying?

In baseball they say the more you abuse a pitcher’s shoulder ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the stronger it gets. No idea which famous scholar said it, but it’s a great line… Apply that straight to football and you can train the head the same way, right?

Today’s pain would one day become the fertilizer for a fully bloomed flower. Holding that conviction, I gazed contentedly at Nam-oo hyung warming up out on the pitch.

“What the hell? Why does this bastard’s ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face look like that? Is he insane?”

Seung-hwan muttered something weird in the middle of it, but I decided not to care.

If I had to describe the football style of our third-round opponents, Iraq, in a single phrase, it would be “bed soccer.”

Bed soccer. In simple terms it was a kind of tactic where players threw themselves to the ground at the slightest contact and writhed around the pitch as if mortally wounded. Ironically, bed soccer had first been born in the home of football, England—but the ones who truly cultivated it and made it bloom were none other than the Middle Eastern sides.

That’s why there’s a saying that if you’re playing a Middle Eastern team you have to score the first goal no matter what. Fail to assert control early and you’ll end up bleeding from the eyes later.

When the other side keeps screaming and flopping onto the grass at the lightest brush, even the spectators get their blood boiling. So how do the players actually out there feel? Even more furious, of course. The match is already frustrating enough without watching the opposition sprawled on the turf chatting with the medical staff—it makes your blood boil.

And the really cunning bastards use that exact method to wind the other team up, then hit them on the counter and snatch the win.

Of course, if you looked at bed soccer purely as a tactic, it wasn’t necessarily bad. There’s that line people use—“You play the game like absolute trash”—as the highest form of praise. By that logic, bed soccer could count as a fine strategy simply because it successfully enrages the opponent. That only applied, however, when you already held a lead you absolutely had to protect in a must-win match. Collapsing to the ground the moment the whistle blows without even scoring the opener, the way Middle Eastern sides often did, could hardly be called ideal.

That’s why FIFA tried every way they could to stamp bed soccer out. Refs started booking players, medical staff could only be called on a limited number of times before a forced substitution… but the change that hit hardest was the revision to the added-time rule.

After the laws were changed so that added time properly reflected every second of delay, bed soccer had faded somewhat. But a grotesque defensive tactic that had once defined an entire era could not be buried by a mere rule tweak. The Middle East refined their secret art—the bed soccer polished ten thousand times—until they cracked the new regulations. After long research, Middle Eastern bed soccer rose from the dead once more. Something like “Bed Soccer MK2” or “True Bed Soccer” would fit it perfectly.

In the old days, the second an opponent brushed past them they hit the deck as if they’d been scythed down. Not anymore. They know that gets them a stretcher or a yellow card, so now they make damn sure the other guy goes down with them.

Where classic bed soccer meant you alone flopping while the opponent stayed on his feet, the modern version was a rough—bordering on vicious—style of play where both parties ended up on the ground. That was the new bed soccer spreading through the Middle East. And it was highly effective.

“Aaaagh!”

— Peeeeep!

“Whoa. Why are those guys playing so dirty? And why is he the one on the floor when he initiated the contact?”

The collision between Iraq’s central midfielder Tariq and Nam-hyuk hyung was immediately followed by a scream that filled the stadium. Two players down on the pitch; the match delayed yet again. All of it was part of their plan. Facing a strong side like Korea, Iraq had never intended to win this match in the first place; they meant to drag the clock out like this and eventually force a draw. If we left them alone they would keep clattering into our players with ugly tackles and milking every second. In other words, something had to change right now.

“Yi-an. Seung-hwan.”

“Yes.”

“Get ready to go on.”

Manager Valde’s choice was nothing less than a player change.

It was a must-win match, yet against the Middle Eastern bed soccer that had us completely stymied, Manager Valde’s solution was the nuclear option: a four-man substitution that included the two rookies. Of course it wasn’t a simple swap of bodies; with the new players came a tactical overhaul as well.

“So we’re switching from 4-2-3-1 to a 3-2-4-1 shape? Nam-oo hyung drops into the central striker role and Seung-hwan becomes the poacher?”

“Yes. But in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠attack it becomes a 3-2-3-2, so Nam-oo hyung still pushes high. The idea is to free him from the pressure that gets concentrated on him.”

“Got it.”

“And when we attack, both of us as the double pivots will push up deep. In exchange, Jun-seong hyung, who comes on for Ji-hoon hyung at the back, will temporarily take the holding role.”

“Pretty damn aggressive for a back three. Basically ‘just score somehow’?”

Tae-hwan hyung nodded at my words. A formation change and a simultaneous rewrite of the detailed tactics. The opponents’ bed soccer was rougher than anyone had imagined, and the original plan of overloading their single pivot wasn’t landing, so the manager had decided on this bold stroke. What we had to do was obvious: smash into their bodies, break the plan of everyone hitting the deck together, and overload that lonely single pivot. It might have been a tall order for rookies… but honestly I didn’t care much.

That rough play they pull every single day? That was my absolute favorite thing in my previous life.

The old saying goes that the one who’s tasted meat knows how to eat it best. If they wanted to challenge me—an authority on dirty play who had once terrorized both the EPL and Serie A—I was more than happy to accept. Of course if they lost they would pay an even heavier karmic price.

“Yi-an! It’s coming your way! I’m too far!”

I was busy suppressing the grin of pure anticipation that kept trying to escape when Tae-hwan hyung’s voice reached me from the side. I lifted my head and saw the ball hanging high in the air, dropping straight toward me—and Iraq’s striker Hassan already coiling himself for a full-body charge.

If I contest the aerial duel he’ll just flop. If I take it with my foot I risk a yellow.

In that case… I’d deal with it another way.

The corner of my mouth curled up. I planted my feet and made a show of setting a screen. Thinking I’d chosen a physical battle, Hassan accelerated even harder. The moment the ball dropped to just a little above my head height, I headed it—not upfield, but straight down into Hassan’s midsection.

Thwack!

“What?!”

Hassan took the ball flush in the gut before he could react. The force must have been a bit much; he flinched hard for an instant. Once you hesitate with an opponent right in front of you, what follows is obvious.

“A pass off the stomach? This kid’s showing world-class potential.”

“You bastard!”

Using the forced one-two with Hassan to slip the pressure, I immediately tore forward. As the manager had said, their system relied heavily on the wide players. That meant when Iraq attacked, most of their midfielders spread wide to support the wingers. The only one left holding the center was the lonely number 6—Ibrahim Shulaka.

“Yi-an! You can just pass it right away!”

“No! I’ll beat him myself—hyungs just make the runs!”

If I beat this one guy, Iraq would completely collapse. Holding only that thought I poured on more speed, driving through the middle all the way into the opponent’s second line.

“I’ll stop him—get back here now!”

The instant Ibrahim Shulaka closed me down and stuck out a leg, I dragged the ball in toward myself, turned my back, then used the other heel to pull it through and spin out the other side.

Marseille turn.

Flashy attackers used it often enough, but apparently he never expected it from a defensive midfielder—Ibrahim Shulaka bought it completely.

Sliiiide!

“Aaagh! Urrrgh!”

“What the hell is this guy?”

He overcooked his own momentum, skidded ugly, and even resorted to all-fours scrambling just to stay with me. By way of respect I casually flashed him a thumbs-up, then deliberately eased my pace so he could keep chasing.

“Wow, you’re really good at four-legged running. Since we’re here, how about changing your name from Ibrahim Shulaka to Poppy?”

“Grrraaah!”

“Not a fan? Fine, then from today your name is Chunsik. Chunsik, you gotta keep up with hyung, okay?”

“Uwaaaah!”

Whether he actually understood the Korean or simply recognized the mocking tone, Ibrahim gnashed his teeth and clung to me with vicious determination. He managed to get back on two feet while I was busy taunting him… but it was already far too late.

“Yoon Seung-hwan! Straight through!”

“Huh? Not the head? Oh—yeah!”

Boom!

As our second-line players poured into the completely vacated central space, Iraq’s defensive line stretched thin and the gaps yawned open. Once a pass was threaded into those gaps there was nothing they could do.

Tap!

The ground-splitting ball I sent found the foot of the onrushing Yoon Seung-hwan perfectly. The keeper, expecting a shot, started closing the angle toward the far post.

Boom!

Contrary to the keeper’s read, Seung-hwan chose the near post. It was a cheeky, high-difficulty finish, but the title of novel protagonist doesn’t just vanish—Seung-hwan’s shot slipped past the keeper’s outstretched hands and began to be sucked into the net.

Swishhhh!

WAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The moment the ball hit the back of the net, Sangam Stadium began to shake like it had gone completely mad.