One Team (1)

With the international break over, the K-League roared back to life.

Waiting for Jeonbuk in Round 3 was none other than Daegu CF.

Aside from the ACL Round of 16 second leg against Suwon Oseong, Jeonbuk had played every match at home in Jeonju Castle. Taking points on the road was as vital as anything in a title race, so Manager Sun Ki-baek had prepared the best tactics he could.

"Unlike us, who use a 4-2-3-1, Daegu run a rather unique 4-1-2-3. At a glance you might assume a single-pivot build-up leaves them weak through the middle. But Daegu paper over that weakness in a very particular way."

Instead of the 3-2 build-up most sides preferred, a second-line player dropped deep into the third line during build-up phases and joined the distribution — a 4-2 shape. That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was what set Daegu apart from every other team, and it was exactly the hinge they meant to break open tonight.

Standing in the middle of the dressing room, Sun Ki-baek worked the simulation app, generating every sequence Daegu's players might throw at them.

"It can look like a clever system if you don't look closely. Dig into it, though, and Daegu's football is all show and no substance. Why? Because neither fullback really joins the build-up, and the rear-line distribution isn't handled by the holding midfielder at all — it's the number seven dropping from the second line into the third who has to solve it."

He clicked the remote. Arrows bloomed across the screen, tracing every rear build-up Daegu had attempted in the league so far. Pass after pass ran in a dead-straight line — not to the six, but to the seven.

What that meant was simple: Daegu's six was an old-fashioned pure destroyer who barely touched the build-up, while the seven, forced to shuttle endlessly between the second and third lines, carried a crushing load.

"If they can string those vertical passes through midfield, they'll tear our high press to shreds. But it's nowhere near as easy as it sounds. The risk is enormous and the success rate is low."

Worse still, Daegu had shown zero signs of fixing the problem. A second-line player already drew heavy attention; with a build-up pattern this obvious, every pass lane was lit up for the whole stadium to see.

A glaring weakness. Sun Ki-baek had decided to drive a stake straight through it.

"Which is why you two — Baek Yi-an, Kang Sang-yong — your roles are absolutely critical. Think of it this way: hammer the number seven with relentless pressure and force the inaccurate pass. Everyone else, burn every last drop of stamina you've stored up pressing them. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"We've got players making their comeback tonight, and others just back from national-team duty. The chemistry might not click right away. That only makes the veterans' roles more important. Help each other out, and repay the fans who traveled all this way with a win!"

"Yes, sir!"

With that, the players rose one by one and headed for the tunnel.

The dressing room emptied almost at once. Head Coach Oh Hyun-ook approached Sun Ki-baek, who still stood alone in the center of the room.

"Didn't expect that from you, Boss."

"Expect what?"

"Starting Kang Sang-yong. Knowing your temper, I figured you'd either shove someone else into the holding role or run Yi-an as a single pivot."

Single pivot. Sun Ki-baek's brow furrowed at the words.

"Single pivot, my ass. Hey — did I ever once use a single pivot the whole time I was in Spain?"

"Well, still…"

"Yeah. Sang-yong and I had our issues, so I get why you'd think that. Old me would've at least considered the single pivot, like you said. And anyone who talked back would've been sold the second the summer window opened."

Would have considered it? Old him? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Oh Hyun-ook tilted his head.

"So why the change?"

"Hell if I know."

If there had been some grand reason he could have explained it. Unfortunately, Sun Ki-baek couldn't open his mouth. Blabbing to a coach about something personal between a player and his manager simply wasn't in his nature.

A proper apology was all it ever needed. Why the hell did he drag it out so stupidly for so long?

Remembering Kang Sang-yong's visit during the international break, Sun Ki-baek smiled.

A real apology and a real will to improve. Give him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠those two things and Sun Ki-baek was prepared to forgive a player for almost any mess he made.

Sure, if you looked at it emotionally, the man had challenged his authority — not the easiest thing to swallow…

One team… the single most important value I learned studying tactics in Spain.

For the sake of Jeonbuk's revival, he could forgive one player's lapse.

The match between Daegu CF and Jeonbuk Future Motors kicked off with Daegu taking the first touch.

Daegu CF. Honestly, I'd always had a soft spot for them.

Not because of their style of play or any particular player — more because watching them felt like looking at the Jeonbuk of the past.

Old Daegu went through hell every bit as rough as Jeonbuk. Relegated to the second division in 2013, then got kicked around in K League 2 without ever putting up a fight.

Just as the hopeless points-vending machine that was Jeonbuk Ceratops had lit the fuse of its revival the moment Future Motors started bankrolling them, Daegu had begun their own resurrection once Director Cho Gwang-rye walked through the door.

A rebuild built around prospects, a Korea Cup title in 2018, a brand-new football-specific stadium completed in 2019 — they became the model every citizen-owned club wanted to copy. Finding a more complete revival than that wouldn't have been easy.

But the hopeful stretch never lasted.

Like I said, the reason I felt affinity for Daegu was that they'd walked almost the same road as Jeonbuk.

Which meant this:

Just like Jeonbuk rode a golden age straight into a freefall, Daegu was freefalling too.

Jeonbuk had cratered on the back of idiotic managerial appointments; Daegu, not to be outdone, had tried to tinker with the counter-attacking style that was both their greatest strength and their biggest flaw, and promptly crashed into mid-to-lower-table mediocrity.

One failed managerial hire after another.

If baseball was a pitcher's game, football was a manager's game — nothing poisoned a side's performances faster than appointing a coach who didn't fit. And the aftershocks of those failures were still written all over the pitch tonight.

Shhhhk!

"Ah—!"

"Yi-an! Give it now!"

"Yes!"

I slid in near the center circle, snapped the ball away, and rolled it straight back to Senior Sang-yong. The man I'd just dispossessed was Daegu's number seven — according to the boss's analysis, the heart of their build-up and a massive influence in the midfield battle.

"Sang-yong! Left side's open!"

"Gyeong-rok, look for the half-space with Yeon-woo!"

"Got it!"

The second a hole opened in Daegu's midfield, Jeonbuk's ferocious attack flared to life. Sang-yong's ball found Han Gyeong-rok.

Yeon-woo, originally a winger, was already inverted and cutting inside. Gyeong-rok knew it — he exploded down the touchline with the ball at his feet. The moment Daegu's fullback got dragged out, he slipped the pass inside to Yeon-woo.

Tok.

"Hoo…"

Daegu were in a back four, so there were still plenty of bodies left in the box. Yeon-woo's options were basically two: shoot a half-beat earlier than the keeper expected, or drive even deeper to create space and find someone else. The second choice was high-risk and didn't fit a side that pushed its line this high.

Apparently Yeon-woo had reached the same conclusion. After a quick look at the angle, he heel-flicked the ball straight to me.

"Yi-an! Just hit it! Do whatever you want with it!"

"Whatever I want, huh…"

Fine by me.

I took the ball and lifted my eyes into the box. That one turn had bought Daegu's defense enough time to recover. Creating something from here was the kind of choice most players wouldn't even dare attempt — usually you'd look for a combination or a speculative long-range effort…

Luckily for us, Jeonbuk had a certain someone.

"Hey! Baek Yi-an, hit me!"

Watching Yoon Seung-hwan scream at the top of his lungs while tightrope-walking the Daegu back line was so absurd I nearly laughed out loud.

What the hell is that guy even doing?

I'd been holding back lately because of the senior national-team players around, but a few goals in World Cup qualifying had apparently swollen his ego into something monstrous.

That's not how it works. A striker can't afford a big ego.

Other people might disagree. I didn't. Even if I somehow forced the ball to him, he just had to put it in the net. That was what an ideal striker looked like.

"If you want the ball that badly, I guess I've got to give it to you."

Thump!

I nodded to myself and drove a hard, low ball into Yoon Seung-hwan's path. Weaker than the whipped crosses I'd once served onto his head every other day, but still closer to a shot than a through ball. The velocity was so ridiculous Daegu's defenders simply lost it.

"Nice— ugh! Ah, this bastard for real—!"

Seung-hwan took it in an awkward half-crouch and nearly made a mess of it. But the talent that would one day make him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a world-class striker didn't vanish that easily. He reset his feet and simply rolled it into the net.

Tok!

Swishhh!

Seung-hwan's clean finish split the goal.

Feeling the contrast between Grazie gasping in horror and the Mad Green Boys roaring from the far end, I walked over to Yoon Seung-hwan.

"You asked for it and I gave it to you right away. So? Happy?"

"You absolute psycho! Who the hell delivers a through ball like that?! Did I land wrong? My ankle's been throbbing a little since earlier…"

"You still scored, though. Got a complaint?"

"No! I don't, you bastard! I don't!"

I gave a half-hearted nod at the sight of Seung-hwan whining right in front of the Daegu supporters, then turned my gaze toward the dejected home end.

Mm. Yeah, yeah. The second I drop an assist, the Daegu fans light up. Might as well stick another one in.

Something I'd felt every single time, even in my past life:

There was nothing more fun than celebrating right in front of a silent, broken home end.