Suwon's Messiah

Having tasted the full bitterness of being overrun, Suwon seemed to have decided they had no choice but to settle things with counterattacks and long balls.

Long-ball football.

The kind of approach football fans point at with contempt and experts sneer at as old-fashioned. Honestly, calling it a tactic felt generous — it was little more than a gamble that banked entirely on individual quality and launched the ball skyward, and its efficiency was usually nothing to write home about.

"Well. There are teams that grind out wins against stronger sides with a stripped-down, one-click long-ball system," I muttered.

But those teams at least walked into the match knowing they were the challengers, deliberately choosing the long-ball game from the start. That was a world away from Suwon's situation — their original plan completely shut down, forced to heave the ball into the final third out of sheer desperation. The quality of the delivery, and the players' mindsets, were completely different.

Naturally, our side wasn't stupid enough to fall for attacks that thin. And more than that, we weren't about to get burned by the same mistake twice.

Maybe that was why the stands were losing their minds.

"Whoa, Baek Yi-an, what the hell is that jump? You just take off and spike it out of the air."

"Hyung, you see that? We need to remeasure that bastard's vertical, right? Hey. Baek Yi-an, you doping or what?"

"Doping, my ass. Why the hell would I do that?"

The reason the score between Suwon — who'd come out swinging early — and us had ballooned to five–nil was simple.

If they'd stuck with their original system, they might still have been overrun, but they probably could have snuck at least one consolation goal. Whether Manager Park Yong-taek had been completely spooked by our performance or not, the moment the second goal went in he packed the box with a double bank of defenders and started launching mindless long balls.

Personally, I believed that if you were going to lose either way, you might as well trade fire for fire, so I didn't entirely understand his call. Still, it was the opposing manager's tactic, and I meant to respect that. To settle whose judgment was right, I threw myself into the match with everything I had.

And this was the result.

"By the way, Yi-an. What ceremony are we doing this time? Big Man?"

"Big Man? That's too stale."

"Then, Control Tower?"

"Control Tower's good too, but that one's funnier right in front of the away end. Ah, screw it. I'll just do this one."

After the goal, I shared a quick hug with the twins who'd sprinted over, then immediately accelerated toward the corner flag. Without killing my speed I threw myself into a sliding tackle and stretched my foot out at the pole.

Crack!

A corner flag that should have simply bent — hit by the biting cold and the full charge of a giant frame — snapped clean and collapsed in a pathetic heap.

A corner flag, utterly destroyed. What I had to do next was obvious.

"Yaaaaaah!"

I flopped onto my back and started thrashing the broken flag like a man possessed.

From the Human Bicycle Ceremony through Big Fish Catching, the Bobsled, and the Taser Gun, the grand finale of this special exhibition had been decided: a solo Flag Ceremony to seal the show.

With the Mad Green Boys' chant roaring behind me, I whipped the flag like a storm. The end of that glorious ceremony arrived only when a thoroughly fed-up referee strode over and raised his hand toward the sky.

"Hoo. Baek Yi-an. You know what I'm about to say."

"Ah. You've arrived. I've been waiting."

"For heaven's sake. Fifteen minutes left in the match and you get yourself sent off for a celebration — you're the only one who'd pull that. Yellow for damaging stadium property, and with the accumulation, you're off. Go rest."

A red card thrust toward the sky.

The moment the dismissal was confirmed, I trudged toward our bench.

"Yi-an. Good work. Normally I'd tear you a new one, but since it was those Gaerang bastards on the other side, I'll let it slide. The team doctors are in the locker room — go see them."

"Team doctors? I'm not hurt anywhere, Coach."

"No. You are hurt. There's definitely something wrong with you! So get in there and get checked! CT scan, psych eval, I don't care — just shut up and take it, you little punk!"

Watching the coach shriek at the top of his lungs while clamping my neck and pulling a full Casanova celebration on me left me with no choice but to stand there, stunned.

Because of that provocative celebration, I was sent off, and Jeonbuk had to face Suwon a man short. But the match had been so one-sided, and the gap on the scoreboard so vast already, that nothing really changed. The game simply ran out the clock.

Reading the articles, I let out a short laugh and one particular scene floated back up.

I never would have guessed the J.E. Planning CEO's son was a fan of mine.

I'd scored and been sent off so fast I headed straight for the locker room, so I hadn't known at the time. But the image of the J.E. Planning CEO booting his son — decked out in a Jeonbuk jersey — out of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the skybox had clearly gone viral; even with so little time passed, it was already flooding every community.

The second my goal went in, a kid had suddenly stripped off his outer layer to reveal a Jeonbuk kit with my name on the back and launched straight into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a celebration — while the Suwon officials around him stared with trembling pupils.

"So ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that was the guy I met earlier."

It was our first meeting, but he'd stuck in my memory all the same. Not from a past life or anything — just from before kickoff, when I was signing for fans after getting off the bus and he'd come sprinting over in a panic to beg for autographs. That moment had burned itself in.

I'd seen people wear a jersey over their coat, but someone wearing one under their clothes? First time for me, and it threw me. Even the "I might die if I don't wear it underneath" line had made me wonder what on earth he was talking about. Looking back now, I finally understood.

"It all lines up. His father is the CEO of J.E. Planning, the parent company of Suwon Ohseong Bluefeather. Of course Dad roots for Suwon. They came together, so they end up side by side in the skybox watching the match."

And how many of Suwon's top brass would have been packed into that VIP box?

With rumors swirling that the Ohseong Group was looking to wash its hands of football and sports altogether, the front office would have treated this visit as their last real shot and rolled out the full red carpet. From the general manager on down, every key figure would have been sitting right there.

"And in that setting, the second I score, he comes out of the closet and shows off a jersey with my signature on it? That's not easy. Kid's impressive in every way. To pull something that bold at that age."

I almost wanted to know where that confidence even came from.

Was it just that he was young and fearless? Or a golden-spoon kid raised so soft he figured he wouldn't get in real trouble…

Or maybe it was just pure confidence. His father's one of the most powerful corporate CEOs in Korea — that blood doesn't just disappear.

If he'd inherited the thick-blooded decisiveness of a man who made high-stakes calls every day with fortunes on the line, then the way Noh Yun-geon's son had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠acted wasn't that strange after all.

Of course, this time he made a slightly too-wrong call and got treated like a lunatic who'd snuck into enemy territory…

He could have just come carefully, watched the match, gotten my autograph, and left it at that. Why did he have to make a show of it?

It had been a long time since a win left me with this kind of aftertaste… and it simply didn't feel good.

Watching a precious fan get scolded and dragged away by his father was part of it.

Objectively, Suwon was getting dismantled five–nil, and the club owner's own son had been caught in the skybox going wild in a Jeonbuk jersey. If things went wrong, I couldn't help worrying that the whole point of the courage I'd scraped together — the weight of wanting to carry the league's popularity, even if it earned me some hate — might end up tainted.

"A-yoon. Are Suwon fans actually okay with me? You're not lying, right? I trusted you and checked, and if the second I open the screen it's just dual-track cursing, I'm going to be genuinely hurt."

"Ehh. It's true, I'm telling you… There was a lot of hate at first. But then the Suwon owner watched today's match, got so fired up he did an interview promising real support so they can take down Jeonbuk — and the public mood flipped."

"Wait. He watched the celebrations I pulled and then promised investment? Does that even make sense?"

Honestly, I didn't get it. But if A-yoon was this insistent, she wasn't making it up.

Her confidence rubbed off on me. I refreshed the feed, and a cascade of new articles poured in.

"What is this now? The owner's son gets exposed as a Jeonbuk mole and one apology is enough for forgiveness? And I'm Suwon's savior? What the hell does that even mean?"

A parade of articles I couldn't begin to process left me dizzy.