The True Core of Jeonbuk (3)
It was the fifty-second minute when Seung-yong hyung and I came on as substitutes, but nothing much had changed.
We were grinding ourselves down trying to crack Seoul’s defense any way we could, while Seoul stubbornly compressed the gaps and kept every attack at bay.
From the commentators’ booth or a fan’s seat in the stands it probably looked like Jeonbuk had them penned in and was one good punch away from forcing a collapse. From the pitch, though, the picture was far less rosy.
They’re defending better than I expected. Even in my past life they weren’t this solid.
I already knew Seoul ranked among the toughest defensive sides in the K-League, but with Children’s Day and a home crowd behind them they’d clearly sharpened every blade they had for us.
They should have been gassed from the nonstop switch-of-play torture in the first half, yet they were still hanging on by sheer grit. Was this what it looked like when a team was desperate to win? Even with their legs going, Seoul’s players kept their shape and snuffed out every lane.
After endless rounds of defending, Seoul finally got their chance.
“They’ve won it! Julio! Drop a little and get ready to receive!”
Chun-jae hyung’s direct pass toward Yoon Seung-hwan—who was stranded between the first and second lines—cannoned off a defender’s boot. Seoul’s Kim Do-jun, right on the spot, stepped forward with the ball and launched a long ball toward Julio up top.
Reading the flight instantly, Julio set a screen on Yong-ho hyung, took the ball cleanly on his chest, and laid it straight off to Park Si-wan. A second-line player had stepped up to receive while Seoul’s first line started their runs. To make it worse, the wide man also collected the ball from Si-wan and tore toward our half, looking to create numbers.
The blistering counter left our seniors scrambling. Looks like I was going to have to clean this up myself.
“Han Gyeong-rok! Stick to that number eleven making the run down the flank and battle him! Ye-jun hyung, don’t dive in—keep running and organize the back line first! Yong-ho hyung, shift a bit to the side!”
First priority: shut down the wing. That was my call. As the seniors and Han Gyeong-rok shifted right on my instructions, I drifted the opposite way, toward the left.
With more bodies committed to the flank, unless the winger on the ball was crazy enough to try beating everyone himself, he would look to use the strikers. And sure enough, the twin strikers Edson and Julio were already timed to the line—Edson left, Julio central.
They were quick. Head-to-head I was still faster, but the gap between us wasn’t big enough to erase completely. I didn’t care. No matter how fast that bastard was, it wouldn’t matter.
I ramped up to full speed—not charging in, but tracking the Seoul attackers who were piercing our half from behind, holding the proper distance.
Thud!
Knew it.
The moment winger Tak Jun-hyeok spotted Ye-jun hyung holding his zonal line, he flicked a glance sideways and drilled a long ball out to Edson on the left. He’d drawn the defense his way, so sending it the other direction should give them the numbers. Seeing Edson already ahead of me must have sealed the deal in his mind.
Solid decision in a split second. He just overlooked one thing.
“Hup!”
Shhhhk!
“Aaagh!”
I’d deliberately eased off so I could trail. The instant the ball from Julio reached Edson, I exploded into a full sprint, knifed in from behind, and threw myself into a sliding tackle. Clean—only the ball. Quality high enough for a future “Baek Yi-an Special” highlight reel, I thought for half a second.
Then the discordant whistle cut through the noise.
Peeeeep!
“Huh? What the—? Did the ref have a few before kickoff?”
“Baek Yi-an and Edson! Stop!”
Even though the tackle had taken only the ball, Edson’s Hollywood dive brought the referee sprinting over. The same Edson who’d been howling in agony leapt up the second he sensed the official and launched into a full-body explanation, hands and feet flying.
“Ref, he slide from back! No ball, just my legs! You saw, yes?”
“Why’s this guy talking so fast? Can’t understand a word.”
The problem was that his impassioned speech was entirely in English, so the referee understood nothing. Spoken calmly and clearly, even a non-native could have followed. But Edson’s Mexican accent and native-level speed left the older official completely lost.
“Referee? Want me to handle the translation for you?”
I needed to flip this match fast, so I stepped in.
“Huh? Baek Yi-an, you speak English too?”
“Of course, sir. I watch the EPL all the time. Leave it to me. Hey, amigo.”
“What?”
“Be careful next time, yeah? You keep that acting up, I’ll make it real for you.”
After giving the referee a “leave it to me” gesture, I closed on Edson and delivered the warning with careful calm. His face went pale.
“Hmm…”
Edson’s expression was priceless. Shock that this bastard could speak English with a native accent, plus the genuine fear of realizing the quiet rage behind the warning was real—both written plain across his features. I’d only told him to be careful next time. Why was a guy built like a lamppost looking so scared? I clapped him on the shoulder and turned back to the referee.
“Guess my sliding tackle left quite the impression. He was asking if you’d seen it too, Referee. Said it was the best slide of his life or something.”
“That’s what all that English meant?”
“Absolutely. That’s why he asked if you’d seen it at the end.”
“Ah, so he was asking if I saw it? Why’s this guy saying that kind of thing to the referee?”
“These things happen in a football match. Anyway, all settled now, so we can restart. Right, amigo?”
“Yeah…”
Even without understanding the English, the referee sensed something off about the atmosphere. It didn’t change the call, though. By now VAR would have confirmed the tackle was clean. And the player who’d been protesting was now saying everything was fine.
Peeeeep!
Judged a simple, clean challenge, the game restarted. Sang-yong hyung collected the ball from Sang-hyeon hyung’s throw-in and began advancing slowly.
“Looks like they’re not pressing high—they’ve built the whole thing around a zonal block.”
High pressing was basically the default these days, but it wasn’t mandatory. You rushed the ball-winner to apply pressure and force inaccurate passes, right? But if the team being pressed was excellent at third-man combinations, the pressers simply burned stamina and got nothing in return.
“Better to just defend the zones than waste the effort.”
Look at Seoul right now. Instead of trying to win the midfield and build out, their second and third lines sat in a low block, all-in on the counter—everyone but the first line. Meaning Seoul had zero reason to contest the middle of the park.
That’s why the overloads aren’t landing either. Whether it’s the coach’s orders to cut passing lanes rather than man-mark for chances, they’re moving carefully.
Rather than getting dragged around trying to counter overload-isolation, they kept their shape and dug in near the penalty area. Classic underdog approach against a stronger side—I knew how to break it to some extent.
Thud!
“Press him right away! Si-wan, the back’s fine—be more aggressive!”
“Aargh, seriously!”
The problem was that every time I tried to unlock it, Seoul seemed to have a personal grudge against me. The moment I received the ball, both first-line strikers charged, and sometimes a second-line player piled in for good measure. And they left everyone else free—only me.
They’re not ignoring the deep playmaking entirely; they’re just laser-focused on me?
Probably because when I got on the ball I switched play or drove forward more often than the others, so they were wary.
They prepared well.
Irritation at the man-marking faded into an admiring snort that I’d been slightly caught in Coach Nam Jae-yoon’s trap. I knew a side this defensively solid would be hard to attack the usual way, but this level?
Even if I luck out and beat the press, there’s still that final defensive line waiting.
Seoul’s plan against us didn’t end at neutralizing me in midfield. Containing me was secondary. The main idea was extreme compression of the gap between the second and third lines so the opposing attackers got no space at all.
Chun-jae hyung is pinned between the first and second lines, and goal-scorer Yoon Seung-hwan is surrounded by at least four players.
Trying to use wingers like Xhaperi or Yeon-woo hyung? Their shift speed was too fast and they refused to be dragged out, so ordinary distribution wouldn’t crack it.
Maybe that’s why the coach gave those instructions when I came on.
As I recycled the ball at the back and controlled the tempo, the earlier memory surfaced.
If Seoul still don’t attack aggressively after I’m on, leave the back to Sang-yong hyung and push up to link with Chun-jae hyung.
At the time I’d thought it was just to share the isolation pressure on Chun-jae caused by the structural holes in their 5-3-2 defensive setup. Looking back now, it felt different.
Permission to join the attack boldly. Means he trusts me that much.
Of course, if I lost the ball it would become an instant counter, but he was willing to risk it to use me actively. Lately I’d been collecting cards, so I’d held back from freelancing in case it looked bad…
But if he was going this far.
Only right to repay that, isn’t it?
I smirked and pushed forward toward the isolated, fidgeting Chun-jae hyung.
“Chun-jae hyung, behind! Now!”
“Huh? Oh—oh!”
Thud!
The clean back-pass hit my feet, and the Seoul players who’d only been dropping slowly suddenly charged like madmen.
“Stop him! Just one step up! Everyone else hold the line! Ah!”
“Chun-jae hyung, step forward a bit right away!”
“Yi-an! Yeon-woo hyung and I are making the run—be ready to play it through!”
A la croqueta and a quick exchange with Chun-jae shook off the press. Han Gyeong-rok immediately overtook me to attack the half-space. Our wide options: Yeon-woo hyung and Han Gyeong-rok. All I could do for them was create space on the flank.
Can’t pass immediately… Creating space comes first.
I had to shake the shape fast, without giving them time to shift. Decision made, I immediately rolled the ball to Yeon-woo hyung and shouted.
“Yeon-woo hyung! Don’t try to beat your man—come this way!”
“Huh, not a pass?”
“Yes! I’m following behind—hurry!”
Yeon-woo hyung nodded and dribbled toward me, drawing Seoul’s wing-back and second-line players out. The wing-back’s job was to mark Yeon-woo instead of the back four, so that was natural. But that was exactly what I wanted.
The space the wing-back left the moment he was pulled. Creating that meant building the stage for Han Gyeong-rok to run wild.
“Han Gyeong-rok! Go wide! Yeon-woo hyung, give me the ball and cut inside again!”
In that instant Seoul was forced into a dilemma. Leave the now-free Han Gyeong-rok alone after the space opened on the flank? Or follow and mark him? Other teams might send a full-back, but given Yeon-woo’s run and the attacking patterns Seoul had shown all game, allowing intervals in the back four was unthinkable.
“Hold the shape!”
Space created.
Sure enough, Seoul’s choice was for the entire back four to shift left. Quick shift. But in the process their eyes locked onto Han Gang-rok and Yeon-woo hyung—and in that instant Seoul’s players forgot the one thing they had prioritized most this match.
“Huh?”
“Yoon Seung-hwan—get your head on it!”
“Hey. Ah, shit!”
BOOOOM!
Into the gap that opened in the split-second of the shift, I drilled the ball precisely.
THWACK!
“Got… it!”
Whoooosh!
The keeper dived desperately to stop my long-range shot, but Yoon Seung-hwan’s header redirected it, and the net bulged.