Misjudgment (1)

The Iraq players walked into the ninth match of the World Cup third round qualifiers with a look of grim resolve.

Our side was no less composed, of course. Qualification was already locked in, but there was still plenty left to test. Still, we had it far better than they did.

"..."

"Hah..."

They're not marching off to die. Why the hell do they all look like that?

If someone had told me those were the faces of soldiers about to go to war, I would have believed them. Aside from Ibrahim Shulaka, who had just been talking to me, the rest either kept dead silent or heaved heavy sighs.

Sure, they hadn't sealed their ticket yet, and there was no denying their form had been rough. But did that really justify an atmosphere this thoroughly wrecked?

I dug through my memory for a reason and found one.

Right. Their manager got swapped out.

Before kickoff, Manager Valde had briefed us that Iraq's head coach had been replaced. Renato Inácio, the man who had been running the side, had been sacked over poor results and a handful of other issues. In his place they had appointed a Spaniard named Javier Sáez.

He wasn't some legendary mastermind. He had spent years as an assistant at Atlético Madrid and was taking the national-team reins for the first time. Swapping managers right before a tournament that decided World Cup qualification was already bold enough. Handing the job to a big-club product with zero prior managerial track record was the kind of miracle move I couldn't quite wrap my head around.

Still, they must have had their reasons. Maybe they decided the results simply didn't match the money they had poured in. Plenty of teams had proven a sharp coach could drag a broken side back on track in short order. The Iraqi federation might have been banking on exactly that. Or maybe they were just chasing the old "sacking bounce."

Either way, only one thing actually mattered to me.

Who do I feed today—Nam-oo hyung or Yoon Seung-hwan?

I waited for kickoff with that pleasant little dilemma rolling around in my head.

The match kicked off with Iraq, the home side, taking the first touch.

Just as Manager Valde had briefed us, their goalkeeper dropped between the center-backs and they built out of the back in a 3–4 shape. The idea was obvious enough: circulate the ball deep in their own half and drag our forwards out of position.

Obsess over that too hard, though, and it becomes painfully predictable—the opposing attackers ease off the press and start moving freely. Javier Sáez seemed to know it. He treated the pattern as a transitional step rather than a sacred doctrine.

"Mark the right half-space! They're going for that side!"

"Nam-hyeok hyung! I'll hold the line—you stick tight on the man!"

That was exactly how it played out. Iraq kept switching play through Ibrahim Shulaka at the back. The second our line wavered, they launched a long ball forward. It dropped near the half-space. Muhammad and midfielder Tariq both made the run.

I had told Nam-hyeok hyung to mark him, but I never actually expected him to handle it alone. Two attackers against one defender. Even on a rough estimate, the numbers favored a breakthrough.

Sure, there are players who somehow resolve those impossible situations with some invisible something of their own... but if Nam-hyeok hyung could do that, he wouldn't still be grinding out suffering-ball for Gwangju. If he had that gift, the cameras would already be catching that big bright smile of his on some overseas pitch.

Unless the other side is busy sabotaging themselves, getting beaten in a numerical disadvantage is the normal outcome. I never counted on him solving it solo.

So why leave him on the mark while I held the line?

Because you don't get a better angle for a sliding tackle than this.

I smirked and closed the gap the instant Muhammad and Tariq carved Nam-hyeok hyung open with a one-two. Whether his vision had short-circuited or pure adrenaline had taken over, Muhammad only had eyes for the half-space and tore straight up the line.

The only gift I had for a player that arrogant was a sliding tackle.

Shhhraaak!

"Aaaargh!"

"Damn. Even I have to admit that one was clean."

He lost the ball so completely he flung himself into a full dive, as if the tackle had come out of nowhere. Watching that ridiculous Hollywood roll, I almost wondered if he seriously thought it would work. I decided not to get angry about it. If the referee had working eyes, the right call would take care of itself.

Peeeeep!

"Hey! Stop right there! I said stop!"

See? Off in the distance, today's fair and impartial referee, Wang Sichong, came jogging over with a card already in hand.

He could have just stood there after losing the ball. Why go looking for a booking?

I let out a short sigh and turned to the referee as he rushed up and stuck the card out.

"Baek Yi-an! That's a yellow for you. The tackle was far too deep."

"What? Me? Open your eyes properly! Why the hell am I the one getting booked?"

"Hm? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠What are you doing pointing at your eyes like that? Is that some kind of anti-Asian gesture? This is more serious than I thought!"

"I'm Asian. Why would I be discriminating against myself? You've been talking complete nonsense since the start."

I stared at the corrupt garbage of a referee with my mouth hanging open.

This was a yellow? From certain angles a tackle from behind can look like a straight red, sure—but I never touched his legs. I only took the ball.

At the very least check VAR. Handing out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cards without even a look—how was that supposed to be acceptable?

"Referee! At least go to VAR. Why is this a booking..."

"Urrrgh... my leg... Oh God ..."

Muhammad, you bastard, you fell over on your own. What's with the God routine?

I had nothing left to say about a call that absurd. I already knew Asian refereeing standards could be rough, but I hadn't expected anything this farcical. Maybe I had misread the contact—except the reactions around me made it clear I hadn't.

"Gang-rok, pull Yi-an back for a second. I'll talk to the referee."

"Hey! You puta bastard! Open your damn eyes! How the hell is that a yellow, you maniac!"

"M-Manager Valde! If you keep shouting you'll get booked too... please, just hold back for now..."

Look at that. Even Martin Valde—a man who had lived and breathed football for decades—couldn't swallow the call and was practically rolling on the ground in protest.

If Iraq hadn't been under travel restrictions, we probably would have been treated to a full concert of Red Devils abuse from the away end. The entire mess belonged to Referee Wang Sichong, of course. And like every referee who dishes out wrong calls for breakfast, he just stared at me with that smug certainty that his judgment was flawless.

There was nothing more I could do.

"Forget it. I'll just swallow it."

"Yeah, Yi-an. Just let it go for now. We're already through. Play free."

The only real answer was to lock this injustice away and settle the score out on the pitch where everyone could see it. No matter how I turned it over, that was the only play left.

Pee-ree-ree-ree!

The Iraq home fans blasted their strange little whistles even louder, thrilled that their boy had earned someone a yellow. The game only swung back our way after they completely wasted the free kick they had just been gifted.

"Min-je hyung! Now! Right now!"

Jun-ho hyung started the build-up. The ball came through Min-je hyung and found my feet. The second I received it I knew we had to raise the tempo, and I shifted gears immediately.

Whether it was the yellow or the fact that word of my nasty temper had already spread through their squad, the Iraq players swarmed me the moment I touched the ball, throwing their bodies into every contact.

"Quickly—just smash into him and take it!"

"If you hit Baek Yi-an, all you have to do is go down and pick up a card. Don't worry, stay on him!"

"Aish. These bastards used to hit the deck every other touch—now why are they flying in this hard?"

I never learned Arabic, so I couldn't catch the exact words. From the way they were moving, though, the plan was obvious: either barge me off the ball or manufacture another booking.

Once I knew the intention, there was no reason to play along. That didn't mean I had to stay gentlemanly while they played dirty. If the other side wants to get filthy, I get filthy right back. That was always my rule.

Luckily, a past life spent playing football like a complete lunatic had left me with exactly the right technique for this kind of mess.

"Aish—stop grabbing my jersey and get off me!"

Thud!

"Guhhh! My thigh!"

I used the perfect body position to draw the Iraq players in, then used them like a wall to screen the referee's view. The second they blocked the sightline I drove my knee straight into the guy's thick thigh.

He screamed at the sudden, sharp pain. If someone had paid the officials, that pathetic howl might have earned me ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a red. But no one had. It happened in a contested area the referee couldn't see, and both of my arms were clearly nowhere near the other body—so there was nothing to call.

The Iraq player collapsed into full Hollywood mode, and the two-versus-one advantage flipped back to even numbers.

I skipped past the remaining man with a clean la croqueta, spotted Nam-oo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hyung already charging in with his headgear on, and whipped an outside-of-the-foot ball up into the air.

Thwump!

"Ugh!"

Referee Wang Sichong clearly never expected an outside-foot delivery. He had been standing there like a lamppost and only ducked at the last second to avoid getting clocked. My ball skimmed just over his head by a hair.

Its final destination, of course, was Nam-oo hyung's headgear.

Thud!

Splash!

"Yaaaaaah! Yi-aaaaaan!"

The ball was sucked into the net. Nam-oo hyung came sprinting straight at me.

I didn't bother with a celebration. Just standing there in front of the Iraq player still lying uselessly on the ground was more than enough.