Wrong Call (3)
In the second half that followed the coach's fiery briefing, Iraq started applying some serious pressure.
Unlike us, who had already locked up our place in the finals, Iraq still hadn't secured qualification despite being a second pot team. Maybe they figured they had to grind out a win at home no matter what.
Rather than simply switching to an attacking stance, Iraq pushed their line high up the pitch. Just as I was casually recycling possession through their ferocious press, I spotted the coach on the sideline, yelling something at me.
"Yi-an... don't... too much!"
"What's he even saying?"
If you've got something to tell me, enunciate a little. I'm already far away—how am I supposed to catch anything when you mumble-shout like that?
I tilted my head at him, and once he realized I hadn't understood a word, he started pumping both hands up and down in a calming gesture.
Ah. That made it clear enough what he was going for.
Take it easy, don't rush—because you've already got a booking?
I couldn't be sure those were his exact words, but the general idea seemed about right.
After all, just as we were heading into the tunnel for the second half, the coach had come over and tried to fire me up.
Yi-an! You didn't do anything wrong, okay? It was just an unlucky accident. Don't dwell on it—just focus on your game. You played well in the first half, so keep doing what you're doing. And don't get heated. Got it?
He must have been pretty shaken by Referee Wang Si-cong's theatrical yellow card, the way he'd grabbed me—perfectly unbothered as I was—and whispered all that like he was hypnotizing me.
Honestly, I didn't get it. But thinking about it for half a second, it made perfect sense from the coach's perspective.
Look at it objectively. Sure, I was doing well in the league, but I was still just an eighteen-year-old kid with almost no national team experience. Getting hit with a bad call on the road in a stadium packed with away fans, then giving up a corner on top of it—yeah. From the outside, you might wonder what the hell this Baek Yi-an kid was doing, or whether he was going to freeze up.
But like I said, I didn't care about any of that for a second.
Because I thought bad calls were just part of the game?
Hell no.
What kind of lunatic thinks a wrong call is part of the game? That's the kind of rationalization you only hear from managers who benefited from a howler, then try to spin it when the press comes after them.
The reason I stayed so calm about it was simple: I was used to it.
After dealing with those so-called big-name EPL referees—stuffed full of authority complexes, making terrible calls and then acting like they were right—watching Asian referees screw up out of pure ignorance actually made them look like saints by comparison.
When you never expected anything in the first place, even betrayal doesn't hurt.
Since I was already staying cool, the coach's advice was basically useless. Whether the Iraqi players came flying in or not, I could still do exactly what I needed to do without breaking a sweat.
"Min-hyung, give it to me and make your run. Now!"
"Damn it!"
Thump!
When Min-hyung looked about to get isolated out on the wing while searching for an angle, I pushed high, took the ball, and with a half-turn switched the play wide to Jun-hong on the opposite side.
"Hoo. Hup!"
With the numbers packed on the right suddenly rendered useless by the switch, Jun-hong received it in a much more comfortable situation.
The other side still hadn't set their shape, so he could pick any option he wanted. Link up with Kyu-hyun coming up behind him to create space and feed Yoon Seung-hwan, or just drive at goal himself—either worked. With Nam-hyuk and me covering behind, Jun-hong could play with real confidence.
Maybe that was why he decided to use a burst of pace to rip through Iraq's still-unorganized back line.
Tap. Thump-thump!
Using a phantom dribble to shrug off the fullback with ease, Jun-hong feinted a cross near the touchline, then cut inside. The defender, who had already planted himself for a cross with a poacher parked in the box, completely lost the movement.
Iraq's hesitant tempo couldn't keep up with the pace we were playing at. Jun-hong didn't waste the chance that opened up.
"Yes! Seung-hwan! Just get a touch on it!"
"Huh? Ugh—!"
Unfortunately, the finish wasn't his to take. Yoon Seung-hwan, whose positioning was always ridiculous, took a first touch ready to smash it—
—but the charging defender got there first.
Wham!
"Kill it!"
"You're seriously throwing your face in the way for that?"
The ball had just left Seung-hwan's foot and started to bounce when Yahya of Iraq stuck his head in and sent it sailing out of play. Even Seung-hwan, with that otherworldly talent for turning any ball that touches him into a goal, apparently drew the line at kicking someone in the skull.
"Ah... Seung-hwan's been a little off today, huh?"
"Excuse me? Jun-hong, don't pin this on m—"
Seung-hwan looked at Jun-hong with the face of a man whose trust had been betrayed. Of course Jun-hong was only joking—he knew it couldn't be helped—but Seung-hwan didn't pick up on that, and instead turned to me with a thumbs-up.
What's that supposed to mean? Why is he giving me a thumbs-up? Does he want me to play along?
Granted, watching the national team over the years, I'd seen guys butcher a chance with a garbage pass and still fire off a solemn thumbs-up like they were world-class. From the stands it made your blood boil—what the hell are these idiots doing?—but for the players actually on the pitch, you force the praise to keep everyone's confidence up.
"Yeah, well. Not me."
I flipped my thumb downward and shoved it right in Seung-hwan's face.
Credit where it's due, and criticism where it's earned. People say praise makes even whales dance, but if you compliment Seung-hwan without thinking, his ego just balloons. The right mix of carrot and stick—that was the lesson I'd learned from playing with him.
"Hey... Baek Yi-an, how can you do that to me!"
Right now, it was definitely whip time.
Yahya's selfless defending kept Iraq from falling further behind, but the price was another corner.
As our designated free-kick and set-piece taker, Kang-jin collected the ball and headed for the corner flag—with a wall of Iraqi boos trailing after him the whole way.
"BOOOOOOOO!!"
"Whoa. Listen to that booing. This is exactly why you shouldn't play in travel-ban countries."
Being the Middle East, the numbers were limited, but having even a few away fans to cheer us on would've made things a little more bearable. Iraq was a designated travel-ban country, though, so the stadium was packed wall-to-wall with home fans—and the same people who'd been blasting weird pipe music to disrupt us since before kickoff weren't about to leave Kang-jin alone.
"BOOOOOOO!!"
Wheeeeeee!
The deafening boos and those unidentifiable pipe noises were bad enough on their own, but Iraq's home fans weren't gentlemen about to stop there.
Whoosh! Thunk! Clatter-clatter!
"Hey! Ref! The crowd is throwing cola bottles and beer cups! You're not going to do anything about this?"
Cola bottles, lighters, and empty plastic cups rained down around the corner flag. Even though it had gone past mere disruption into something that could actually endanger a player, the veteran Kang-jin just said a quick word to the linesman and immediately refocused on the match.
Maybe he decided the set piece had to come first. Or maybe he'd already figured out from talking to the referee that these guys made garbage decisions and wasn't counting on them for anything. I was with him on that. As the Korean football legend Ki Sung-yong once said, a leader has to be solid—if the captain starts looking rattled, the whole team panics. He must have decided this was the moment to lock the mood down himself.
With that resolute look on his face, Kang-jin raised a hand to signal he was ready and waited for the whistle.
Pheeeeep!
Thump!
The instant the whistle blew, he took a short run-up and drove the ball into the penalty box.
"Yoon Seung-hwan! Drop off a little like we planned—and do it exactly like we practiced!"
"I know! Just watch this time!"
Our set-piece routine was simple and clear. Min-je would act like the main target to set the table, while Seung-hwan quietly drifted off to sow confusion—then, once the scramble got heated, he'd slip into position and finish.
Not easy, sure. But Seung-hwan's positioning was the kind that could dodge a tsunami, and he had the talent to make it work every single time.
"That's it! Seung-hwan! You miss this one and you know what's coming!"
"I'm putting it in, damn it!"
Of course the Iraqi players walked right into a set piece that simple.
Thump!
The net nearly tore from the force of Seung-hwan's strike, as if he were paying back his earlier miss with interest.
"YEEEAAAH, hell yes! I told you I'd put it in! If it weren't for that bastard earlier I would've had a brace for re—ugh!"
The second he confirmed the goal, Seung-hwan started sprinting off to prepare a celebration—only to discover, unfortunately, that the choice of celebration was not his to make.
Squeeze!
"Gah! Hey! Let go! I need to do my celebration here—"
"Just hold still, man! Yi-an! I brought Yoon Seung-hwan over—what are we doing this time? Human bicycle's tough without Gyeong-rok around!"
"I've got something in mind. Just keep a good grip on him."
"Baek Yi-an. Where the hell did you get that cola? And why are you shaking it?! Hey, it's gonna explode—it's gonna explode!"
Pinned in a bear hug from behind by Han Gang-rok, who'd snuck up out of nowhere, Seung-hwan stared at me in pure horror as I shook the cola bottle. I just smirked and tossed it over to Kang-jin.
"Senior. Show us how it's done."
"Aigoo. Yi-an's such a good kid. I didn't think you'd actually go through with it. Honestly, I've always wanted to try something like this. Gang-rok! Hold Seung-hwan tight."
"Nooo!"
Seung-hwan let out a shriek. Kang-jin just grinned, cracked the cap, and started spraying.
Fssssshhh!
"AAAAAAGH!"
Seung-hwan took the full blast of the erupting cola straight to the face.
That's what you get for falling asleep during the briefing. You looked half-asleep earlier—seems like you're wide awake now.
Shame it was cola instead of champagne, but as a celebration, it wasn't half bad.