Wrong Call (4)

As if determined to make up for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his earlier mistake, Yoon Seung-hwan finished a spectacular goal — and with that, the manager subbed me and Hyung Tae-hwan out.

"Good work out there, Yi-an. Must've been rough. Rest up now."

"Nah, I'm fine. Be careful out there, Coach. I'll keep the bench warm for you."

"You're not coming back on before the final whistle, so no need to warm anything, you little shit."

There are players who, after putting in a solid shift, refuse to accept being substituted and throw a tantrum about it. I was not one of those people.

The clock sat at the sixty-seventh minute of the second half — a perfectly sensible window for a manager to burn a substitution card. And unless someone was injured or playing like garbage, the first man off the pitch was always going to be whoever already had a yellow.

Watching Iraq's rough, sticky style of play from the technical area as a manager, you'd naturally start thinking those bastards were one foul away from disaster. For Martin Valde, a coach who still needed every match he could get for experimentation, giving me a rest was the obvious call.

"Well done, Yi-an. Don't you dare think for a second I took you off because you were poor. As I've said again and again, this whole match is part of the experiment."

"Doesn't bother me at all, Coach. I'm fine."

Once I'd given him the all-clear that I wasn't stewing about it, he patted my backside a couple of times and finally let me go.

After I returned to the bench, nothing worth mentioning really happened. Being down even one goal was already a mountain; being down two meant Iraq's heads knew they had to chase — but their legs were starting to give out. And in that state, the third line of Tae-hwan and Nam-hyuk put on a suffocating defensive masterclass that slowly, methodically strangled Iraq to death.

Time dragged on like that, endless and dull.

Preeeeet!

The final whistle from referee Wang Sichong — the man who'd spent the entire match delivering decisions that left everyone speechless — brought the game to a close.

A perfect 2–0 victory.

Honestly, I just wanted to get inside and rest, but manners still mattered, so I was exchanging handshakes with the players when Iraq manager Javier Sayes walked over.

"HELLO?"

"I speak Spanish, actually."

"Oh, thank God. When I casually asked Martin Valde, he said you speak it like a native, so I was half-hoping."

Our manager had already told him I spoke Spanish, and he still opened with English just in case. More importantly — why was he seeking me out first?

"Is there something you wanted to say?"

"Praise, of course. I'd already done some scouting and analysis on you beforehand, but watching you actually play left me even more impressed."

So he'd come over just to compliment me?

I nodded along, giving him the polite reactions. Javier Sayes, as if he'd been bottling it up, walked through my entire performance point by point, laying on the praise.

"Whew. I've kept a tired player standing here far too long. In any case, I'm glad I got to see a real talent. Ah — one more thing. I understand you're currently playing in Korea. Have you given any thought to the future?"

"The future?"

What future was there to think about? The second the transfer window opened, check whether Oliver had landed any big-league offers, move, put in the performances, win the World Cup, and take the Ballon d'Or. That was it.

More to the point — why was he asking me that? Please don't let this be an invitation to the Iraqi league…

"Well. If you're a footballer, you have to aim for Europe at least once, don't you?"

"Haha. Exactly. A man has to take a shot at the summit. If I can offer one simple piece of advice: when the chance comes, grab it. From what I've seen, you're already good enough to leave for Europe tomorrow. La Liga would suit you even better, of course."

With that, Javier Sayes stepped back.

I'd been braced for something heavier — and all he came out with was "go try Europe"? I still didn't fully understand what he'd been driving at, but I decided not to dwell on it any further. The transfer window hadn't even opened; we were only just barreling toward mid-season. Fretting about it now wouldn't change a thing.

And more importantly, if I stood around here any longer I was going to be in danger.

"Hey! Baek Yi-an, you absolute bastard! Get over here! Because of you I had to play the rest of the match in a jersey soaked in cola, you piece of shit! Couldn't you wait until after the final whistle? What the hell is this!"

"Whoa — look at that cola still dripping out of your hair."

Despite the pure rage in his voice, Yoon Seung-hwan had somehow still managed a jersey swap with an Iraqi player in the meantime. He came charging over with the Iraq shirt clutched in one hand. Behind him, an Iraqi player was scowling down at a sticky, ruined jersey. I took one glance at that face and immediately started running.

The first leg of Matchday 9 in the third round of World Cup qualifying between South Korea and Iraq ended in a 2–0 away win for the visitors.

Ordinarily, when one side dismantles the other this thoroughly, the coverage splits between reactions to Korea's victory and speculation about Iraq's remaining chances of reaching the finals. This Matchday 9, however, had something far more important than either result — and the vast majority of the articles zeroed in on that instead.

Dozens of pages flooded with articles about the match. Even the reporters could tell how absurd those decisions had been, which was why they'd written them in the first place. And the public reaction was even more savage than expected.

We'd already locked up qualification ages ago. Still — who enjoys losing to a string of wrong calls? Luckily the win had been so one-sided that the outrage stayed at the level of angry venting. If it hadn't, Wang Sichong and the entire Iraq squad's social media would have been hit by a plague of locusts.

"Actually, no. Wang Sichong is Chinese, so maybe not a social media raid."

Normally I found China's closed-off policies something to laugh at; days like this, they just felt irritating. But with the manager having gone after him so openly, even Wang Sichong — unless he was completely dense — had to know he'd produced vermin-level decisions. That was why he'd packed up and fled the second the whistle blew.

"Those two are at it again. At this point aren't they basically friends? Whoever they are, I'd love to see their faces once."

I settled in to enjoy the familiar WWE main event at my leisure and started walking through the mixed zone. The comments made it crystal clear how furious people were with Wang Sichong — you could feel it through the screen. But none of that mattered anymore. We were the winners, and I'd already paid the referee back in my own small way.

Wrong calls? Go ahead and make them. Win anyway and settle the score. That was enough.

"Mmm. That's right. Hyung got a yellow on a vermin-level decision, then still produced an assist. And Iraq got absolutely cooked even with the ref on their side."

I was muttering to myself with a little smirk — standing there like Mourinho after a treble, surveying the surroundings with a solemn face — when it happened.

"Uh… Baek Yi-an? Did you mean what you just said?"

"…"

"Baek Yi-an?"

I discovered a reporter staring at me with eyes the size of saucers in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the mixed zone. I'd thought I was alone… so someone had been there…

"Reporter… I'm putting my faith in you. If you're going to write it, at least wait until I'm back in Korea before you post the article."

"Ah. Yes. Of course. I'd like to stay alive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠too."

"Appreciate it. Enjoy the rest of the coverage."

I clasped the still-slack-jawed reporter's hand, gave it a firm shake, and then hustled onto the team bus with short, quick steps.