Normalization (3)
Ask any hardcore K-League fan to name the two teams they hate most, and the same names always come up.
Jeonbuk Future Motors and Suwon Ohseong Bluefeather. Better known as Maebuk and Gaerang.
Jeonbuk earned its reputation by committing match-fixing—the lowest, most unforgivable sin in sports—and then showing zero signs of remorse afterward.
Suwon’s case was a little different.
If Jeonbuk committed an actual crime… Suwon just feels like pure chaos for chaos’s sake.
No one quite knew why they were always so angry. They picked fights with other fans every single day, and whenever Suwon played—home or away—they tore the place up.
Whenever news broke of another assault at a K-League match, the first reaction was always the same: “Those Gaerang bastards again!”
Their original supporter group name, “Grand Blue,” had long since been twisted into “Gaerang Blue,” and the nickname stuck for exactly that reason.
They say ugly people light up when they see each other. Maybe the same went for idiots—they couldn’t help tearing each other down.
The rivalry had started as a personal feud between managers Cha Beom-gon and Choi Kang-hoe. It exploded into a full-blown fan war in 2008 when the two faced off as managers of Suwon and Jeonbuk, and Jeonbuk crushed Suwon 5–2.
Suwon Ohseong’s catastrophic relegation to the second division cooled things off for a while.
But a rival was still a rival, and a derby was still a derby.
The match between Suwon’s Big Bird and Jeonju Castle had earned the name Gong-seong Match—the Siege—and the atmosphere lived up to it.
Ooooh~ I love you, my love, my Suwon
Ooooh~ I adore you, only you I love
The song shook Big Bird so hard it stabbed straight through my eardrums.
At the same time, Frente Tricolor—Suwon’s official supporter group—started spinning red, white, and blue umbrellas while confetti rained down from above.
Pretty lyrics. Beautiful spinning umbrellas. A genuine spectacle. But I knew better.
The second the whistle blew, those people turning the stadium into a work of art would transform into monsters drunk on victory.
Just thinking about their true nature still made my body tremble. But I’d promised A-yoon, so I had to answer with a win.
I steeled myself and looked out over the pitch.
“It’s started.”
Allez~ Suwon Bluefeather~ Ooooh oh ohhh~
The moment the teams walked out, Frente Tricolor’s chant swelled even louder.
Manager: Sun Ki-baek
Yoon Seung-hwan
Park Yeon-woo — Shaperi
Andres — Kim Choon-jae
Seo Chan-hee — Lee Seung-yong
Han Gyeong-rok — Jeong Seung-yoon — Han Gang-rok
Joo Tae-yeong
Manager: Park Yong-taek
Hwang Bo-hyeon — Osgar — Ryu Han-gyeol
Choi Yeon-jun — Shim Seong-jin — Kang I-deun
Sven Lawrence — Baek Jeong-min — Kim Min-geon
Jang Seon-ho
Modern football and the football of the past differ in quite a few ways.
Listing them all would take days, so I’ll stick to the biggest one: numerical superiority.
Pep Guardiola’s position play that every tactical discussion eventually circles back to. The rise of the sweeper-keeper. The elevated importance of the defensive midfielder. Why high pressing became the default. All of it comes down to numerical superiority.
Divide the pitch into twenty-four zones. Seize numerical superiority in each one. Strip the opponent of ownership of that space.
That was the ultimate purpose of every manager’s tactical battle.
And Suwon were aiming for it perfectly.
“A 4-3-3 and they’re pressing like that.”
Watching from the bench, I bit down hard on my lip.
I hadn’t made the starting eleven, but I wasn’t bitter about it.
What I wanted was minutes—not necessarily a start.
Besides, if I was going to stamp my name all over this match once I got on, I needed a wide view of the pitch and a clear read on the flow.
What Suwon were prioritizing tonight. What they’d prepared.
Exactly like this.
They’re pressing our goal kicks like that? I’ve never seen this shape before…
Normally, when Jeonbuk took a goal kick, one defensive midfielder dropped to form a back four while the opponent’s three attackers pressed to pin them. Those three attackers would sit on the edge of the penalty box, spaced out, disrupting the keeper’s build-up. That was the textbook approach.
Suwon did something different. Instead of spacing their three attackers, they bunched tight and completely cut off the passes aimed at the two center-backs.
In plain terms: the wingers and center-forward only marked the center-backs and defensive midfielder—and left both fullbacks completely free.
Why? The question hung there. But Suwon’s bizarre setup didn’t stop there.
“Every single player except the goalkeeper is man-marking someone. That’s why the attackers left the fullbacks alone?”
They’d abandoned numerical superiority at the back and ordered pure individual marking on every player.
If it got broken even once, the whole thing would collapse into chaos. A completely insane approach—and Suwon were actually trying it.
Unfortunately, it was working.
“The rear build-up is completely disrupted. And if we try to skip straight to the second line, their midfielders are spread wide across the middle… not easy.”
The flanks were shut down. Blind long balls carried too much risk.
So Jeonbuk chose the skip line.
They tried to play the ball just behind the three pinned attackers, creating a two-on-one with the defensive midfielder to work out of it.
“Ah! No!”
“Hey! Just stop it somehow!”
Thump! Thud!
That option carried its own danger.
The second the ball was lost, a scoring chance exploded into existence. Thankfully Han Gang-rok sprinted in and blocked it in time.
“Nice one, Gang-rok!”
“Well done, Gang-rok. You just saved us.”
“Hah… let’s focus a little more! Heads up!”
What now? We’re completely tangled in their web.
Losing the tactical battle was never a good place to start. The moment I sensed it, Jeonbuk’s suffering began.
The keeper abandoned the rear build-up and kept launching balls toward Yoon Seung-hwan. It was useless.
Every time the ball reached him, the defending pack swarmed in, forced a turnover, and launched another counter.
Why? Because Seung-hwan couldn’t beat a press?
No. That bastard could take a garbage ball and force it into the net through sheer will. There was no way simple defensive pressure was stopping him.
The reason was simple.
The other players aren’t reading the situation at all.
I’ll say it again: football is about numerical superiority. That has never changed.
If you’re going to play long toward the center-forward, the moment he receives, the players freed from the press have to burst into the spaces and help him work it out.
The only ones actually moving were the twins, Han Gang-rok and Han Gyeong-rok. The midfielders who should have been running the show from the center had frozen solid, staring into space like something was wrong with them.
And the reason for that was probably…
“It’s not that they can’t see the space. They’re just not confident enough to attack it. They can’t gamble on second-ball play, so they’re just standing there.”
I looked at Lee Seung-yong, face twisted on the pitch.
An aging midfielder. Even free of the press, he was considered decent defensively but weak in build-up and distribution.
He’d already decided that even if he moved, he couldn’t create anything. That was why he was just standing there.
Fair enough. If it works, you get roughly a six-to-four numerical advantage in attack. If it fails, the three players already in the box get a free run at goal.
What Jeonbuk needed right now was simple: someone who could drive a fast attack, someone who ate distribution and press-resistance for breakfast.
Someone who could read the flow of the match in an instant and act on it.
That was all.
“Yi-an. Get ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
The manager looked at me and murmured it quietly.
The 33rd minute of the first half. Early for a substitution, but Sun Ki-baek threw the card immediately to create a variable—and that variable was me.
Of course, my entrance didn’t change Suwon’s pressing shape.
Another goal kick for us. I started shifting around to read the flow, and a voice floated up from behind me.
“Hey. Rookie. You’re running too hard. You’re gonna get hurt. Take it easy, take it easy. I know we’re on different teams, but this is senior advice—listen up.”
“I am taking it easy. Can’t keep up with my pace?”
“Hah, fuck… you don’t even understand words. I’m telling you not to show off. You think one guy running hard is gonna change anything?”
“Show off, huh…”
His trash talk was so pathetic I almost laughed out loud by accident.
Trying to get under my skin?
Probably hoping to make me lose my cool and cloud my judgment—or bait me into a card so I’d play scared.
It might have worked on a normal player. I was used to that kind of garbage and could laugh it off, but most people would fire back with a double helping of curses the second someone told them not to show off.
Normally I’d brush it off and move on. But since we were already here, turning it around and scraping him raw sounded more fun.
Holding back a smile, I spoke to Choi Yeon-jun.
“Senior. Want me to show you what actually showing off looks like?”
“What…?”
“Keep up. I’m going first.”
“Hey! Damn it!”
The instant Choi Yeon-jun’s attention locked on me, Joo Tae-yeong’s kick came sailing my way.
I took the ball and immediately tore forward.
Suwon’s lunatic one-on-one man-marking was the absolute worst shape imaginable on a counter.
They’d pushed even the players who should have been covering defense up for the press—of course they were vulnerable the other way.
Exactly as expected. Caught flat by the sudden variable, Suwon’s back line scrambled to drop the press and rebuild their shape.
What? There should have been data on Baek Yi-an’s strength being press-resistance. Did they just assume I wouldn’t play and prepare nothing?
No. Paid professional managers don’t skip analysis. They’d done their homework.
Not that it would change anything even if they had prepared.
Whatever data Suwon has on me is probably just my youth matches.
Naturally, the old playstyle had vanished the moment I possessed this body.
In other words, Baek Yi-an no longer existed. Only Kang Yun-ho—the midfielder who’d stood on the Ballon d’Or podium—remained.
The engine of Newcastle’s treble.
The defensive midfielder who’d run a completely insane 3-1-6 single-pivot system in attack and still single-handedly won every battle in the rear and the midfield. They had zero information on how to handle that.
“Yi-an! Through ball forward!”
“Hey, play it already! Stop holding it! They’re catching up!”
Catching up, my ass. My sprint top speed is 38 km/h.
As I kept flying forward, voices ahead of me started yelling for the pass.
I ignored every one of them and kept driving with the ball.
A pass right now meant nothing. We still didn’t have numerical superiority, and a pass had to be the final tool for creating a certain chance.
“Hey, Yi-an! Through to me!”
Yeah. Exactly like that bastard Han Gang-rok.
The second the ball was won, Gang-rok had already started overlapping. The moment he appeared in front of me, I slipped the ball straight into his path.
In this situation, only three players could actually create a chance.
The twins Han Gang-rok and Han Gyeong-rok, and Yoon Seung-hwan. Gang-rok was overlapping; Gyeong-rok would stay back and help the build-up. That left two.
Han Gang-rok and Yoon Seung-hwan. That was it.
Just as I’d read, Gang-rok’s overlap scattered the defense and he returned the ball to me.
What remained was…
“Yi-an! To me!”
…Yoon Seung-hwan. My turn to use you for once.
That way.
The moment I collected the return, I launched the ball straight at Seung-hwan’s head.
It wasn’t a pass. I straight-up blasted it as hard as I could.
How had I dragged a bunch of brain-dead strikers who missed open goals even with perfect service all the way to a World Cup semifinal?
Simple.
I never treated strikers like people. Not “I didn’t trust them.” I literally didn’t see them as human beings.
Honestly, this method was borderline inhumane, and I only preferred it for must-win national team matches. But Shin A-yoon had come all this way to watch me. She deserved at least one big gift.
“Hey, Yoon Seung-hwan! Stick your damn head toward the goal!”
“What? My head? L-like this…? Urghk!”
The rocket of a ball smashed into Seung-hwan’s face, deflected, and ricocheted straight into the net.
[UAAAAAAAH!]
A roar erupted from the away end.
Not exactly what Seung-hwan had intended… but who cared?
Olé~ Olé~ Olé~ Olé~
Olé~ Olé~ Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
“Hell yeah. That’s it. This is Jeonbuk.”
“Y-Yi-an. Seung-hwan isn’t getting up. Shouldn’t we check on him?”
“I fed him a goal. Don’t worry about it.”
“Uh. Okay? But that bastard’s nose is bleeding…”
Han Gang-rok looked back and forth between the bloodied Seung-hwan and me, then shrugged like it was someone else’s problem and joined me in the celebration.