Korea Cup Quarterfinals (2)

The first leg of the Korea Cup quarterfinals was held at Gwangju CF's home ground, Gwangju Football Stadium.

"I still can't make sense of this no matter how many times I look at it. This is supposed to be a home stadium?"

"Don't even try to lie. This is clearly a half-assed stadium. Looks like it was built ages ago — and they're still using it?"

Han Gyeong-rok, standing behind me, shook his head in pure disbelief at the sight of the pitch.

You might wonder why he was making such a fuss — but honestly, Gwangju's home ground was every bit that bad.

They said they lost Manager Choi Jeong-hyo because they didn't have the money... Looking at this place, maybe they genuinely don't have any money at all?

Even a casual glance made it look like the stadium had been thrown together on the cheap. Without exaggeration, if Jeonbuk's supporters got into the away section and unleashed one proper Ooh-leh-leh chant, the entire floor of the ground would probably cave in.

Dedicated football stadium or not, this was a bit much...

I was frowning at the place when one of Gwangju's players standing next to me gave my shoulder a couple of taps.

What, is he declaring war already?

Psychological warfare starting from the tunnel, of all places? Yeah — looking at stuff like this, the Korea Cup really was a proper cup competition.

I'd seen an article somewhere. Gwangju had apparently decided a league title was out of reach this season and were throwing everything into the cup. So they wanted to rattle my concentration early with a little mind game?

"Cute. Real cute."

"Hey, Baek Yi-an, what the hell are you muttering about? Senior Nam-hyeok just tapped your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shoulder!"

"Ah. Senior. I've been waiting for you."

"Ahaha. Baek Yi-an, you really crack me up every single time I see you. That scary-looking face of yours, and then you act like a few screws have come loose?"

That was a close one. If Han Gyeong-rok hadn't been jabbing me in the back and telling me who was standing next to me, I would've gone down in history as the lunatic who committed insubordination against a national-team senior.

So this is why Mom always said you have to choose your friends carefully. Starting today, no more stuffing trash into Gyeong-rok's bag.

I carefully let out a long breath. Nam-hyeok just smirked and started kneading my shoulder.

"Yi-an. Having star quality is great, okay? But try not to rack up too many yellow cards. I'm seriously worried something big is going to happen to you."

"Something big?"

"Yeah, you idiot. Weird celebrations are fine, whatever — but if you go around saying stuff about killing yourself and it lands wrong, you're going to be on the news for real. With your talent, how unfair would it be if one loose comment kept you off the national team?"

What was this? I'd thought it was a warning not to pull anything stupid against Gwangju. But what Nam-hyeok was saying felt more like genuine advice.

Given how strong my previous comments had been, if I kept that up I'd get dragged onto the 9 o'clock news — the original wrecker with fifty-two years of history behind it — and get posthumously executed for good measure.

Thinking about it that way, maybe a slightly more serious attitude was the right call. And of course, for today's match — after a warning like that from Senior Nam-hyeok — I really shouldn't do anything.

Not that I was particularly worried about that part. The whole Dae-gal-ja ("I'd rather die than go to Daejeon") line had come out in the heat of the moment; it wasn't something that was going to leave my mouth a second time anytime soon. More importantly, I had zero intention of getting myself sent off for clowning around today.

Was it because Gwangju's manager had taken a shot at arrogant little me, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and I wanted to destroy them for a full ninety without a red card?

No. I wasn't so soft that I'd dance to the opposing manager's trash talk.

What I actually need is to jack up Nam-hyeok hyung's form while I've got the chance.

Raise Shin Nam-hyeok's level by one full tier. That was my goal for this away trip to Gwangju.

Getting sent off on accumulated yellows and then watching us grind out draws made it crystal clear. Matches I play in are one thing — but for the ones I don't, I need insurance.

Sure, you could say I should just stop doing stupid things and live clean. But a person's life isn't that simple, is it? Football is full of guys who never fixed a bad habit they picked up once and ended up slamming into a wall. In my case, I'd long since scrubbed out any vices that actually hurt my play. But the pure, heartfelt hunger for a proper celebration? That wasn't something you could just switch off.

Something similar could easily happen at the World Cup. I need Nam-hyeok hyung's level raised for real before then.

Raising the form of a player from another team... sure, it sounded a little unhinged. But Nam-hyeok hyung wasn't just some opponent to me. He was a national-team senior — and, along with Senior Moon Tae-hwan over at Al-Shabab, one of the only players who could fill the hole if I ever went missing.

If some unforeseen disaster ever left Manager Martin Valde without his legendary first-choice midfielder, preparing for the aftermath was just common sense.

"Damn. Insane. Absolute patriotism — that's our Baek the Great for you."

"What was that, Yi-an?"

"Huh? What did I just say? Aigoo, what am I going to do with myself. I've picked up this weird verbal tic lately."

"I genuinely never know what to make of you. Anyway — let's keep today's match quiet. Nobody gets hurt, clean finish."

With that, Nam-hyeok hyung grinned and held out his hand. I took it, keeping my face deadpan while smiling like a fox on the inside.

The first leg of the Korea Cup quarterfinals kicked off with the home side, Gwangju, taking the first touch.

As their pitiful home stadium made clear, Gwangju was a club with far less capital to throw around than the rest of the league. Teams like that often leaned less on big-name signings and more on squeezing every drop out of the resources they already had — stable, tightly drilled football built on pure chemistry. Today's Gwangju were showing exactly that kind of movement.

"They're even more passive than I expected."

Saying they had bet everything on the Korea Cup really wasn't an exaggeration. Completely contrary to their pre-match interviews, Gwangju were setting up in full defensive mode.

Passive didn't mean they were just recycling the ball at the back. If they'd done that, we could simply press them high and force the issue. No — Gwangju were being far more vicious about it. They'd push a little higher, and the moment it looked like they might get stuck, they'd immediately recycle, drop, and rebuild from the back all over again.

The reason they could even attempt a tactic like that was almost certainly the man planted in the middle: Nam-hyeok hyung, a player who got called up to the national team with almost casual regularity.

"Moments like this really do make you think our manager's a master tactician. He's reading my mind perfectly."

Even a nine-year-old next door could see it — to break this Gwangju side, you had to torment Nam-hyeok hyung. If the manager had told me to cut the nonsense and just sit deep as a pure holding midfielder, I might have done something impulsive. Thankfully, the bond we'd forged over bowls of misutgaru still counted for something. Manager Sun was only handing down orders I was more than happy to follow.

"Yi-an! You can push up more! If you want to go, just manage the defensive line with it!"

I was actually allowed to do that? I shot him a look that mixed a question with a little disbelief. The manager gave a small nod and added,

"Of course, if you mess it up, you fix it yourself, you little bastard!"

Do what you want — and if you screw it up, own it. Coming from a manager to a player who'd only debuted this season, it was an almost recklessly irresponsible thing to say.

But I love this kind of thing.

As long as I didn't make mistakes, I could do whatever I wanted and he wouldn't say a word. Fail and you're the culprit; succeed and you're Man of the Match. And A-yoon was in the stands today. For the sake of the post-match interview alone, I immediately pushed forward and started pressing man-to-man.

"Hey, Seong-hoon! Front!"

"Huh? Front? Wha— ugh!"

"Come on, come on! I don't care if we collide!"

I stripped the ball cleanly and, just out of the referee's sight, hooked a foot around his ankle to put him on the ground. Then I drove straight into the middle.

Stunned at losing the ball ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so easily, Gwangju's advanced players scrambled back into their own half. The one who stepped up to stop me was none other than Nam-hyeok hyung.

Even if one man got beaten, they still had a 4-4-2 with plenty of bodies behind him — so he was gambling on coming out early to cut me off.

This. This is the problem.

And I hated it. Coming out to meet the ball? Fine. Honestly, a defensive midfielder sitting deep and just recycling the ball like an idiot is uglier than one who works hard and takes pressure off the team. But you do that when the angle is right — not when you're trusting a pure fifty-fifty coin flip.

Is this why Yoon Seung-hwan eventually developed that mindset of 'if our defense concedes four, I'll just score five'?

When I was reading the novel, I'd thought the author was just flailing around to give Manager Bonfrère some kind of philosophy. Watching Nam-hyeok hyung's ridiculous charge, I was starting to understand exactly why Seung-hwan had ended up thinking that way.

In that case, step one was fixing this habit of charging out on a whim.

Tuk.

"Choon-jae hyung! Stick with me! Gang-rok — you push up!"

A soft heel pass slipped me right out of Nam-hyeok hyung's man-marking, and I sprinted back into the open space. He'd expected me to beat him with pace or skill; the way I abandoned the duel so quickly narrowed his wide field of vision into pure tunnel vision.

I got to work immediately.

"Schaperi! Behind you! Give it to me! Han Gang-rok, fill the space — Choon-jae hyung!"

"Y—you little—!"

As we started recycling the ball on the right, Nam-hyeok hyung kept chasing shadows, completely lost. If he'd had even a little awareness, he would have realized he was overloaded and started directing traffic toward the opposite side. Instead he just spun in circles, and Gwangju's whole defensive line got dragged over to the right with him.

"That's it! Charge in! Somehow—"

"Gyeong-rok, keep running and put it in."

"What the fuck? The other side?"

I wasn't about to leave the wide-open opposite flank alone.

Toong!

A slightly clumsy first touch let the ball run on, but Han Gyeong-rok caught up to it and tore forward. When he whipped the cross in from near the byline, the finish came — as always — from Yoon Seung-hwan in the headgear.

Twoong!

Shhhrrrkk!

"Yeeeeaaaah! VAMOS! Aaaagh— shit!"

With positioning that could dodge a tsunami, Seung-hwan planted a simple header into the net — then, mid-slide, hit a patch of dug-up turf and went tumbling end over end.

I watched him with a little snort of laughter.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Haaah... goddamn it..."

Nam-hyeok hyung could only stare behind him with a hollow look on his face.