A Senior for His Junior

After the first half ended, the commentators’ conversation settled on Manager Park Tae-hyeon and Pohang.

It wasn’t simply that they couldn’t afford to lose because so much was riding on the match.

The split had already been decided and the league was deep into its second half, but even a loss today wouldn’t mean Pohang had no chance left to make up for their mistakes.

They could always grind out points from other games, couldn’t they?

What the commentators were really worried about was that if Pohang were thrashed today, even that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thin thread of possibility might snap.

It was about the will of professional players welded together by pure competitive fire.

Even if it looked ugly, they had to chase. That was what the commentators were trying to say—and Manager Park Tae-hyeon knew it just as well.

A defensive formation that openly conceded the initiative to the opponent.

Of course, taken further, you could drop into a 5-4-1 and park the proverbial bus—but Manager Park’s aim was to pack more bodies into midfield.

And that was the picture he was drawing.

Even into the second half, Jeonbuk continued much as they had in the first: patiently working the ball through midfield and pressing the opposition hard.

And then they ran into an unexpected problem.

When midfield was too crowded, they looked to the wings—only for the fullback and wingback-positioned players to step out, forcing a two-versus-one that had to be broken.

In football, a numerical advantage is never an easy thing to overcome, no matter how good the player.

So Jeonbuk’s only real option was to keep circulating the ball and wait for an opening.

The attack that had been so ferocious it seemed to have an expiration date gradually dulled—and Pohang pounced on that moment with surgical precision.

A brilliant counterattacking goal that targeted the vulnerability of Jeonbuk’s high defensive line and their counter-pressing system.

Even after Mouadi’s speed had ripped them open, converting it still should have been hard—but veteran striker Choi Seong-min, locked in a golden boot race with Yoon Seung-hwan, made it look inevitable.

Pohang had been getting thoroughly beaten—and then, out of nowhere, they stood up and pulled a hidden dagger from their pocket.

From Manager Sun Ki-baek’s seat, it must have chilled him to the bone.

Unfortunately for Jeonbuk, the dagger wasn’t the only thing Pohang had been hiding.

Pohang were stabbing with a different pattern every time, as if they’d been saving them all along.

Now that the score was level at two–two, Jeonbuk needed a way—any way—to break the deadlock.

Manager Sun Ki-baek had no choice but to play his own card.

After slamming two goals past Pohang, Manager Ki-baek’s mouth corners in the dressing room had been ready to ascend straight into the sky.

Twenty minutes into the second half, those same corners had collapsed so far they looked like they’d gone down to Hades and gotten slapped on the way back.

Maybe it wasn’t so strange for his face to be falling apart like that.

In the first half alone, hadn’t they been beating Pohang nearly senseless?

They’d thrashed them so thoroughly that the film ratings board could have slapped a restricted rating for excessive violence and still felt it wasn’t enough.

And now, in the second half, Pohang had somehow awakened and were returning the beating—so of course he was pissed.

Maybe that was why. The manager’s face flushed purple; he grabbed the back of his neck for a second, then immediately ordered the substitutions.

"Oof. Tough timing for you to show up, Sang-yong hyung. Never thought a VIP like you would grace this humble dump."

"…Yi-an, no matter how I look at it, you’re just a bright kid. It’s nice to see."

Sang-yong hyung had been smiling sunnily, but with the manager firing laser beams into his back, a little cold sweat broke out before he got straight to explaining the situation.

"First off, he said throw the asymmetric overload in the trash. Now that Pohang are set up like this, he doesn’t want anything more to do with it."

"Mm, good. Should we bin the counter-press too while we’re at it?"

"No? That stays. But you’re moving up to central midfield. Me and Chun-jae will link up, and from a 4-2-3-1 you’ll take over the role Andres was playing."

"Mm. Roger that."

"?"

I nodded, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Sang-yong hyung looked at me like what the hell is this kid.

His eyes said he figured I hadn’t understood and was just joking around—but how could I not understand?

Play central mid and take Andres’s role? Then what I have to do is obvious. Drop deep into their final third and slide creative passes through.

The reason we’d been struggling after Pohang suddenly changed their tactical stance in the second half was simple: our static attacking situations had been completely sealed off.

Too many of them were planted in midfield, so we tried the flanks—but with no variety in our attack, even that became impossible.

A stale attacking pattern. The fix was injecting a resource who could paint in different colors.

And in the manager’s mind, the one who could do that job was none other than me.

4-2-3-1. One more body contributing to the attack, which means we can match the weight of an opponent who’s packed midfield with numbers.

This was more than doable.

Besides, I was already sick of watching from the back as the ball got recycled side to side and the wingers went ugh—ugh— and collapsed.

I smirked and got ready for the restart. And of course, the moment a chance came, I went after it hard.

"Sang-yong hyung! Straight away!"

Thump!

The second the build-up started from the back, I dropped a little deeper to receive and immediately drove forward on a half-turn, accelerating hard.

As I ramped up my speed, Pohang began shifting to reorganize their lines.

A shape almost identical to before. If this had been the Jeonbuk of twenty minutes ago, we would’ve failed to break it, spun the ball in circles, lost it to their coordinated defending, and eaten a counter.

But now was different.

"Twins! Keep going in! Don’t overthink it—get deep into the half-spaces!"

"Huh? Next to the fullback? Got it."

They’d packed the numbers in? Then we just packed in just as many of our own.

Wouldn’t that leave our defense wide open and cause problems? Then what, did the other side leave only one striker up front because they felt like it?

Besides, leaving bodies back didn’t mean you wouldn’t get broken through either.

We already tried playing it safe and still conceded two. What’s the point.

In that case, it was better to go for a move that could open up a real lead, even a little more cleanly.

And hadn’t Pohang’s players already burned through a massive amount of stamina?

Pohang went for rapid tempo shifts while still prioritizing counters—a somewhat paradoxical setup. They were grinding players’ legs into the dirt to manufacture attacks. Sure, they pulled it off twice, so the tactical gamble will get a positive grade.

But that didn’t mean the stamina they’d shredded was coming back.

If anything, it would only keep dropping as the match went on.

And hadn’t they already been getting knocked around by us all through the first half and suffering for it?

Because of that, Pohang’s line recovery speed had slowed dramatically—and if nothing else, stamina and pace were things I’d been born with. I carved straight through the gaps between them.

"Hey! You have to stop him! Don’t let him break any further!"

"As long as the third line doesn’t get breached, we’re fine! Just remember that!"

If you could just shut things down completely like that, you’d already be in the Premier League.

The whole way through, Pohang players were throwing feet and hands at me.

In the middle of that festival of dirty play, the words no handshakes, no footwork, thanks rose all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the way to the back of my throat.

But A-yoon and my parents were in the stands—and more than that, there had been Manager Sun Ki-baek’s tearful pre-match request.

So I held it in, kept driving, and finally managed to sink deep into their third defensive line.

"Yi-an! Both half-spaces are open! Take it easy! Easy!"

"Hey, Baek Yi-an! Onto my head! Smash it at my skull, you bastard!"

At the same time, Han Gang-rok was on one side while Yoon Seung-hwan, right in front of me, held his line and prepared to break through.

Of course, Pohang’s players had no intention of just watching that happen and threw themselves in my path—but if I couldn’t even break something like this, the manager never would have put me in central midfield in the first place.

I chipped it up. The ball popped lightly. I was on my right foot, so instead of switching to the left I scooped it with the outside of the right and looked for a feel-based lofted pass.

"Where’s… something like this work?"

"Aargh! Just charge in and—ugh!"

"What? Huh?"

As if he couldn’t just stand there and watch that simple, clear pass, Lee Jeong-woo—the same guy who’d given me a whole lecture in the first half on how juniors should treat their seniors—charged in and added some color of his own.

Lee Jeong-woo’s header sent the shot spinning on a completely absurd trajectory.

I stared at it blankly.

"Swish!"

"You fucking bastards! I told you to block it, why the hell are you changing the trajectory, you sons of bitches!"

"Haa…"

Watching the shot get sucked in off that ridiculous deflection, I felt thoroughly awkward and walked over to Senior Jeong-woo, who was letting out a long, heavy sigh.

"Mm… that was excellent, Senior. That header, really… better than Yoon Seung-hwan’s."

"…"

"Oof, did that hit a nerve? I can get you some praise stickers later if you—whoa, your eyes are terrifying. I’ll just be going now?"

Senior bit down hard on his lower lip and looked at me with tears welling in his eyes.

So this was a senior sacrificing himself for his junior.

I nodded to myself and left him there, then sprinted straight for the corner flag.