The First Compound National Team Selection Trial

The first national team selection for compound archery.

I made my way to the international archery range in North Gyeongsang Province.

"...This reminds me of the branch manager."

It was a long trip — the drive alone had taken over two hours. In the old days there had been someone who would have come to pick me up before dawn, who would already have scouted out places to eat near the venue, who would even book a quiet hotel himself if the schedule ran long. That careful, attentive way of looking after people. I found myself missing it.

When I arrived at the range, the first thing that greeted me was the weather.

"The wind's strong."

The sky was thick with cloud, the air heavy with the threat of rain at any moment. The wind, too, was nothing to take lightly. Keeping that in mind, I stepped inside.

I stood at the registration counter to confirm my entry. The hall was quiet, yet the air was cold. Most of the athletes wore uniforms stamped with corporate-team logos. Here and there I spotted competitors from the National Police Agency and from military-police units, and beside every one of them, someone stood waiting.

They all have coaches.

Club-affiliated athletes, or individuals like me competing on their own — those cases you could count on one hand. And among them, I was the most alien presence of all.

Sidelong glances stolen in my direction. Eyes flicking between my face and a smartphone search, checking whether I was really who they thought. Whispers that the professional Go player Kim In-ha had actually shown up. A familiar reaction. First they found it novel, then they doubted it, and finally they started trying to size you up. This time, though, it was more blatant. This wasn't just some ordinary archery tournament. This was the first national team selection.

...Yeah. I know this look.

A club-level archer at best — and even that, competing as an unaffiliated individual. Archery was still the exclusive stage of elite-trained athletes. The entry requirements might have had no restrictions, but the looks I was getting said it all: the discomfort of someone with no verified skill applying for a national team trial. An atmosphere as if my presence itself were an insult, as if I were taking the compound discipline lightly.

"You're Kim In-ha, correct?"

"Yes."

"Athlete confirmed. Please proceed inside for equipment inspection first. And this is a filming consent form related to the selection — I'll need your signature."

I nodded and signed. The form covered potential use in documentaries, promotional material, and analysis footage leading up to the Olympics.

When I finished registering and turned around, cameras had already attached themselves to me. They didn't speak to me directly, but their intent was clear.

A publicity draw.

A means of promoting and revitalizing the compound discipline. That was about as far as they thought of me. I said nothing. I simply let them film, silently. However they chose to see me was their business.

"Excuse me — you are Kim In-ha, right?"

Someone approached me carefully. A participant not wearing a corporate-team uniform — club-affiliated, or an individual competitor like myself, I guessed.

"I'm Kim Hyun-tae. I didn't want to bother you, so I was going to leave you alone... but I figured if I didn't speak now, I might not get another chance."

He had a good-natured face, and he had the sense to use the wait for equipment inspection so as not to interfere with anyone's competition.

"Yes, I'm Kim In-ha."

"I thought so. My son's a fan — he goes to a Go academy. Would it be all right if I asked for an autograph?"

"Of course. It's no trouble at all."

Conversation flowed naturally from there.

"Come to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠think of it, Master Kim, which club do you practice at?"

The honorific carried more respect for the professional Go player than for a fellow archer.

"I don't really belong to a club. I've shot at Gwangrim Archery Club, though."

"Sorry? Gwangrim? I go there too..."

His eyes went round with surprise. I smiled lightly.

"I haven't been able to go often. Just dropped by now and then."

To be precise, I had visited exactly once. I didn't bother saying so.

"Ah, now and then... I'm not a former elite athlete myself. I just wanted to gain some experience, learn a bit. That's why I signed up."

A humble way of putting it. I smiled and answered.

"I came because I want to wear the Taeguk Mark."

"...Pardon?"

His pupils wavered for a moment — the look of a man wondering if he had misheard. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Then he gave a small laugh.

"Ah, haha. Master Kim, you've always had a sense of humor. I've been watching your interviews too! The way you talk — it's something else."

I just smiled quietly, and didn't particularly correct him. It had been the same when I started Go. This kind of reaction was familiar.

Except a few of the other participants who had overheard sent looks of open displeasure. That single phrase — Taeguk Mark — had clearly gotten under their skin. Maybe they even felt the compound discipline itself had been slighted. I didn't care. It had been the same when I started Go. I was always the one who showed up somewhere new for the first time. And I was always the one who crushed that unfamiliarity with skill.

After equipment inspection, I headed out to the outdoor range. Booths had been set up here and there. Unfamiliar faces were deep in serious conversation with their coaches. Among them were former national team members who had worn the Taeguk Mark at the World Championships and the Asian Games just two years ago. Even they had to compete in the selection with no special privileges, on equal terms. That was the reason Korean archery was the strongest in the world.

The sky's gotten darker.

I quietly lifted my head. The humidity had risen. The wind had grown stronger. Weather that looked ready to break at any second — a current swollen with rain and driven by wind. A rainstorm.

Even among the athletes preparing for the selection with their individual routines inside the booths, a stir began to spread. Faces hardening. Hands checking equipment, unable to hide their anxiety.

A day with a lot of variables.

And a day that could show that much more because of it.

I quietly picked up my bow. The weight at the end of the stabilizer. The tension of the release. The brightness of the scope and the angle of the lens. I made every adjustment my fingertips could manage.

Then the PA system sounded across the range.

For compound, they gave you two Ends of practice before the selection — about fifteen minutes. The last window to finalize your setup. I stepped up onto the shooting line.

The flags whipped violently. It didn't matter. I nocked an arrow and slowly drew the string, tracing the feel of the release, the angle of my elbow.

Thwip!

The sensation of the arrow leaving my fingers. And the sensation of it striking true.

No need to shoot any more.

The rain hadn't started yet. But I had read the grain of the wind completely.

"Condition's too good today."

I took my wrist and rolled it lightly. When the final practice ended, I walked to the target, retrieved my arrows, and came back. In that time the judges finished their representatives' meeting and came down, and the entire range was swallowed in tension. They briefly explained the rules, then calmly covered the scoring submission process and how to handle any irregularities.

Eighty-four competitors in total. Forty-two targets. The rule: simultaneous shooting, one hundred eighty seconds. In other words, every participating athlete walked out at once and shot six arrows from their own line, all at the same time.

I walked out to the shooting line. There were people who had taken their places before me, but I was the first to raise a bow.

The first arrow. I drew the string. I locked my left arm and aimed at the faint target beyond my brow.

Tailwind.

A current pushing at my back. Hair slowly tipping forward. That sensation felt like a signal. I squeezed the trigger as naturally as breathing.

Thwip!

A small burst of sound. The arrow flew as if it already knew the answer.

That's a 10.

I didn't need a spotting scope. My senses, the feel in my hands, were already telling me exactly where it had struck.

Hold this feeling.

The second arrow. The third. A trajectory loaded with a reading of the wind's grain. Rapid fire at a steady rhythm.

Thwip! Thwip!

I picked the fiercest moment and drew a path that rode that wind.

Nice wind.

Rain began ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to fall. The sway of the flagpoles. The faint vibration at my fingertips. The fourth arrow. The fifth. The sixth. I shot through to the last one without a single tremor.

Done.

I quietly lowered my bow and took three steps back. A few of the athletes around me hesitated, peering into their scopes — like people who couldn't start the next problem until they had looked at the answer key. I, on the other hand, had already shot all six.

Check? I didn't particularly feel the need. Weather that was difficult for everyone else. Conditions a lot of people would rather avoid. They didn't apply to me. The grain of the wind. Even the weight of the humidity clinging to it. Instead of a scope, my fingertips were giving me certainty.

"Time! All athletes, lower your bows and proceed to the targets."

At the judge's shout, Shin Chul-hee — twenty-five years old, of the Gwangjin City corporate team — quietly lowered his bow. A dry, unpleasant taste filled his mouth.

What the hell is this wind...

A damp tailwind. Crosswinds that kicked up without warning. A shifty, indecisive wind that tugged at every single arrow.

Probably three nines in there.

Head down, he walked quietly toward the target. He looked as if he were watching the ground, but he was actually reading the reactions of the athletes around him. Especially the competitor using the lane right next to his.

Kim In-ha. A famous professional Go player, from what he'd heard. And yet—

The Taeguk Mark?

The reason for entering that he'd overheard by chance had been absurd. How easy did the man think making the national team was, to run his mouth like that? He should have just stuck to Go. The fact that a civilian who hadn't even come up through the elite system was talking about the Taeguk Mark was infuriating.

Maybe that was why the way he competed grated, too.

Ha. He doesn't even check the scope? In this weather?

Everyone else confirmed each arrow as they went. He hadn't looked through his scope once, all the way to the end. And on top of that, rapid fire. The wind had been so uneven that everyone else had taken their time — and he had done the exact opposite. Of every participant on the line, he had been the fastest to put six arrows downrange.

What's he trusting, shooting like that?

If he was going to shoot like that, why enter at all? No caution. No desperation toward the Taeguk Mark that Shin Chul-hee could feel. The type whose mouth ran ahead of him. Really nothing more, and nothing less, than the publicity draw everyone said he was.

Shin Chul-hee checked his own record in front of the target. As expected: three tens, three nines. Not a bad score. Not a good one, either.

I need to focus more.

Thirty-six arrows today, six rounds in total. The top sixteen by combined score would be selected, and with that came the right to compete in the second national team selection.

He retrieved his arrows and was about to turn back toward the shooting line when a judge stopped in front of the target right beside his — target fifteen — looked down at Kim In-ha's scoresheet, and for a moment said nothing at all.

Shin Chul-hee doubted his ears.

...What?

He was so startled he looked at the target without thinking. It was exactly as the judge had said. Arrows that had pierced nothing but the dead center of the gold — and in this weather, with a rainstorm tearing across the range. Numbers that made no sense. A sight he did not want to believe. And the man himself, Kim In-ha, was pulling his arrows with a face that said none of it was anything at all.

...Coincidence. It has to be a coincidence.

Shin Chul-hee denied what he was looking at. But the more he did, the more an uncomfortable sense of wrongness pressed in on him. And that wrongness slowly, steadily, turned into something else: wariness.

I quietly looked up at the sky. Gray cloud had closed over it like a ceiling, and beneath that ceiling the rain had grown heavier still.

Inside the booth, the judges gathered, finished a short meeting, and nodded. Then they delivered the decision to the athletes waiting out of the rain.

A subtle tension ran through the athletes. Their expressions were all different. Someone sighed. Someone hung their head. But I was quietly smiling.

I'll nail the next ones too.

The second End. The third. No — all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the way through the sixth round.

This wind was, without a doubt, on my side.