Shooting Down the Veteran
Shooting Down the Veteran
I placed my foot at the ball's landing point. But it wasn't a shot.
Alisson Keir's eyes widened.
I pretended to take a shot and nudged the ball to the side. It was a precise pass to Yilmaz, who had been chasing me like his life depended on it.
In front of the empty goal, all Yilmaz had to do was tap it in.
Chwareureuk!
But that ball was cleared by the tall Dutch defender, Van Douglas, as if it were a lie.
It was the exact moment the ball had left Yilmaz's foot and was about to cross the goal line.
Van Douglas, who appeared from nowhere, stretched out his long leg and poked the ball away right on the line.
"Damn it! How did he reach that?"
Yilmaz screamed, clutching his head.
He was well into his mid-30s.
In the football world, it wouldn't be strange to call him an 'old geezer' already.
Though his form had dropped due to injuries and aging, in my eyes, he was still going strong.
The roar of Anfield grew louder and louder.
The voices of Liverpool supporters started from The Kop stand and rolled in like a wave.
"WALK ON! WALK ON! WITH HOPE IN YOUR HEART!"
The chorus of 'You'll Never Walk Alone' enveloped the entire stadium.
The lyrics were clearly audible for a moment, but the second the ball crossed over to our side, Anfield instantly turned into a furnace of boos.
"BOOOOOOOO-!"
The piercingly sharp sound of jeering dug into my eardrums as if to tear them apart.
It was an overwhelming hostility, like tens of thousands of bees swarming.
Then, whenever a Liverpool player caught the ball, the crazed cheering erupted again.
"ALLEZ, ALLEZ, ALLEZ! WE ARE THE PRIDE OF MERSEYSIDE!"
But excessive excitement narrows one's vision.
In the 43rd minute of the first half, Liverpool's center-back Ibrahima Mutombo, intoxicated by the roar of Anfield, sprayed an arrogant pass.
The ball sent to his teammate, who had pushed the line up for pressure, was too long, and Lozano didn't miss that split-second gap.
Lozano sprinted and intercepted Mutombo's mispass.
The roar of Anfield instantly turned into a sound mixed with shock.
Liverpool's high defensive line began to collapse all at once at the speed of Lozano, who was charging down the flank.
"Lozano!"
I raised my hand high and rushed into Liverpool's box.
Lozano looked up to check the center, then lofted a picture-perfect cross to the opposite side, even with two defenders on him.
While the ball was cutting through the air, only one person entered my field of vision.
Van Douglas was holding his ground.
He was pacing as if he had already calculated every landing point.
The seasoned craftiness of a late-30s veteran was reading where Lozano's cross would fall one step ahead.
All the noise around me was muted, and only the sound of our ragged breathing remained on the Anfield grass.
There was no one to pass to.
The tempo had already been caught up to, and the defensive line had stabilized.
The only options here were to pass back or dribble through.
If it were the textbook choice, it would be a back pass.
I, too, would have definitely passed it back if it were before I got the 'Click' ability.
However.
What if I stopped time?
I can read the defender's stance.
Even if that doesn't necessarily lead to the right answer.
It was worth a try.
Van Douglas didn't rush in carelessly.
Keeping a proper distance, he scanned me as if he wouldn't miss even the slightest tremor of my upper body.
His footing was solid, and his positioning, born from experience, was blocking all my paths.
I took a deep breath.
The crazed "ALLEZ, ALLEZ, ALLEZ!" chanting from the surroundings swirled in my head.
"Click."
The world stopped.
Van Douglas's center of gravity was leaning very slightly to the left.
Late 30s. An age where knees ache and joints throb.
To compensate for his dropped agility, he had a habit of predicting the route and shifting his body beforehand.
After observing the movement as briefly as possible, the world returned.
I pretended to knock the ball to the left and twisted my upper body sharply.
As if to mock my feint, he was already prepared to throw his body where I was going to hit it.
I tried to rotate using my planted left foot as an axis, then stopped.
I scraped the ball with the sole of my foot, pulled it toward my body, and then flicked it to the opposite diagonal.
Elastico.
The inertia of my body, which was already trying to rotate, and the inertia of Van Douglas, who was trying to block it, collided head-on.
The massive frame of Van Douglas, over 190cm tall, twisted grotesquely in the air.
The veteran defender's brain shouted 'It's this way,' but his mid-30s knees and ankles couldn't withstand that sudden change of direction.
"UNBELIEVABLE! HAN-SU JUST BROKE VAN DOUGLAS'S ANKLES!"
Now only the goalkeeper Keir remained in front of me.
I was dizzy because I had just used the ability, but. It was an easy angle to handle.
I chipped the ball, slightly clearing the rushing Keir.
The ball drew an elegant arc and was sucked into Liverpool's goal net.
Chwareureuk-!
[Today's Kim Han-su fancam.gif]
This is the real-time situation at Anfield right now lololol
He gave Van Douglas a retirement ceremony before he even lifted the Europa trophy lololol
No, seriously, this is the first time I've seen that big guy spin like a top.
Han-su, you bastard, you only ever vomit after scoring, what's up with him starting a dribble today?
For real, this is the first time I've seen Han-su dribble since his early Villarreal days lol
Villareal_Mod: Get this to the top post. And worship him.
But is Van Douglas's ankle okay?
Isn't it too harsh for an old geezer in his mid-30s lololol
As the second half began, Liverpool rushed in with their venom fully unleashed.
Van Douglas, perhaps properly stung, volunteered to mark me exclusively and bumped into me roughly.
And every time that happened, my stomach churned like crazy.
I had already used Click to its limit.
The fact that I was still feeling nauseous even after throwing up at halftime was proof of that.
My temples were throbbing, and my vision kept blurring.
The urge to throw up on the Anfield grass right then and there surged up.
However, I didn't want to become the Asian vomiting villain who soiled Anfield.
I might get stabbed to death by those Merseyside hooligans.
Finally, at 70 minutes. I waved my hand briefly toward the bench.
If I ran any longer, it was obvious I'd cause a major accident on the Anfield grass.
"Number 9, Kim Han-su, substitution."
As soon as my number went up, I walked out, trudging along.
The Liverpool fans' boos poured down like a waterfall, but right now, I was so out of it that it sounded like a lullaby.
"Good work. Why is your face like that?"
Manager Marcelino asked with concern, but instead of answering, I took a towel and collapsed into the corner of the bench.
Even drinking cold water didn't settle the nausea.
I glanced to the side and saw the bald manager shouting to push the line up, looking like he could finally breathe now that I was out.
I leaned deep into the bench and closed my eyes. 70-minute early retirement.
I scored a goal in an away game at Anfield and even broke an ankle, so for a stats-padder, this was a pretty decent day.
[Today's Kim Han-su leaving work gif lol]
No, anyone would think he played 120 minutes lol
He requested a voluntary substitution at 70 minutes and came out, is that complexion for real? He's practically a zombie.
He played too flashy in the first half lol. Looks like his brain capacity exceeded its limit.
Look at Doctor manager liking it lol. He clapped as soon as Han-su left.
[Han-su coming out through the Liverpool fans' booing lol]
Am I the only one who saw Han-su's expression getting worse the louder the booing got?
Seems like he was feeling even more nauseous because of the noise lololol
The second leg is at home, so it should be better. Is he going for a 70-minute run in the second leg too? lol
Seriously, doesn't Han-su have something like acid reflux?
Anfield was absolute chaos.
Only after struggling with the toilet bowl in the locker room, unable to even sit on the bench, did I manage to regain my senses and lean against the tunnel entrance to watch the rest of the match.
As soon as I left, Liverpool pushed their line all the way up as if they had been waiting for it.
Manager Arne Doctor was shouting like a madman on the touchline with his bald head gleaming, and Van Douglas was roaming around Villarreal's box like a striker.
In the 82nd minute of the second half, when Liverpool's 220 billion won German winger Florian Hofmann fired a clothesline-like mid-range shot that struck the goalpost, my heart dropped without me realizing it.
That terrible noise at Anfield, which continued for the full 90 minutes, was pressure incomparable to watching it on TV.
But our team was tenacious too.
Manager Marcelino parked the bus, and even Yilmaz came down below the half-line to put up a desperate defense. Eventually, all 5 minutes of added time flowed by, and the referee's whistle echoed through the stadium.
[Match End: Liverpool 0 - 1 Villarreal]
An away victory at Anfield.
The players cheered and hugged each other, and Arne Doctor stared at the ground with a hollow expression as if he couldn't believe it.
I, too, let out a sigh of relief.
We won.
It was as if we had literally sprinkled poop in the heart of the empire and survived to return.