Thailand
Our last few days were uneventful. Some light training, plenty of rest, and we boarded the plane that would take us overseas. Everyone was a bundle of nerves. Each little jolt of turbulence during the flight caused everyone's faces to blanch.
Jong-su, beside me, flinched every time. I couldn't help but chuckle at the sight. "Relax. Thailand has an airport." I assured him dryly. "They're not gonna ask you to play while flying the plane. Besides, statistically speaking, it's safer than a car."
"I still don't like it..." The man growled as he forced his face straight, but then his features twitched as we passed through another bout of turbulence.
I laughed at him again. "You do know that if you want to keep playing professionally, this is just the beginning, right? Planes, buses, hotels… players are flying all the time. You get used to it—or you stop complaining and find another hobby." I told him. He would get used to it.
I focused my attention on the view of clouds and clear skies through the small window of the plane, before glancing around to look at my fellow passengers. Jong-su's face had the same color of a washed bed sheet. He wasn't the only one either. For example, Kim Jun-hwan was sitting as still and straight in his chair, looking straight ahead and trying not to focus on the fact the ground was several thousand feet below.
As for the rest, their anxiety wasn't mere fear of falling, it was also excitement at the opportunity in front of them, mixed with fear of failure. I glanced at them. Bated breaths. Wide eyes. Occasional flinches.
To them, this wasn't a simple trip; this wasn't some weekend excursion. We were going to battle on foreign soil. But as it was their first international journey, their feelings were entirely justified.
Personally, I didn't understand those feelings, or maybe I just had learned to control my emotions long ago. My own mood wasn't quite somber, but a strange sense of purpose had gripped me and I knew in my heart that I needed to give my all. Thailand. I tried to piece back any remnants I could remember of their team—not that they had ever been in contention for the world stage. It was a bit cruel to say, perhaps, but one has to remain objective.
Of course, being objective also meant that, in this reality, Thailand could've really well been the powerhouse of football that nobody knew. We watched and analyzed as many videos that we had access to. And, well, it turns out... Thailand wasn't the powerhouse that people didn't know. Still, no matter what level they stood, our preparation would be no less demanding.
As it stood, South Korea had all the right cards to take this home, granted that not being at home didn't affect our play. I sighed, seriously, if we lost here and against them, we might as well stop trying.
Not much later, the lights inside the cabin came on, the sign to fasten seatbelts blinking in front of me. The pilot announced that our flight was approaching and landing.
Fucking finally.
xXx
We landed at Bangkok's International Airport. Jong-su loosened the moment our wheels hit the runway. But while some members of the U-17 squad laughed and high-fived each other, Jong-su's legs were shaking visibly. As soon as the "fasten seatbelts off" announcement came, Jong-su was the first one to undo his seatbelt.
As soon as the plane came to a complete halt, Jong-su scrambled out of his seat and started jogging towards the exit.
"Wow, someone is in a hurry to reach his destination." I heard someone say, and the few boys standing up paused to watch the big defender storm past them, seemingly set on racing the cabin crew to the plane doors.
I grinned. "Nah, he just has to take a shit but can't trust himself to do it in an airplane toilet. Afraid we'll all drop dead to a stench so horrid God himself might personally drag him down to hell."
This was followed by snickers, the boys watching with varying shades of amusement on their faces.
Jong-su merely blushed but otherwise stood undaunted to the chuckles.
Slowly, we filed out one by one.
Now, if this were a more important tournament, we'd have been ambushed by the press and cameras at the very moment we exited the plane, or at the airport, but in the absence of such, a more subdued greeting awaited us instead.
Upon arriving in the VIP terminal and passing through immigration control, we had a few officials approach. We handed in our passports, answered a couple of questions, and we got a nice little stamp and our documents returned to us.
Outside the terminal, a bus awaited us, gleaming white and air-conditioned—thankfully, given the Bangkok heat that hit us like a wall the moment we stepped outside.
The boys piled in, some already fussing with their bags, others pressing faces against the windows to catch a glimpse of the city.
Jong-su slumped into a seat, finally letting out a long exhale. "Never thought I'd be so happy to sit in a bus." He muttered, shaking his head.
I raised an eyebrow at that, snorting. "Feeling less like an egg?"
"Feel like the whole chicken, man! No more traveling via air vehicles for me, no sir."
The driver started the engine, and the bus rolled onto the tarmac. Skyscrapers, tuk-tuks, and endless traffic flashed past the windows. Some of the younger boys were buzzing with excitement, whispering and pointing at every neon sign. They talked about their plans for Thailand: the things they were going to buy or places they'd visit. A handful had prepared a checklist of things they wanted to see, and some had made a group chat on their smartphones to take pictures together and show their friends and classmates.
Personally, it wasn't in the cards to enjoy myself. But I did promise I'd get the girls and Eun Ha souvenirs and all... though, I was wholly unsure what exactly would constitute a good gift in their case.
Oh well. I'd figure it out.
The bus eventually pulled up in front of the hotel—a tall, modern building with glass doors and a lobby lit up in gold and white. It wasn't five-star luxury, but it was clean, comfortable, and more importantly, practical. I'd heard from the staff that it was one of the regular spots used to host visiting national youth teams.
Apparently, Japan's U-18s had stayed here just last year before a regional tournament.
As we unloaded, hotel staff came out to help with the bags. The boys shuffled toward the lobby, some still restless, others too tired to care. The air-conditioning hit us like a blessing, cool and dry after the thick Bangkok heat outside.
Our coach gathered us near the reception desk. "Keys will be distributed by pairs. Curfew's at ten. No wandering off. Dinner in thirty minutes at the restaurant downstairs. Training resumes tomorrow morning, light session, don't be late." His voice was calm but sharp, the kind that didn't invite questions.
We collected our keycards, and pairs formed quickly. I ended up rooming with Jong-su—who, despite his earlier misery, now looked like he'd already forgotten his fear of flying.
He flopped onto the bed the second we stepped into the room.
"Finally, solid ground. I could kiss the floor." He said, muffled by the pillow.
"Do that and they'll kick you out of the hotel." I replied, tossing my bag onto the other bed. The room was standard. Two beds, a desk, a TV, a bathroom stocked with small soap bars and neatly folded towels.
Nothing fancy, but it would do. It wasn't like they could roll a red carpet for us; a U-17 team wasn't worth all that fanfare.
We had just enough time to freshen up before heading down for dinner. The restaurant was already buzzing when we arrived. Plates of rice, chicken curry, vegetables, and fresh fruit were laid out buffet-style. Some of the boys dove in with wide grins, piling their plates like they hadn't eaten in days. Others picked cautiously, unsure if the food would agree with them before a match.
I stuck to something simple. Grilled chicken and rice. It was fuel, nothing more.
Around me, the conversations grew louder, laughter mixing with clattering cutlery.
For a moment, it didn't feel like we were in another country at all.
It just felt like a high school trip with slightly worse cuisine. Sorry, but I got too used to South Korean food.
The novelty didn't last for long.
The boys returned to their rooms early, as did I. The match wouldn't start for another few days, but I figured that the best plan was to follow the coach's recommendations. It would take a while to get over the jetlag and match-readiness, which is why, besides the necessary practice matches that we'd inevitably take, the bulk of our training sessions was in fact physical training.
As such, for the next few days, our schedule was an easy rhythm.
Routine, the same thing day by day, only training and recuperation—a world far removed from the intensity of an actual game.
I ate breakfast, exercised, had lunch, rested. It was mind-numbing.
The time we had free was spent watching recordings of Thailand's old performances or, if nothing was available, even clips of random matches for comparison. The members studied them diligently.
In the dining hall, conversations inevitably drifted to tactics—defend in our own half or press them back? What would the Thai midfielders be like? How were they at countering attacks? Could we expect much defensive resistance from the back or would the middle of the pitch be easier to penetrate?
The questions, strategies, and theories kept coming during the day.
While the rest had their head stuck on those thoughts, I could feel time slow. I would occasionally wonder the same, sure. It would have been rude not to, in a sense. But, I felt my mind being trapped. I sighed, looking down at my phone. It had been days now, and a single text stood out on my messages, unopened.
Mia: Miss me, little bro?
Mia: Because I miss you.
I didn't know what expression to wear. Was this something you'd say to your sibling? Maybe. In that case, how would you respond? With a 'yes?' Did this warrant a smiley or not? A question? Was it a rhetorical or a serious request?
I shook my head, placing my phone down.
Not the time, Mia. Sorry. I couldn't let this ambiguousness between us affect my game, nor my career.
And, just like this, the day of the match finally came
Chapter 62: South Korea vs Thailand (U-17)
In Bangkok's stadium, the stands were dotted with Thai flags, while a few larger banners showed the proud elephant crest of the War Elephants, as well as many small fans flapping and dancing to the beat of drums played nearby.
It seemed that the Thai supporters had already gathered in force and were ready for battle.
My ears picked up a swelling of cheers—purely male, gruff, and warlike—which reverberated throughout the field as soon as we lined up for the anthem.
From the look of it, the fans were roused up already, which was good.
The energy was real. I could practically feel the tension coming from the stands, even now. I took a breath. This would be an enjoyable experience, one that could put your fighting spirit at stake and call it forth if it lay dormant. This could get an athlete, and a crowd, pumped beyond compare. It reminded me why football is called a game for kings.
Across the stadium, I could see that my South Korean counterparts were pushing forth a similar wave of support, yet not nearly as loud.
A small cluster of red shirts stood out against the concrete terraces, their flags of crimson and white snapping weakly in the humid air. They shouted and clapped in unison, their voices sharp and insistent, but the sound carried only so far before it was swallowed up by the Thai drums.
It wasn't the roar of thousands, but the kind of defiant pocket of noise that told you these players were not alone on foreign soil. Jong-su, beside me, gulped nervously.
This wasn't the K League Youth Championship.
This was real now. Undeniably the beginning of something far greater. On paper, it was only a small friendly, a match that might seem inconsequential to anyone else.
But to us, it was a true international stage, a first step onto the path that pointed straight toward the World Cup.
I remembered what Coach Ahn Ki-seok told us in the locker room right before leaving for the field.
"Win, or we go home, and stay there." He said. "Compared to the sharks you'll be swimming with in the World Cup, these minnows may be much weaker—and maybe that is what's really eating away at your nerves, but do not take this for granted. Expect no kindness. Give none in return. Put yourself to the limit. Attack and defend as hard as you can until they hit the ground. Show that you mean to win and make them understand that winning will cost them more than they imagine. Go, and make me proud."
On the face of it, the speech didn't inspire, but I understood the mindset that he wanted to portray. Our fate and our hopes would hang upon every battle that we would fight as a nation. I closed my eyes, singing our proud national anthem.
This was nothing yet, I told myself. The stadium wasn't packed enough. The stakes not high enough. But someday, we would be a giant stepping onto the world stage.
When the music ended, the two teams broke apart and headed for their respective ends of the field. Our coach shook hands with the opposing coach, and the ref gave the thumbs-up, letting us take our positions.
I stared at the armband looped over my uniform sleeve. Coach had entrusted me with leadership, and with it came the weight of guiding eleven hearts through ninety minutes of war.
The referee, a tall, lean man in black with a whistle hanging from his neck, beckoned me toward the center circle. The Thai captain was already there—taller than me by a head, shoulders squared, his yellow armband bright against the deep blue of his kit.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held the calm of someone used to this.
We shook hands, firm and brief, no words exchanged. His palm was slick with sweat.
The referee produced a coin, glinting under the floodlights that had already begun to pierce the Bangkok dusk. He held it up between us, then called in clipped English. "Heads or tails?"
"Heads." I said without hesitation.
The coin spun upward, catching a flash of light, before landing with a faint slap against the ref's palm. He glanced down, then at us. "Tails."
The Thai captain gave a curt nod, choosing to start with the ball. I nodded, accepting the verdict, and we exchanged another brief clasp of hands before turning back to our lines.
As I made my way over, I glanced at my team. We adopted a 4-2-3-1 formation, with me spearheading the forward run, with an attacking trio, two midfield anchors and four defenders behind them.
The lads were nervous, I could tell. It would take time before they got used to such intense levels of spotlight. Then, their eyes strayed. As they landed on my features, I noticed them relax almost immediately.
I looked at Kim Jun-hwan, bouncing on his feet with a fiery, determined expression on his face. His eyes met mine. A nod. I nodded back.
Jong-su exhaled heavily at the back. His nervousness was palpable. Still, he smiled at me, rolling his shoulders.
Behind me, Song Sung-tae would act as one of my wings. He gave me a thumbs-up as he positioned himself. On the opposite flank, Choi Dae-hyun towered over most players. Despite his size, he was quite fast and aggressive, though not the best finisher; he tended to fumble during critical situations.
Whilst Kim Jun-hwan handled the center-mid slot.
The referee raised his hand, mouth curled in a whistle.
A sharp, piercing noise.
And, like a torrent, all of a sudden everything hit: the blinding floodlights, the deafening roars, the smell of dry grass and heavy-duty solvent. It felt like diving underwater, the weightlessness and the sounds muddled, before all at once exploding into sensation.
I felt a burst of heat rise through the tips of my toes. Blood surging. Energy shooting through me. God, I loved this sensation. I thought I could chase it forever and ever. I didn't think anyone, to date, had found a substance that could hit with the same potency.
The next moment, as if someone had poured oil all over the fire that burned within my heart, a smile lifted on my lips.
The whistle had barely faded when the Thai midfielder nudged the ball forward, and the game truly began. Sung-tae flared wide on the right. Dae-hyun raced up and down the left, using his athleticism against Thailand's fullbacks. On our backline, Jong-su settled comfortably into defense, while the rest played solid defensive-midfield.
The ball ping-ponged in their center circle, making its way back into their own half.
We quickly followed, like a three-pronged spear. We pressed, and the ball moved towards their backline.
The Thais were trying to pass around our press, and the ball ended up in their right back's possession. I saw Sung-tae surge forward. One of their defenders—the one closest to him, a tall, gangly teenager with a shock of black hair—strolled forward with the ball, seemingly nonchalant as he looked for an outlet.
Sung-tae pushed forward, trying to cut off any passing lanes. But the defender simply kicked it back toward the goalkeeper.
The goalkeeper stopped it with ease, before booting the ball up towards a striker. I watched as the ball sailed high into the air, before falling at the feet of one of their forwards. He controlled it easily, before turning and dribbling up the field.
The crowd roared. Their midfielders surged forward, trying to link up play.
Jun-hwan moved to intercept, but he couldn't quite reach the pass. The ball slipped through our lines, finding the awaiting feet of one of their strikers. Number 11, I noted, as the ball bounced ahead of him. He was a tall, muscular figure with close-cropped hair, and a determined set to his jaw.
He advanced on our defense, looking to get past Jong-su. The defender stuck out a leg, trying to nick the ball, but instead, his studs caught Number 11 squarely in the shin.
The striker yelped, collapsing onto the ground. The referee's whistle screamed through the air. Foul. Immediate. The freekick wasn't from a dangerous position, but the fact that we had already conceded one in the opening stages of the match wasn't good.
It set a bad precedent.
The Thai players gathered around the spot, discussing their next move. Too risky to attempt a shot at goal from here, they'd probably try to chip one in for a header or a tap-in.
We formed a defensive wall, trying to limit their angles. They lined up as if going for a cross, then suddenly one of them stepped up, passed it short, and the other player smashed it. It was a powerful shot, curling away from our wall, but our keeper read it well and pushed it aside. We scrambled to clear the rebound, and after a couple of desperate lunges, we managed to hack it away.
Jong-su got to it before the Thais could. He took a touch, then pelted it downfield. After a quick series of passes between our four defenders, we slowly moved up, and the ball finally found Jun-hwan's feet. As if the gears had finally clicked into place, I watched as his expression shifted. His eyes sharpened. The nervousness evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze.
I could see the thoughts running through his head. The options, the possibilities. The clock was ticking. Ten minutes were already gone.
We were only just getting started.
He played a quick one-two with Sung-tae, and the ball was at his feet again.
I watched, knowing what would come next. Sure enough, Jun-hwan glanced up, and his gaze met mine. He nodded. I nodded back.
He played the ball out wide to Dae-hyun, who was making an overlapping run. The tall boy collected it, then made a powerful run for it.
A defender tried to reclaim the ball but was easily shouldered aside. Dae-hyun took a moment to steady his momentum, then delivered a looping cross into the box. The trajectory didn't quite reach me. Instead, it fell just beyond the far side of the penalty area, where one of their center backs was waiting to clear.
He stopped it mid-air with his weaker foot, and the sphere rolled too far back into the center of the box. I pounced instantly, closing the distance faster than he could react. Another defender rushed in to save it, but his momentum betrayed him. By the time he got close enough to it, not only was I already in its possession—but his legs were wide open.
I grinned as I gently nudged it between them. He stumbled forward, eyes wide, caught off guard, while I was already moving past.
The space ahead opened like a runway, the angle perfect, my dominant foot ready. I drew back, coiled like a spring, and struck.
It flew through the air, spinning, bending, curving towards the top corner.
And the stadium went quiet. No cheers, no cries of anguish.
The goalkeeper flew through the air, stretching, his fingers barely managing to graze the side of the ball, but it was just enough to divert it to the side.
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The ball flew outside. I clicked my tongue.
The crowd roared again, this time in jubilation, as the goalkeeper pumped his fists in celebration and motioned for the defenders to reset. Their coach shouted something from the sideline, but the words were lost in the din of the crowd. The referee trotted over, signaling for a corner.
Kim Jun-hwan jogged towards the flag, collecting the ball from a nearby official, and placed it down on the spot. I took position in the six-yard box. Two Thai defenders stood nearby, marking me. Their eyes were fierce, and I knew they were eager to make amends for their mistake. The goalkeeper called out commands, and the defenders tightened up, forming a wall in front of him.
Jun-hwan ran up to the ball and swung his foot. The ball sailed through the air, dipping towards the far post.
The Thai goalkeeper hesitated, then decided to come for it. He leapt, reaching high, but the ball curled away from his outstretched fingertips.
It was heading for me. I had to time my run perfectly. The two defenders were closing in, their arms outstretched, ready to block my path. I took a step back, then sprang forward, using their momentum against them. I rose into the air, my neck craned, my head snapping down.
The ball hit the perfect spot on my forehead, and I directed it back across the goal, where the keeper was scrambling to recover. It flew past him and struck the inside of the post before nestling in the back of the net.
1-0
The stadium erupted. I landed on my feet, and was immediately mobbed by my teammates. Sung-tae leapt onto my back, while Dae-hyun wrapped me in a bear hug from the side. Jun-hwan, with a reserved smile on his face, clapped my back.
The stadium was still roaring, the Thai supporters in shock, while the Koreans in the stands chanted and sang. But I barely heard any of it. I was too busy soaking in the moment. We jogged back to our own half, the merriment still lingering.
The referee blew the whistle, signaling for the restart. The Thais were fired up, but we remained calm and composed.
Their striker, Number 11, dribbled forward, trying to make something happen. But our defenders closed him down quickly, and the chance evaporated. We regained possession, and began our slow, methodical build-up once more. Jun-hwan dropped deep, collecting the ball, before looking up to survey the field. He found me making a run, and released the ball into my path.
I took a touch, then turned, looking to make inroads into the Thai half. Two defenders closed in, trying to snuff out the attack. I feigned left, then spun right, wrong-footing one of them. The other stayed with me, but not for long. I rolled the ball through his legs, shouldering past him as he tripped, fell, and dragged me down with him
"..."
The referee's whistle pierced the air. Freekick to us, right on the edge of the box.
I got up slowly, brushing the grass from my sleeve. The Thai player did likewise, holding his hand out for a handshake.
I accepted, giving him a nod of respect. He had played well, despite the foul.
Jun-hwan and I stood over the ball, discussing our options. The Thai wall lined up, four players, arms across their chests, while the rest guarded the near post or the far side. The goalkeeper stood tall, shouting orders, ensuring his defense was in the right position.
Seeing him position himself for the free kick, I asked. "You want it?"
Jun-hwan nodded, a faint, confident smile hovering around his mouth. "It's this close, it'd be stupid not to, don't you think?"
I clicked my tongue. "You see, I kind of want it too." I told him, and his eyes narrowed.
"Rock, paper, scissors then."
I snorted. "... Are you serious?"
Sung-tae walked up to us, shaking his head in amusement. "Does it even matter who between you two monsters take it? It'll go in either way."
I looked at Sung-tae, then at Jun-hwan. My rival merely shrugged, then raised his fist.
"Alright. Let's settle it like men."
We got in position, our fists ready, and then the game began.
Rock. Paper. Scissors.
"Best of one." Jun-hwan said, his eyes blazing.
I nodded.
Our fists went down.
One.
Two.
Three.
My hand was flat, whilst Jun-hwan had his index and middle fingers pointing up. He grinned, watching my expression falter.
"... Best of three?" I asked, hopeful.
He shook his head, chuckling arrogantly.
"Fuck." I muttered, shaking my head. "You better score, asshole."
Sung-tae patted my shoulder with 'there there' expression.
"Don't worry about it." Jun-hwan said. He took a few steps back, judging the angle.
He glanced at the Thai defenders, then at their goalkeeper. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then began his run-up preparation.
The referee whistled. He jogged, his foot swinging back, and then forward, connecting with the ball with a resounding thump.
The ball rose into the air, spinning viciously. It flew over the wall, dipping just at the last moment.
The goalkeeper dove to his left, stretching out a hand, but the ball swerved away from him, clipping the post and going in.
The net rippled.
2-0
The stadium was in raptures. The Korean supporters were in full voice, while the Thai fans were stunned into silence. I watched as Jun-hwan ran towards the corner flag, arms outstretched, shouting in delight. His teammates mobbed him, ruffling his hair, slapping his back.
I jogged over, joining in the celebrations. I slapped his shoulder, grinning widely. "Not bad." I said. "Not bad at all."
He turned to me, and for a second, we shared a look.
This bastard was actually good. Better than I expected, even.
As we made our way back to our half, Coach Ahn Ki-seok clapped delightfully. "Good job!" He called out. "Maintain that intensity and the match is yours."
We nodded in acknowledgment. The referee blew his whistle once again, and the game resumed.
Thailand was looking to strike back immediately. Their midfielders were pressing higher up the field, trying to win the ball in dangerous areas. But Jun-hwan was equal to the task, his passing and vision unrivaled in this contest. However, Jun-hwan couldn't carry the whole team, and it showed.
Our wingers, Dae-hyun and Sung-tae, were struggling to make an impact. They were both fast and skillful, but lacked the composure and decisiveness of a true finisher. Whenever they received the ball, they'd either hesitate, or try to take on defenders, often to no avail.
As such, it was becoming increasingly clear that the team was overly reliant on me and Jun-hwan to create chances.
With about twenty minutes gone, the Thais were starting to find their rhythm. Their midfielder, Number 7, a short, stocky lad with a mop of curly hair, was starting to control the midfield.
He won the ball back with ease after a slip-up, and began spraying passes out wide.
Their wingers immediately pushed up. He threaded a perfect ball through the center, and their striker, Number 11, raced onto it.
Jong-su tried to press him, but the Thai striker was too quick. He cut inside, beat another defender, and fired a shot—that was fortunately intercepted by another of our own.
The ball arched overhead, finding purchase on the chest of Number 7. He controlled it with a deft touch, and volleyed it first time, aiming for the far post. Our keeper reacted quickly, diving across his goal, and parrying the ball away.
But Number 11 was already there to latch onto the rebound. He steadied himself, and struck it hard. Our goalkeeper flung a desperate arm out. This time, however, he wasn't so lucky.
2-1
The stadium erupted in cheers. The drums were pounding, the Thai supporters were on their feet, singing, clapping, celebrating.
The Thai players swarmed Number 11, who stood with his arms aloft, basking in the adulation of the home crowd. Our players trudged back to the halfway line, heads bowed.
It was a bit of a sucker punch. I could only hope that the team would respond to the setback. We still had the lead, but that could easily change if we didn't keep our focus.
We restarted, and the game resumed its previous pattern. Thailand was content to sit back, absorb our attacks, and then hit us on the counter. It was a classic rope-a-dope strategy. They knew they couldn't match our quality, so they were trying to make it a battle of wills instead.
Except that the score was still in our favor.
So, the Thai players were bound to try something different.
And, as if on cue, Number 11 started to drop deeper. He wasn't the only one. Their wingers started pulling back as well, joining in the midfield. Their fullbacks, sensing the shift, joined the attack as well. Their Number 7 retained possession for a while—until I rushed towards him like a maddening bull.
Since there was a lot of distance between us, and I was behind him, he thought that he could easily keep that distance as it was by running deeper into our half as well.
But I was built for light-fucking-speed. Besides, I didn't like that they were controlling the pace, so I overworked this young engine of mine and sprinted at full throttle.
I managed to close that gap in a matter of seconds. He looked over his shoulder and paled at the sight. He had barely enough time to register the situation. He attempted to hoof it away, but I launched into a slide tackle, nicking the ball off his toes before he could get a proper touch. As a result, he fell in an ugly heap on the grass. No foul. I got the ball cleanly.
From my knees, I took a touch to steady myself, then rose to my feet. I had a good view of the pitch. The Thais were in full retreat, trying to shore up their backline. I saw the space in front of me, the defenders scrambling to get back, and our players surging forward. I took a moment to consider. A pass?
No, too risky. I had to take this myself.
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I pushed the ball forward with my right foot, and then set off, sprinting alongside it. The Thai defenders scrambled to get back. One of them, Number 2, a tall, lanky fullback, tried to intercept, but I feinted to the left, then jinked right, leaving him flat-footed. Another defender, Number 5, a burly center back, came across, arms outstretched, looking to dispossess me.
Number 5 lunged in heavily. I killed my pace, slid the ball under my sole, and whipped it past him with a sharp elástico. His feet tangled, his body twisting awkwardly as I slipped through.
Two more defenders swarmed, blocking the path to goal. I feinted wide, then rolled my hips and cut back inside, leaving them colliding into each other like drunks at closing time. Space opened. I surveyed the path in front of me.
Space opened. The box was chaos. The keeper squared up, crouched low, waiting for me to pull the trigger.
I scanned. Jun-hwan? No, double-marked. Dae-hyun? Sprinting in, but too far out; he wouldn't get to it in time. Sung-tae? Not free—yet. His defender was glued to him, tight as a shadow. If I forced it now, it'd be suicide.
But the Thai line… greedy. All four sucked into me, leaving the far side naked. One late run, one perfectly timed ball, and they'd be shredded.
Don't shoot. Don't rush. Bend them. Break them.
I kept running, kept pushing, kept feinting, until finally, the Thai wall was out of shape.
I dragged the ball with my left, slowing just enough to bait another lunge. Number 4 bit, stepping out of line. That was it—the crack. Sung-tae's marker moved to fill the space Number 4 had left.
But he was too slow.
A split second of indecision, a half-step in the wrong direction.
I pounced. With my body still squared to goal, I disguised the pass. An angled slice with my instep, threading the needle between the two center-backs. The ball bent wickedly, curling away from the collapsing defense and into the exact pocket I'd just created.
Sung-tae slipped free at the perfect moment, my pass curling into his path like fate itself. For a heartbeat, the stadium seemed to hold its breath. His eyes went wide—too wide. He hadn't expected it.
The ball kissed his boot, but the touch was heavy, betraying nerves he'd never admit. He stabbed at it, hurried, desperate. The strike lacked venom, rolling meekly into the keeper's arms.
I was already surging forward, ready to bury the rebound, but there was none. Only the Thai goalkeeper clutching the ball to his chest, grinning at fortune's cruelty.
The chance had died the moment it was born.
Sung-tae stood frozen, hands on his knees, head bowed as if the grass itself had accused him. The Thai fans howled their relief, their drums pounding like mockery. Our own supporters groaned, a ripple of disbelief echoing around.
I jogged over, chest still heaving. For a second, frustration clawed at my throat. Wasted perfection. Squandered brilliance. But I swallowed it down.
He didn't need anger. Not now.
I clapped his shoulder.
"Forget it." I said, firmly. "Next one's yours. Trust me."
He looked up, eyes clouded, lips pressed thin. He wanted to argue, to drown in the mistake, but the whistle blew for the keeper's clearance, and the game dragged us back into its current.
"Sorry..." Sung-tae muttered as he made his way past, but I shook my head.
"..."
No one in the team held it against him; we had developed quite a strong relationship after all, but it would've been a lie to say that we had been in need of a goal. A one goal lead could be easily overturned, and Sung-tae's miss had been an opportunity to take the wind out of their sails.
Sung-tae himself knew this very well, and as such, the rest of his game was affected. He was more reckless than usual, more desperate to make amends, which only served to disrupt the team's rhythm even more. To make matters worse, Dae-hyun was also struggling. He was being muscled off the ball too easily, unable to assert himself in the air.
We needed to do something about it, but we had to do it right.
I stole the ball from an overeager Thai midfielder and took off. Sung-tae and Dae-hyun both made overlapping runs, while Jun-hwan held his position, drawing two defenders with him. The Thais were starting to get stretched out.
I feinted, then switched the ball to my left foot. The defender in front of me was expecting the right foot, and so, when I did so, he lost his footing.
But he was persistent. He kept hounding me, trying to get a foot in.
Jun-hwan freed himself as I lured the defender away from him. He waved his hands at me and I nodded. I turned, and sent the ball in a high, lofted pass towards that cut through the midfield, and would have landed perfectly on Jun-hwan's feet.
And then the whistle shrieked, disrupting the play.
Halftime.
The chance evaporated into the roar of the crowd, the Thai players pumping fists as if the whistle had been their savior.
"Fuck..." I cursed, shaking my head as I made my way to the halfway line, ready to go back to the locker rooms.
The coach was already waiting for us. He looked at the score on the scoreboard, his face unreadable. We trudged past him, the roar of the crowd fading behind us. The Thai players followed behind, heads held high despite the deficit. It was as if the whistle was a God-sent reprieve, a second lease on life. They still believed they were in this.
Their captain, a tall, well-built fellow with a buzz cut, patted some shoulders and offered words of encouragement. His team seemed buoyed by his leadership.
As we filed into the tunnel, I could feel their eyes on me. Quick glances, sharp and lingering, stealing cuts of me whenever they thought I wasn't looking, nudging each other as if to say that's the one.
I heard their murmured conversations, too soft to be heard but loud enough to register that I was the subject. Some of their faces turned away quickly as they realized I was observing them, as they thought me an anomaly. The rarest of beasts.
This, of course, was hardly something that hadn't occurred in the past, but here, in Thailand, I suppose it was the first time they'd laid their eyes on a Korean that played like a Brazilian.
We reached the locker rooms, and Coach Ahn Ki-seok waited for us to enter, then closed the door. We all took a seat on a bench. A bottle was handed over, water trickling down our throats. The rest of us were in various stages of cooling down, some sitting on the floor with legs outstretched or against a wall, their muscles aching from fatigue.
Coach Ki-seok cleared his throat, drawing all our attention to him. He let the silence hang for a few seconds, only the sound of water bottles being set down breaking it.
"Two-one." He said finally. His voice was steady, measured. "We are ahead. But right now, it doesn't feel like it, does it?"
No one spoke. A few heads lowered. To be honest, if we had a little more during back there, we could've likely created a critical opportunity.
"They are pressing harder every minute. They have confidence now. You gave them that with the mistake, but it happens. Sung-tae—" He fixed his gaze on our winger, who sat hunched forward, dripping sweat, eyes on the floor. "—you missed a big chance. Yes. But this is football. You don't stop running. You don't stop asking for the ball. You don't disappear. You keep going. Do you understand?"
Sung-tae lifted his chin, his lips pressed tight, and nodded.
"Good. Because if you start hiding, you are already finished. And I'm not taking you off. I want to see you fight for your next chance. That's how you learn. That's how you grow."
Coach paced slowly, eyes moving over each of us. "Dae-hyun. You are losing too many duels. Don't wrestle with their center-back, you won't win. Pull him wide. Run at him. Make him move his feet. He does not like that. Understand?"
I noticed that too. Dae-hyun probably saw me turning their defenders into slightly less polite traffic cones and thought, "Hey, I can do that too." Bless him, but that's not really his superpower. It was like asking a cat to bark—entertaining, but doomed from the start.
"Yes, Coach." Dae-hyun muttered.
"Jun-hwan, keep dictating the rhythm. Don't get sucked into their pace. You and him—" He pointed at me "—must control when we breathe and when we strike. Right now, they are dictating too much of the tempo."
I nodded, meeting his eyes.
"Naturally, their coach will start waking up to you. Expect tighter marking. They'll send one of their best onto you, maybe even double up. Maybe they will mark both of you at the same time, even. Make Sung-tae and Dae-hyun have more freedom on the outside. Pass it off. Don't force it unless it's an obvious play. Move. Find the space."
He then addressed the team as a whole: "Defenders: keep tight. Stay compact. I've seen too much distance between the lines. This is what they are looking for—space in front of your midfield. Close it off."
Our defenders, led by Jong-su, straightened, determination setting their faces.
Coach stopped pacing. His arms dropped to his sides. His voice sharpened. "We are not here for a holiday. This is the World Cup camp. Every match is your test. They are smaller than what is coming, but if you look at them and think 'easy,' then you will drown when the real sharks arrive. We can't rely only on two players. The whole team needs to play better."
"..."
A sigh left his lips as he surveyed us all, his eyes softening slightly. "But you've given us the lead. That's not half-bad, I suppose." A few smiles peeked through the seriousness. "Now, hold that lead. Protect it. Then extend it. Let's remind everyone who's really in charge of this game. Go warm up. The second half is ours for the taking."
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Next chapter concludes this mini-arc/game against Thailand. Like ReplyReport Reactions:IAVL, Demon_queen, Mr.Orange and 76 othersNneeilOct 18, 2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 65: South Korea vs Thailand (U-17) IV (Conclusion) New View contentNneeilKnow what you're doing yet?Oct 19, 2025Add bookmark#281Chapter 65: South Korea vs Thailand (U-17) IV (Conclusion)
The players began filtering back onto the field. Sung-tae and Dae-hyun were deep in conversation with the coach.
As they headed to the sideline, Sung-tae turned. His gaze, usually so hesitant and soft, was fierce, like he'd gone under a knife. "Let's score another. This half."
Dae-hyun smirked. "Or we could go with my suggestion and not score at all. Then we could go home."
I chuckled, shaking my head, as Sung-tae glared. The tall kid was joking to break tension. It's what he did. But if anyone wasn't feeling the gravity of this, well… they were going home after all. We couldn't afford to relax here, even if they weren't exactly a world powerhouse. That kind of thing could lead to disaster, especially against a motivated, home-side team with nothing to lose.
The Thai side came out, their supporters clapping and cheering enthusiastically. The Thai players raised their hands in greeting, the drums picking up pace. A few flares went off here and there, bathing the crowd in a reddish, flickering light.
We got back into position. I stretched a little, watching the Thai side do the same. This time, the kickoff would be ours. The referee signaled, whistle tucked between his lips. Our formation shifted. I stood at the center, Sung-tae in front of me. Jun-hwan was just behind me, fully locked in.
The whistle blew.
Sung-tae touched it. I tapped the ball back, and the half began in earnest.
He controlled it perfectly, a single touch, and looked up. I drifted wide, letting the Thai defenders see me, baiting them out.
Sung-tae sprinted down the right, low center of gravity, ready to cut inside. Number 2 shadowed him, sticking close. Jun-hwan tapped the ball forward. Sung-tae's first touch was flawless. He juked left, then spun right. The defender slipped.
Dae-hyun was wide left, waiting, but he was double-marked. Sung-tae feinted a cross. Instead, he dragged the ball back, holding off Number 6. Jun-hwan was already moving, offering a pocket of space.
A quick one-two. Sung-tae slid the ball into Jun-hwan's path. He took it, controlled, turned. The Thai midfielder lunged. He dodged. No fuss, no flourish. Just… perfect technique, a deft shift of weight.
Number 2 was sprinting back. Sung-tae angled a pass. It split the defense. He raced onto the through-ball, chest high.
But it wasn't enough.
One short, but very fast Thai defender, Number 4, had kept his eye on Sung-tae. He matched his every stride. Sung-tae twisted, trying to wrong-foot the defender, but Number 4 was having none of it. He stayed with him. Step for step. Touch for touch.
It ended with a desperate tackle.
Number 4 stuck in a foot. It found the ball. Sung-tae fell down, but quickly recovered. The Thai defender attempted a long pass, but Jun-hwan read his mind, and intercepted it before anyone could realize.
Jun-hwan didn't bother to look. He merely slipped it back. And there, right there, at the center of attention, stood yours truly—receiving it with glee.
I had to admit it was in equal parts amusing and exhilarating to see the defenders' eyes go wide, scurrying like terrified ants to mark me and shut down any avenue I may exploit.
They could never really succeed at the last part of course. But the point is, that they had become desperate and that only fueled the crowd, and that only fed my ego. Three Thai defenders crowded around me. Number 4. Number 2. Number 6.
Number 4, the quickest of them all, was the first to catch up. I slowed down until he did, then gently tapped the ball sideways, through his moving legs, and shouldered him out of the way as I changed directions and moved towards the middle.
The two other center backs rushed toward me. Their midfielders tried to cordon off the rest. Too many of us were on this end, which left our left flank exposed. Number 2 came at me with the blind rage of a charging bull. I cut to the right. His legs gave up from beneath him. He fell.
As did Number 6, who tried to overpower my shoulders with his own. Despite being the youngest present, I wasn't the slightest bit weaker in strength compared to them.
I shoved him off. My body swerved and spun, eluding the next tackle. I dribbled through. Then the entire defensive wall came into view. Behind it, their keeper. I had already dispatched three of their own. Left them in the metaphorical dust of my well-polished cleats.
And I could feel it—the bloodlust, the anticipation, the taste of victory on every tongue in the stadium. They were already moving towards the center, forming a blockade, hoping that would deter me, but what could you really do when you were faced with an animal such as me? How do you stop the flood?
Sung-tae and Dae-hyun made overlapping runs, drawing a defender each with them. But I didn't need wings. My eyes zeroed in the yawning expanse of grass in front of me. No one to block. To intercept. I was roughly 30 yards away from goal. Too far out, most would think.
Not to this player.
Not to this beast of the game.
I steadied myself. My left leg rose back. The angle was tight, tricky. A normal shot wouldn't do, it would barely threaten the keeper. I needed something special. I needed magic. And luckily enough for my teammates and our supporters—magic just so happened to be the one thing that flowed in abundance in my veins.
As I approached the ball, my right foot tapped twice, kicking up dirt and grass. My eyes scanned the goal. In that split second, everything slowed, stretched, like I was watching a film at half speed. I saw the goalie move across. His feet slid over the line. His body was tense.
I struck the ball.
I didn't even hear the contact. Didn't hear the whistling air. All sound had evaporated.
It rocketed through the humid air. It curved slightly from right to left. A missile. A literal terrorist attack, bent on the absolute destruction of their goal.
Their keeper, seeing the incoming freight train, dived, his arms outstretched. Desperate.
I was too much.
My shot found its mark. The high corner of his net. The ball thundered past the stunned keeper, slamming like lightning into the mesh.
The net rippled. The keeper hit the ground, lying there as the ball bounced and rolled next to him. Silence reigned.
3-1
Then the stands exploded.
I took off, running past my stunned opponents. I held my arm out, fist clenched, screaming in delight as I rushed towards where our fans were. All of them. Screaming their nipples off. Tearing their vocal chords as if I were an idol running for presidency. As few as they were, the shouts reached their highest possible pitch.
Sung-tae trudged towards me, face in a mix of disbelief and pride. He didn't seem bothered by the fact that he hadn't been able to get a goal. Jun-hwan did as well, his usual coolness lost in a sea of celebration, and under that, begrudging admiration. The kind that stemmed only after realizing how someone you already respected could climb a few more notches.
Some of our teammates were jumping up and down, arms thrown over each others' necks as we ran past, laughing and clapping one another's shoulders. Coach Ahn Ki-seok shook his head at me in disbelief as we jogged past, and back into position.
The referee, who had already blown his whistle many times by now, signaled for the Thai side to begin the match anew, now behind by a whole two goals. While there was still plenty of time on the clock, their team seemed disoriented and ruffled, as if not quite believing they could even have a shot at catching back up.
Their strategy for the first half had been to defend deep, while their coaching staff's mid-half intervention to make an aggressive, all-out, 'no-holds barred' attack didn't even have time to take shape before I delivered a further blow to their morale.
The rest of the match was merely the tip of the iceberg that led to their demise. A slow, painful decline in their spirit and performance. It was obvious even to their fans. The drumming had slowly faded. The singing had devolved into scattered chants, few and far between. Our fans, on the other hand, continued their energetic support with even greater gusto and joy as we began making our way through their zone and scoring on their defense whenever the opportunity arose.
In the end, our coach didn't have to utter a word as his message from the locker room carried over.
Jun-hwan dribbled past a defender with a fancy step over—straight from my textbook—and left Number 6 tumbling. Two more defenders converged. I ran deeper into their half, and obviously, seeing me advance like that, their attentions went solely to the immediate threat. It left Sung-tae completely unmarked in the wide-open space behind them.
Jun-hwan raised his eyebrows slightly. He measured it. Perfect precision.
He sent the perfect, looping through-ball into Sung-tae's path. The moment the ball landed onto the soles of the winger's feet, he found himself, once again, face to face with the Thai keeper. This time though, things were going to go differently.
Sung-tae immediately grasped his opportunity. The moment he touched the ball he sensed the presence of two more defenders, rushing across to aid the keeper. He had to react fast. Before they could reach him, Sung-tae cut to the right and accelerated, beating both.
This caused their keeper to hurry towards him, to narrow the angles and prevent a dangerous shot. The Thai keeper's timing, however, wasn't enough. As he lunged forward, Sung-tae twisted his body, switching sides with feint. The keeper chased, completely wrong-footed by the maneuver.
The net was completely wide open. Sung-tae tapped it in gently.
4-1
Sung-tae bit his lower lip, holding a fist up, his eyes wide and smiling. He ran like the hounds of hell were chasing him, and a good portion of the stands erupted in jubilation. He slid on his knees and we quickly surrounded him and shook the living daylights out of his limbs as he cried from excitement.
Coach Ahn Ki-seok clapped enthusiastically.
And that turned out to be the match point. The last few minutes didn't see much action as the Thai team merely played for possession. Knowing the game was ours, we didn't overtire ourselves trying to add to the tally.
Final whistle. 4-1.
A resounding win for the Koreans. We celebrated.
All of us hugged one another. Coach Ahn was grinning wildly as we trotted back to the center. Jong-su couldn't hide his relief—it was written plainly all over his face—while Sung-tae, Dae-hyun, and the rest of the team kept pumping fists as we joined them in the middle.
They were the first ones who threw their bodies on us. I was literally ganged upon and forced to be on the receiving end of many sweaty hugs. I frowned, trying to break free from the testosterone-filled displays of affection, but that bastard Jong-su kept dragging me back.
Eventually, I did manage to slip free, and began to make my way back into the tunnel. As I did so, I threw a perfunctory glance at the stands, where the Korean supporters, standing in the limited few that they were, continued clapping politely. One day, there'd be thousands of them there, chanting my name just as the Brazilians did back then.
I smiled wistfully.
Right before the darkness of the tunnel could completely obscure my sight, I found an oddly familiar sight, clapping as well. She stood there, amidst the cheering, hands tucked on her laps. Her head tilted at just the right angle to catch my gaze.
Sunglasses. A mask. And a cap.
I blinked, my brows furrowing.
She stared at me.
"..."
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