It happened again.
Ho-young's equalizer.
[Ho-young scores! Ho-young's brilliant shot rips through the net. An unbelievable, fantastic goal.]
[What did I tell you. Ho-young always delivers.]
Park Moon-seok and Woo Sang-cheol of SBC were shouting at the top of their lungs.
In particular, Woo Sang-cheol, one of the key figures of the 2002 World Cup semifinal miracle, was completely fired up.
[What more needs to be said. There is no other player like him in the world. He is truly a proud junior.]
[Let's watch that scene one more time.]
[Look at this. He creates a fantastic breakthrough by exploiting the moment when Marchisio and Montolivo's runs overlap in midfield. His chemistry with Ki Sung-yong was outstanding. This might be the best goal of the entire Olympics. Look at the crowd.]
The stadium shook with cheers.
The Chinese and Italian supporters who had been cheering for Italy fell silent, like mice.
A disaster.
Coach Casiraghi grabbed his head and vented his fury.
A bad feeling crept in, that they might lose a match they absolutely had to win.
"You can't even stop that one play. You idiots."
In Casiraghi's view, that goal should never have been conceded.
It was completely preventable.
Of course, getting beaten by dazzling individual skill was unavoidable.
Even Casiraghi acknowledged Ho-young's footwork.
What truly bothered him was what happened before that.
'Idiots. How can you fail to deal with such an obvious setup. Even if they are young.'
Even giving them every benefit of the doubt, he could tolerate that much.
But what he truly could not understand was Montolivo's response.
'There were at least two chances. Why didn't he tackle.'
It made no sense.
They had prepared the Ho-young injury plan for situations exactly like this, yet Montolivo kept missing his chances.
'Damn it.'
This was a match they had to win.
Even if they drew today, their chances of reaching the quarterfinals would still be high, but finishing first or second in the group made a huge difference.
Second place meant a ninety nine percent chance of facing Brazil.
That had to be avoided at all costs.
'From now on, we have to get our heads straight.'
Better late than never.
Casiraghi subtly raised his hand and signaled to Montolivo.
But Montolivo deliberately avoided the signal.
For some reason, his face was filled with hesitation.
On the pitch.
'Ha.'
Montolivo was unsure.
In truth, he had several chances to take Ho-young out, but hesitated each time and failed to act.
Before the match started, he had made up his mind firmly, but when the moment came, his body refused to move.
He was afraid.
Was this really something that could be done under the name of tactics.
Inside his head, the clash between right and wrong never stopped.
There was a huge difference between doing something impulsively during a match and carrying it out as a plan.
As a fellow footballer, it was not something he could easily do.
Worse still, one mistake could leave a permanent stain on his career.
If it was too obvious, he would be branded a dirty player.
That would seriously affect his future as a professional.
For that reason, he could not simply obey the coach without question.
The choice was his.
Once he crossed that line, the responsibility would be his alone.
After a brief moment of conflict.
Montolivo suddenly came to his senses.
When he looked up, he saw that the balance of the match had shifted significantly.
'Ho-young.'
Ho-young was drawing more and more attention onto himself, then distributing the ball through various attacking channels to spread the offense.
South Korea's once simple attacking patterns were becoming increasingly varied, and the tempo of the match was rising.
This was no longer a match controlled solely by Italy.
It was becoming evenly matched.
'It's my fault.'
Montolivo blamed himself.
Because he had failed to stop Ho-young properly, cracks were appearing.
The thought that he was the root cause of everything tormented him.
And it pushed him to act.
'Fine. I'll just shut my eyes and do it.'
He hardened his resolve.
Losing the match because he failed his mission would be painful in its own way.
Even now, he could not face his teammates.
So he stepped up.
'I'll start with physical contact, nothing obvious.'
He planned to provoke first.
If he suddenly launched a brutal tackle after focusing on interceptions, anyone would be suspicious.
From that moment on.
[Montolivo presses tightly on Ho-young.]
[He needs to be careful. Something about that player's eyes looks unsettling.]
[Commentator Woo Sang-cheol, what do you see.]
[Haha. Having played myself, you develop a sense for these things. People call it mind games. With some players, you can practically see their thoughts.]
[So what do you see in Montolivo.]
[It looks like Ho-young's unpredictable movement has rattled him. He seems to have lost confidence. Ho-young should seize this moment and play even more aggressively.]
It was half right and half wrong.
Montolivo was staring at Ho-young with anxious eyes, but it was not because he had lost confidence.
Rather, whenever Ho-young got the ball, he rushed in aggressively and initiated rough contact.
After about ten minutes of that.
Whistle.
The referee Franco ran over and warned Montolivo.
He had crossed the acceptable line of physical play.
"Yes. I'll be careful."
It seemed like it would end there.
But in that moment, as Montolivo turned away, he made his decision.
'That's enough.'
The warning from the referee.
Now everyone had seen that his play was rough.
In other words, the groundwork was complete.
Now it was time to act.
This was the moment to bare his hidden fangs.
The opportunity came soon.
Thud.
Ho-young received a pass from Lee Chung-yong and immediately accelerated when he spotted a slight opening on the right.
As if he had been waiting, Montolivo joined him.
Having already taken a good position, he managed to get tight to Ho-young.
But Ho-young's top speed was tremendous, so he had to decide quickly.
No more than two seconds.
The key was how natural he could make it look.
'Left shin.'
Montolivo suddenly leaned his shoulder into Ho-young.
In that brief instant, it turned into rough contact.
Montolivo planned to fall together with him and stomp on the back of his thigh, and everything seemed to be going according to plan.
[Montolivo charges in aggressively. Ho-young. He has to hold on. Ho-young. Ho-young. Is he going down.]
For a moment, Ho-young's body tilted slightly to the right.
He was on the verge of falling.
Montolivo caught that moment instantly.
He did not miss the opening and shoved Ho-young with his shoulder.
If they went down together and he stepped on his thigh, it would be over.
But.
'What.'
Ho-young did not fall.
Balancing on the edge, weaving along the touchline, he somehow kept dribbling.
Montolivo could not believe his own eyes.
Even if Montolivo was bigger, the opponent was only fifteen years old.
He thought he could bring him down at any time.
But he would not go down.
'How is this.'
Setting aside his solid build, Ho-young's body stubbornly endured the physical battle.
Like a rubber band bouncing back impact,
Ho-young simply would not fall.
Instead, his speed, which had seemed half dead, began to recover.
This was Ho-young's body, which had undergone rapid growth just days earlier.
[Elastic Muscles of the Black Panther (U)]
A talent obtained from Eto'o.
It still needed time to be fully assimilated.
Even so, its power was already evident.
Such an unfamiliar talent could have caused physical overload, but his body balance kept everything in harmony.
Montolivo, unaware of this, was dumbfounded.
Was there really another boy in the world with such physicality.
That thought crossed his mind.
Then.
Thud.
"Gah."
Ho-young's body, now at full speed, shot forward like a warhorse.
Montolivo, forcing the physical challenge, lost his balance and was shaken off.
Since he had been sprinting at full speed, the backlash was enormous.
[Montolivo goes down. Ho-young continues along the touchline on the right. Ho-young looks up for Park Joo-hyung. Is it a cross.]
But before that.
Whistle.
[Ah, the referee stops the match.]
[Yes. Montolivo looks to be in bad shape. He is lying on the ground, writhing. It seems he took a heavy impact as he fell.]
After rolling several times, Montolivo finally came to a stop, gasping for breath.
Stars spun before his eyes.
His head felt foggy, like his organs were about to spill out.
His face was deathly pale as he complained of dizziness.
The referee and team doctor rushed over.
But the first to arrive was Ho-young.
"Are you okay."
"Ah. My stomach feels completely twisted."
"Your head."
"It's fine. I didn't hit it."
From his response, a concussion seemed unlikely.
Still, just in case, Ho-young immediately began first aid.
He removed Montolivo's boots and massaged his hands and feet to help circulation.
It was emergency treatment he had learned in theory class.
Other players also came over to help.
After a short while.
When the medical team examined Montolivo, color slowly returned to his face.
Even the Chinese fans, who had been jeering nonstop, zipped their mouths for once.
Then.
Clap, clap clap.
Applause started from the Korean section and spread like a contagion, soon turning into a round of applause.
Except for a few ill mannered spectators, most joined in.
[That's a relief. Montolivo is getting back up.]
[A heartwarming scene. This is what sportsmanship is about.]
[Indeed. A beautiful moment.]
The match was temporarily halted.
The trainer assessed Montolivo under concussion protocol to decide whether he could continue.
Shortly after.
"No issues. The match can resume."
With that verdict, the referee showed Montolivo a yellow card and awarded a free kick to South Korea.
It was a warning for excessive physical play.
The crowd booed, but the referee stood firm.
Whistle.
The spot was on the right flank, thirty four meters from goal.
It was an awkward angle for a direct shot, so Ki Sung-yong stepped up as the taker, while Ho-young moved into the box.
"I'll send it long. Make a run from the outside to the inside."
"Yes."
Ho-young nodded and was about to enter the box.
"Hey."
Montolivo.
Suddenly, he grabbed Ho-young's arm and spoke.
"I'm sorry."
"For what."
"."
Montolivo avoided his gaze and continued.
"Thanks for the first aid earlier."
He wanted to confess honestly, but as an opponent, he could not.
"Hey. Montolivo."
"Hm."
At that moment, Coach Casiraghi was urgently calling him from the touchline.
Montolivo ran over.
"Are you alright."
"Yes. My head is completely fine."
"That's a relief. If you can't run, say it now."
"No. My body was just startled."
"Good. Get back in there."
"Yes."
"Oh, wait."
Casiraghi whispered quietly.
"Finish him this time. But do not concede a penalty. If you are not confident you can make it look accidental, wait for the next chance. When it turns into a scramble, there will be an opportunity outside the box."
"."
"Why no answer. The groundwork is already done."
"Understood."
After replying, Montolivo sprinted into the box.
He closely followed Ho-young and focused on marking him.
His gratitude was immense, but this was war.
There was no romance in the professional world.
Moments later, Ki Sung-yong's sharp free kick flew in, and the two leapt at the same time.
(To be continued.)