RE: Keep it in the Family (Secret Class)-91 — Group Stage – South Korea vs Iran IV (Conclusion)
I lost count of how many times I ended up on the ground like an undignified dog. But at least this one didn't hurt too bad. It wasn't as rough as the first or second one, or the third and fourth one, or even the fifth, or… well, the point was, I had to take it on the face every single time.
Okay, maybe not on my face, but definitely somewhere else. In fact, it felt like they weren't going for the ball at all. I had some bruises on the sides of my body and legs, and some on the arms. A lovely collection of bruises.
There wasn't a player on the pitch that could match me for pace, which I guess was a good thing.
But what wasn't good was the fact that almost all the Iranians, barring a couple, had decided that taking a swing at yours truly was worth more than taking a swing at our goal. Being a three-nil disadvantage probably played a big role in it. It certainly made their life much, much worse than ours, seeing as they were now desperate for a result.
So desperate, that my jersey had become a dartboard. My calves? Two. One in my ankle, which stung like hell. Three on my thighs, which ached but weren't painful. My arms, I had two, and another on my neck.
I wish I could say 'it's just part of the game', but truth was that I was getting fucking sick of it.
Getting kicked, tripped, held onto and fouled was all par of the course in the beautiful game. And sometimes, the referee didn't always catch every transgression, but I swear on my mother's name, I'd had enough of these idiots. Every time the ball came anywhere near me, one or two Iranian players came in and either fouled me outright, or used my shirt and limbs like a freaking carousel and dragged them up and down and left to right like I owed them something.
Fouling me was one thing, I understood that part. I could accept the tackles. I didn't like them, but I would forgive the odd kick or trip. But using me like their own personal fucktoy and punching bag was making my blood boil.
As such...
"Ah, you ugly, bald sack of shit."
I rose to my feet, right at the motherfucker Number 4's face, whose eyes glared back. He was taller, but I'd eaten and spat out taller men before him. Besides, his height wouldn't stop his cheekbone shattering into tiny fragments when my knuckles found a new home against it.
"What did you say?"
Number 4, as if his life wasn't pathetic enough already, stepped even closer, his forehead briefly brushing against mine.
I smirked, letting out an airy laugh, one that was anything but amused.
"You heard what the fuck I said." I snapped. He grabbed ahold of my jersey. I shouldered him back. He was lucky I hadn't socked him right on the gums.
Number 4's nostrils flared like an animal's, and a vein popped out of his temple. A snarl etched on his lips.
A few other sensible Iranian and South Korean players quickly moved to stop what looked to be the beginnings of a fight between Number 4 and yours truly. The referee had noticed as well and was blowing the whistle like mad. I had never felt so close to breaking the fucking rules and just slamming a punch square against another man's face, before now.
I was a hormonal teen, so what? If I had enough impulsiveness to bend my sister over and pound her on every available surface like the beast she turned me into, why wouldn't I also be able to use my frustrations in this case too?
But that was a rhetorical question. Because I wouldn't, because I needed to keep my shit together if I wanted to become the greatest footballer that ever lived. I didn't need red card suspensions on my CV, that'd ruin my street cred. Maybe in the future, when I was more well-established. For now though, no fighting, even if it was increasingly more tempting.
Instead, I needed to find a way to break their spirit and end any kind of motivation to go on.
A score line so crushing, their minds would just start to wander away and think about all of the stuff they'd have to tell their families when they got home and what the fuck did they just witness in South Korea.
Jun-hwan and Jong-su each wrapped an arm around and pulled me away from the commotion. Number 4 was also put on a leash and dragged away. The referee was running in, and he took his sweet time doing so, probably trying to figure out which card to use. A yellow? For both me and Number 4?
There was no avoiding it. I wasn't an innocent lamb in this mess, even though I was the one getting constantly fouled. Being in the right doesn't give you carte blanche.
The referee flashed me a yellow card. I had expected it.
"It's okay." Jong-su muttered in my ear. "No harm done. This time."
"I know." I said, chuckling. Number 4 already had earned himself a beautiful yellow card in this match.
I watched with a pleased smile as the referee turned back to the Iranian side, right towards my favorite sack of baldness.
And pulled out his second yellow card, right on the man's face. And then whipped out a red card.
Number 4 was sent out.
…
The match was going smoothly.
But the Iranians weren't. With one man less, it took barely any time for the entire team to come unglued. They looked lost, confused, angry. Their passes weren't connecting, the players were running aimlessly. Our midfield had gone berserk.
For me? I just ran around and occasionally got a hold of the ball. Even the rough stuff, the kicks and punches, were far less frequent.
The last few minutes were a total nightmare for the opposition. Their legs were tired, their heads were hanging. They didn't even bother putting pressure on us. We played a game of pass-and-control in their half for a while.
Then, as the match was about to wrap up, Jong-su got his first national goal. A beautiful header from a corner. Jun-hwan had taken it, and with such a great cross, Jong-su could've very well stood completely immobile, and the ball would've still hit his head and ricochetted its way into goal.
Still, we all dogpiled on that bastard.
Regardless, we still took home another one, with only a minute left before the referee blew the whistle and called it quits.
The last minute of the game passed quickly, without incident.
South Korea four, Iran nil. A thrashing. And the audience ate that shit up like starving pigs.
I stared at Number 4, now on the bench, looking miserable. His eyes were dull, blank and dead.
That red card could've been avoided, especially since Iran was still the runner-ups of their group.
... but I was in the mood for the sweet smell of victory, even at the price of someone's blood. This was a good start. A great start. My path to greatness.
I looked at the rest of my teammates. We celebrated, we hugged, and we shook hands with a defeated side.
And so, as we slowly made our way back into the tunnel, South Korea had smoothly advanced to the knockout rounds with ease and with two stunning performances from myself and Kim Jun-hwan.
xXx
The stadium was still buzzing as cameras swiveled toward me, sweat dripping down my face, jersey torn in half a dozen places, and dirt streaked across my elbows and knees. The ers shoved microphones at me like they were trying to drink my words straight out of my mouth.
"Cha Jae-il! Cha Jae-il! Do you remember me?" A familiar, gorgeous er with a SPOTV mic in hand approached tentatively. She was slim, with long black hair, tastefully done make-up and sharp brown eyes. "Do you have a moment for us?"
The camera crew behind her was already pointing at me. And it wasn't the only one.
I stopped my stride, stared at her for a moment too long that had the shorter woman visibly shift on her feet, purse her lips, and adjust her hair.
Then, with the widest smile on my face I could muster, I nodded.
"Of course I remember you. You interviewed me at the K League Youth Championship a while ago." I recalled.
"Yes!" The woman lit up. She had to look up slightly at me due to the height difference. "Good evening, Jae-il." Her hand extended, which I took, and we shook them for a second. "Park Eun-sol, from SPOTV. What a stunning, absolutely wonderful performance." The cameramen behind Park Eun-Sol, were now right behind the woman. They weren't the only ones, but all the rest were at least keeping a five-foot radius from the interview area.
"It wasn't just my performance, but a total team effort. It was thanks to everyone that we could achieve such a spectacular result."
Park Eun-sol chuckled, nodding enthusiastically. "Oh, it's definitely been a complete performance on the part of South Korea, but if there was a moment to be chosen, a moment where it was a standout, it was your first goal in the fifteenth minute. Such an audacious freekick, one for the history books at this level. Do you mind speaking a little more about the goal and how it unfolded from your perspective? How did you feel after scoring it?" She shoved the mic at me, while I pondered a bit on it.
"Well." I began, letting a small smile play at the corner of my mouth. "I aimed where I thought the keeper wouldn't reach. Turns out, he agreed."
Laughter from the various people nearby erupted around me, and a small grin played at the corner of the woman's lips.
"We're in awe here at SPOTV. How does it feel knowing that the country has its hopes set on you and the rest of the team to go all the way through, and possibly lift the trophy at the finals?"
I licked my lower lip. I knew my words had to carry a lot more weight than just an empty platitude. The eyes of the country were watching me.
I gave it to them straight.
"Look, no one can deny the weight we feel when the country places their hopes on us. The only way to pay back such overwhelming expectations is by going through every game, fighting with every inch of ourselves, and with the mindset to reach the very top. I can tell you, with the entirety of the squad behind me and Coach Ahn's guidance, the trophy is in sight and I'll do my very best to fulfill those expectations."
I flashed that charming smile, one that seemed to catch Eun-sol off-guard for just a second. She swallowed, and took a couple of steps towards me.
"Well spoken, Cha Jae-Il. And as you and your team fight on, we'll keep supporting you here in SPOTV."
"I appreciate that. I guess this means we'll be seeing more of each other then." I said with a polite, close-eyed smile.
"I guess we will, won't we?"
A faint blush dusted Eun-sol's fair cheeks.
"And that was Cha Jae-il, one of the best talents in all of Korea. We'll be right back at the stadium for more analysis, footage, and other things. Park Eun-Sol, over at you Hae-Ran and Gi-Taek."
With the interview concluded, we walked away to where the rest of our team had been waiting, the cameramen zoomed in on our retreating figures until we were no longer visible, before they went over to another group of people.
91 — Group Stage – South Korea vs Iran IV (Conclusion)
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