110 — Quarter Finals – South Korea vs Australia III
Tim Matthews' POV:
"What is this?! You're all bloody useless!" The Australian Coach, Andy Jones, cursed aloud, his face contorted in rage as his jaw muscles tensed. His knuckles went white where he held the clipboard in his hands.
The manager couldn't bring himself to control the man's temper. He'd cool down soon enough; everyone knew that.
They had been doing so well up to this stage. Australia had dominated its own group without losing a single match and not conceding any goal at all.
And even at this stage, when they had a strong team with some formidable talents, and everything should've proceeded smoothly, their plan was brought to the ground. Absolutely dismantled, twice, within 45 minutes since they set their mind to take this one home.
Even with Hendrick and Matthews, their leading players, they couldn't find the results they wanted. Everyone knew it wouldn't have been an easy match. Andy Jones had repeatedly drilled into them the deadly combo of Jun-hwan and the freak-star, Jae-il. 'Deadlier Than Any Arsenal'.
Even if that statement were exaggerated, the opponent, the South Koreans, were the toughest in this competition. They had always been a giant in the industry; even before these two new stars came along to make everyone else's life more miserable.
Australia knew that too well.
And with a great, blazing flame and a talent that shone brightly in the stadium of today, they were shown an entire realm of what it means to compete against a superior team.
Still...
"Two-nil." Coach Jones sighed, exasperated, but looking at the grave expressions and the slumped forms, he spoke a tad more softly. "You all can't call yourself footballers, standing like that, feeling down. Come on, I didn't teach you all these years only to see you bunch act like that. Come on. What do I always tell you all? Never be down, stand, and fight the battles."
Matthews tried not to scoff.
"We almost had them." Hendrick mumbled, a bottle of water in his hand, not looking up.
Matthews understood where he was coming from. They had missed multiple chances. Multiple attacks on the net had been futile. And they still lost two goals to none.
"Just shows you, how much work we've left ahead. I've seen many talented footballers turn up each season, all full of cocky talks. But it's how much a player puts into his training, hard work, and his mindset towards the goals, the determination, and passion that counts." Coach Jones continued, pacing around in his own brand of pep talk. "The first half is theirs. The second is ours."
He paused to look at all the members, particularly to Hendrick and Matthews. "So, up. Out." He commanded, making the entire team jog back out into the field, while the halftime resets were going underway.
Matthews walked, his attention towards the incoming members in red, he watched them walk confidently with purpose. He watched them, one by one, until he stopped as he caught the glimpse of a number 9.
The Number 9.
Cha Jae-il.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man. Fifteen, apparently. The youngest player in this competition. Still, his muscles were clearly visible. A footballer's form. The eyes, strangely violet, were still, but deep, incandescently so. Overall, he looked more like a K-pop idol than a footballer. A beauty that was the perfect blend between delicate and masculine.
Seriously, where did this guy walk out of?
Jae-il's footsteps stopped and their eyes met.
It wasn't something Matthews liked, nor was it something he wanted. This connection of his gaze, with the mysterious captain of the Red team. Yet it was natural, not out of some common sense of rivalry and jealousy. It was more because his face was drawn to him. He couldn't look away even if he wanted to.
However, Jae-il didn't even give him the same amount of attention, and began to walk past him.
Matthews' hands balled into fists.
He promised himself, and to the now distant Jae-il's silhouette, that the second half will definitely, definitely end up being in his own team's favour.
...
The Australian players returned to the pitch, more hopeful about the outcome, however slim the possibility was.
And after what the coach, Andy Jones, had preached, none of them were willing to take it laying down. Especially Matthews, who seemed more on edge and serious, as he took position right where he did last time. He will have to meet the number 9 again, face-to-face, man-to-man.
This will be the determining battle.
The ref's whistle cut through the air, signaling the starting of the second half.
Matthews shook away the brief nerves, double steeled his resolve, and passed it back. The ball ping-ponged all around the midfield like a pinball in a machine set to tilt. Hendrick received it on the half-turn, hips swivelling, eyes already scanning.
He rolled it square to Connor Bailey, their holding six, who cushioned it first-time with the outside of his boot, killing the spin dead. Bailey took one touch to set, another to look, then clipped a diagonal forty-yarder that arced over Jun-hwan's head and dropped perfectly onto Matthews' right instep on the left touchline.
Matthews let it bounce once—thump—then killed it with the sole of his foot. Jong-su approached.
He feinted inside with a drop of the shoulder; classic Matthews, the one that had shredded China's right-back in the group stage—then exploded outside instead. Jong-su bought the fake, lunging inside, studs skidding.
Matthews was gone. The outside space yawned open. His pace quickened, stride extending, crossing into enemy territory like a boulder bouncing down a mountainside.
Fifty yards ahead, another Korean defender had come to back-pedal. Jong-su had scrambled back to his feet and was giving chase. Hendrick cut inside, ghosting past Jun-hwan's shoulder, who was sprinting as fast as he could, knowing he had a one-on-one with Hendrick. Matthews ran like a wildfire, then, noticing a brief gap in the red jersey's defense, where Hendrick was making a beeline for, he shot the ball square across the box.
Perfect for a possible lay-in.
Matthews surged ahead to see the follow-up, Hendrick received the ball that landed like an excited rabbit straight onto the edge of his cleat. In a single glance, he noticed Hendrick moving forward as he was closely trailed by Jun-hwan, muscles stretching and his calves and ankles flexing.
There was no hesitation from Hendrick's feet and the instant he caught it, his weight-shift shifted from his left to right. Jun-hwan was about to slide into a very dangerous tackle when Hendrick's right leg snapped back to fire.
Hendrick planted the foot, unleashing the hardest strike in his arsenal.
The sphere barrelled for the top corner, a white comet with venom in its spin. It dipped late, kissed the underside of the crossbar with a clang that rang through the stadium like a gunshot, and buried itself in the roof of the net. 2-1.
Hendrick didn't celebrate. He was already wheeling away, arms outstretched, roaring. The Socceroos bench erupted; Coach Jones punched the air so hard his clipboard spun into the technical area like a frisbee. Matthews sprinted the length of the pitch to mob him, sliding on his knees, forehead to forehead, both of them screaming into each other's faces.
The scoreboard flashed: HENDRICK 52'
The Korean drums faltered for the first time.
The cheers that followed were short-lived though.
Tim Matthews foolishly thought that one goal was a crack in the dam, a single leak he could widen with his bare hands. 2–1. The numbers glowed. He tasted it: the comeback, the headlines, the stunned silence of twenty thousand red throats. He saw himself threading the final pass, saw Hendrick rising above the keeper, saw the net bulge and the scoreboard flip to 3–2, 4–2, Australia.
Pride swelled in his chest, hot and stupid, the kind of pride that blinds a boy to the cliff he's sprinting toward.
South Korea restarted. Just like Australia did earlier, they kept passing it to each other, calmly, with no urgent purpose, moving their side of the ball without the rush to counterattack or drive home a third goal. It wasn't until roughly a five minutes later that, like a tide surging slowly receding back and rushing in with a tsunami, that the Korean players broke out into an attack.
They surged, one-tap passes that flew back and forth between the same players, until the ball rolled to Jae-il at the centre circle.
Matthews pressed high, shoulder to shoulder, breath fogging in the air. Jae-il didn't look at him. He simply let the ball roll under his sole, body swaying like a reed in wind, then flicked it sideways with the outside of his boot, shouldering past him. Matthews gritted his teeth, trying to catch up, to keep up, but it wasn't enough.
Jae-il drove forward like he had a rocket up his ass, a straight, precise diagonal run. Bailey moved to intercept, knowing how dangerous the Korean ace was. Jae-il took the ball and danced right, leaving Bailey in the dust after overcommitting a lunge. And once you're left behind by Jae-il, there's no fucking catching up.
Two more Aussie defenders tried. One was brutally nutmegged, the other got pulled aside, stumbling, so hard his feet nearly caught and his body leaned dangerously forward, close to spraining an ankle or twisting a knee.
Jae-il's explosive speed had him getting dangerously close to the box.
One touch.
The ball flew.
Jun-hwan was already moving, a red blur peeling off the last defender's blind side. The pass bisected two green shirts, landed on Jun-hwan's stride like it had been gift-wrapped. First touch to settle, second to lash it low across the keeper. 3–1.
Matthews' insides churned. He thought he'd be sick.
From the corner of his eye he saw Jae-il touching Jun-hwan on his arm and patting his back. A slow, smoldering burn started low in his belly and licked its way through his insides. The stadium erupted yet again, with the red sea in the stands making even the sound of the stadium more terrifying than they had ever before.
A chanting started, the Koreans screaming something fierce. Matthews couldn't possibly understand what they were saying, but he felt the shift.
It didn't matter. 'Just one lapse', he told himself. 'It won't happen again.'