143 — Finals – South Korea vs Qatar II

The ball was kicked and passed back. We moved like one entity. The sphere flew around their midfield as they began a boring game of keep-away, probing for gaps in our surging wall.

That was until they it the moment they attempted a high pass that was chested down by one of our defenders. Desperate to make amends for the failed pass, they pressed high, eager to snatch it away and build momentum again.

We hoggled possession like children playing keepie-uppy, shifting the ball from one position to the next. Their men formed a loose V shape, wanting to contain and pressure our central trio, with the bulk of their numbers packed into midfield.

Jun-hwan briefly nudged the ball outside of a sweeping lunge, and flicked it towards Sung-tae. He snapped off a sharp first touch, then swerved to the right. It was a dirty dribble and a lucky move, one that got him past two Qatar players. But then, a third streaked across from the left.

The sliding tackle was clean, leaving Sung-tae rolling on the ground, fouled and his nostrils flared as he looked up at the ref. But the whistle wasn't blown.

The Qatar player tried to scramble away, his foot nudging the ball with a too heavy touch. The sphere traveled far ahead in his haste, and Jong-su—whose legs seemed to blur with their speed—beat him to the ball.

He swooped in and hoofed it away before Qatar could organize another counter attack.

I began moving just as Dae-hyun and Qatar's Number 11 jumped, shouldering each other.

Dae-hyun won the aerial fight and met the air-swiping missile in a well-timed header. The ball bounced, once, twice, and on the third, less powerful bounce, Jun-hwan stole it right from Qatar's Number 8's toes with a love tap.

His hawk eyes immediately singled out the opening I'd made, pulling one defender with me, and kicked.

The sphere knifed across the grass.

I was holding my position while Jun-hwan was already beginning his overlap. He took off before the ball even left my foot. Another defender moved forward to meet me.

I slowed it up, opened my legs, and let the pass slip right through. And then, pop. The back of my heel tapped it exactly where it needed to be.

This sent the ball spinning right through a gawking Qatari's defender's legs and into the stride of our overlapping genius midfielder, whose leg muscles swelled like a bull's third leg in a field of breedable cows.

It was a little something called a no-look through-pass.

A triumphant roar came from the crowd as Jun-hwan arrived with a stinging strike. A lightning bolt from the gods.

Jun-hwan put his weight and speed behind the right-footed shot. It rocketed through, forcing their Number 1 in his toes to make a frantic, full-body dive, extending his gloves with his entire body length, managing to squeeze the edge out and getting the entire team applauding for that stellar save.

I huffed a breath, jogging up into Qatar's box as Jun-hwan ran up to the flag to take the corner kick.

The Qatari Number 1 was picking himself up, clapping his hands and shouting out instructions to the team, pumping morale. After that great save, the defense drew tighter in preparation.

Sung-tae and Dae-hyun were deep into the enemy's area, already marked. I decided to lag behind the edge of the box, where the concentration of defenders was thinnest. Jong-su had made a run for the far post, where some Qatari players took notice and shadowed.

Jun-hwan looked down at the ball, then at the pitch, where the crowd of red and white jerseys scrambled about. I wondered what kind of calculations he was running right now in his mind.

His eyes, for a fraction of a second, snapped towards me. I was still guarded, but with more leeway of movement and freedom; I wasn't inside the box, which meant I was seen as a lesser threat.

Jun-hwan exhaled, took a couple of steps back, and swung his foot.

With a thump, the ball sailed up high and drew a graceful arc before bending way beyond the cluster of scrambling players in the box, and managed to find me right on the outside.

It seemed to drop right into my cleats.

I let it land on the inside of my foot, gently cushioning it down. I nudged it forward, adjusted the angle; there was a shaft of dead space in front of me. The defenders quickly scurried to narrow it down. I had to fire this shit.

I loaded the chamber and shot the bullet. While not quite at the speed of sound, I still struck at an appreciable velocity that'd leave many frozen at the sight of an incoming asteroid.

The ball arrowed towards the near post. The Qatari wall lunged their legs and feet to intercept, but the missile was past the lot of them already.

There was nothing they could've done.

It was a linear nuclear blast that flew for the high corner. A beautiful creature that knew no other purpose other than rip that fucking net apart.

Everyone turned their heads to behold the end of that voyage, that beautiful outcome borne from two highly feared monsters in the pitch.

And now, the only obstacle left between us and a glorious score was, again, their keeper, who desperately threw himself, arms painfully stretched. I kept a good measure of distance, enough to observe the spectacle and marvel at it as their keeper made, yet again, another miraculous save.

"......"

The tips of his gloves grazed the ball just enough to nudge it away from the net, to turn a near-goal strike into another corner.

"Shit..."

I ran a hand through my hair, shaking my head, as the spectators went absolutely wild.

All the Qatari players near the box stopped briefly to clap the goalie on the back, yells of celebration and encouragement directed towards him, telling the young man how damn good the save was. Both of them, because in the span of two minutes, the Qatari goalkeeper had stopped two outside-the-box wonderstrikes.

In the midst of all the shouts, I learned the young man's name too. Jassim. He had a bright, fatigued smile as he once again waved his gloved hands to encourage his teammates.

"What a keeper." I mused, which was more for me than for my teammates, though their knowing nods indicated agreement.

I had yet to tell whether that was pure skill or mere luck.

The corner came once more from Jun-hwan's feet.

The box was thick with our and Qatari's men. The whole thing had an air of suffocating tightness about it. This time I joined the fray too.

Jun-hwan raised his arm and kicked the ball.

We collided. A mess of sweaty bodies brushing and pushing as the ball soared and dropped right above our heads. It wasn't heading for me, so the best I could do was to at least ensure to keep the white defenders away from the one who did.

And there I watched Jong-su jump higher than everyone, managing to make first contact. He tried to snap it down, but his position was a little uncomfortable and the shot lacked substantial power to make it into the net.

It bounced on the grass, but didn't re-bounce as everyone was on it like a shoal of piranhas. The ball ricochetted between so many legs that it was hard to keep track of.

Then, a Qatari defender, Number 4, somehow cleared it out swiftly, preventing anyone from making another attempt.

I heard quite a few grunts of disappointment as we ran back towards center field.

Qatar now held possession. And they speared ahead for a counter-attack, with two players leading it.

They quickly dished the ball from one man to the next in a smooth motion.

Number 11, a right wing, flew ahead in an instant burst, and slipped the ball inside toward a hard-charging Number 8 who had long charged past our remaining defenders.

Both were so damned quick that our team watched helplessly as Number 8 stormed the box with an immense amount of speed, with Number 11 not far behind.

He had no defender around him. He had room to breathe. I watched the shot build. Number 8 approached our keeper, whose wide-open body was low, waiting for the blow with both arms outstretched to cover as much space as possible.

Their Number 8 pulled back his right leg and struck. Simple as that. Our keeper tried to toe it out by extending a leg, but no use. I saw a smattering of Qatari fans already standing up.

The beginnings of a celebration that was already building up in the stands.

I frowned.

The ball settled neatly into the low corner of the net.

Number 8's eyes widened in jubilation. He had managed to score against the titan that was South Korea—and such a beautiful goal too!

He was about to run towards his teammates to celebrate when he caught sight of the assistant referee raising his flag.

Offside.

"......"

Number 8 raised his arms, looking around with a dumbfounded look, as if to say 'Are you serious?!' He ran his hands over his sweaty, slicked back hair in utter disbelief. It was quite amusing to watch.