147 — Finals – South Korea vs Qatar VI (Conclusion)

Jassim's POV:

An abyssal roar bursted inside the stadium, and he could've sworn that he was on another planet when he heard the distinct roar from thousands upon thousands of Korean supporters.

Their chants thundered around him.

3-0.

What could Jassim say or think at this point? The reality was just as jarring as it was pathetic. He should've seen this coming from the start. Qatar wasn't going to survive against such a behemoth like South Korea.

The difference in skill level was simply too enormous.

How could Jassim dream of snatching victory when all of his defenders were crumbling into pieces. South Korea's seemingly never-ending strikes pushed their bodies to their utmost limits. In the end, not even the small island of players left standing after a ruthless tide could survive.

Jae-il, Jun-hwan, and Dae-hyun kept battering away at the goal. Each and every attempt were attacks that would've caused any normal keeper's defense to tremble. They simply kept chipping away, making the most out of their overwhelming momentum.

And all their effort finally paid off in a beautifully ridiculous fashion, at the 39th minute.

It was quite a goal.

Not surprising, given who the mastermind behind it was.

A long cross from Jun-hwan seemed to just cut the field in half, threading through a gap so small Jassim didn't even know what happened until Dae-hyun reared his boot to blast it from a mere two strides away. Everyone had been too focused on either Jae-il or Jun-hwan that no one, not a single player, had been paying attention to the surprisingly free beast lurking next to the net.

Dae-hyun had visibly delighted in sinking the fourth goal deep into the back of Qatar's net.

Jassim buried his face into his gloves, cursing under his breath.

4-0.

That number wasn't even funny. It wasn't even entertaining to Jassim anymore. Four fucking goals in the first half alone.

Qatar was utterly doomed.

The only silver lining was that, at least, they managed to hog the ball for the entirety of the remaining minutes.

And it felt like hearing the fucking divine trumphet when the final whistle of the first half finally sounded, announcing that Jassim was finally out of that torture chamber. Shit, he almost felt like crying.

Maybe he should've been thanking the universe for keeping his nose dry and his eyes clear.

The incessant cheering from the Korean fans just made it worse.

But that was football. And if you wanted to make history, you couldn't just stay on a high horse and ride with your pride alone. You had to be humble enough to acknowledge your opponent's vastly superior skill, and fight them with all your might.

The scoreboard had spoken clearly.

Jassim slumped onto the pitch, exhausted.

He took off his gloves, and wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. His team was a mess. The benchers were already filing in, their faces a mixture of pity and disappointment. The coach was barking orders, but Jassim couldn't hear them—he was too busy staring at the scoreboard.

The rest was a blur. Jassim, barely cognisant of what happened, suddenly found himself inside the tunnel, surrounded by his desponded teammates, his head hanging, his eyes at the floor. The South Korean players were all smiles, celebrating, patting each other on the back, as if the rest of the game was a foregone conclusion.

Jassim didn't know how they could possibly turn this match around, not with both of them playing against sacred monsters like them. It'd be a miracle if Qatar managed to pull one past Jun-hwan's and Jae-il's boots.

With Number 4 benched, they didn't have the numbers for an equal fight, not that it had been equal before, but still.

And everyone, including their coach, knew the truth—Qatar had been humiliated in the most complete manner.

There was no doubt about it.

All Jassim had done was to defend Qatar's dignity so far, to do something, at least, to reduce the humiliation. But, there was an undeniable pressure sitting heavy in his chest. It seemed like he had let down his whole nation—no—everyone in his home country.

Even if they lost here, there was still the World Cup to consider, a thought that should have bolstered his spirits but only settled heavier in his gut.

If they couldn't register even one goal against a youth team from their own continent, what in hell awaited them against European giants bred on a different diet of football entirely?

The locker room was drenched in an almost unbreathable atmosphere. Everyone sat there with their heads hung low.

The Coach, Yousef AI-kuwari's grim expression softened. He paced silently in the locker room and finally stood still in the center of everyone. He peered across their faces—especially Number 2, Tarek AI-mohannadi'ss face. "I need you all to gather back what's left of your strength." He sighed. "The are lessons to be learnt today. Painful lessons. That, I can guarantee you, and—"

"Do we stand a fucking chance against a team that plays the way South Korea do?"

Jassim glanced over to see Tarek stand, hands still. He had interrupted Yousef's words. "So we're supposed to keep taking all of it lying down? Humiliation after humiliation? Just because we aren't strong enough to beat them? Is that the lesson here?"

The coach seemed taken aback. He struggled for a moment to find an answer. "Everyone..." He finally said, slowly. "... Everyone has their shortfalls. I know it must have been very... very unpleasant." He heaved a breath, continuing after a slight pause. "But please, look at the situation objectively. As footballers, we cannot allow our minds to cloud over in the wake of a setback. There are times where you'll feel like you will never play the best football again. And you'll wallow and curse, and bemoan fate, but in the end, you have to accept the harsh fact. And that is, if you wish to stand at the top, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the giants of this sport... the mountain gets steeper. Those who can climb, climb. But those who fall... fall. Now, don't take that as my affirmation that this loss would have any finality. It's not like that."

Tarek gritted his teeth, fists tightening, yet he didn't dare keep eye contact with the coach.

Coach Yousef clearly sympathized with Tarek. "Miracles can and do happen. But if you are going to moan and groan and whimper like pups who've got their paws stepped on, you'd better march your sorry asses out of this stadium. It's one thing to lose despite giving it your all, and it's another to lose without an iota of resistance." He pointed a finger towards a wall mirror, gesturing at everyone to behold their own reflection. "Look at yourself! Is that a team that fights until the last whistle blows? Is that the same team that clawed its way to the finals?"

The players glared at him defiantly.

"If you're giving up already, get out, and be gone! No more pity parties. Stand and fight! Give your opponents all the hell you can give!" Coach Yousef slammed his clenched fist onto the nearby bench, rattling its bolts. "To lose a battle doesn't mean the war's over. Even if our goalkeeper, Jassim, wasn't in the goal, Qatar would still have the balls to go against them!"

Some of them shook their heads, and quickly wiped their eyes. Their faces, hard before, turned softer, with the earlier storm in their hearts quelled into a fine ripple.

"You did well hoggling possession in those last minutes! Let's keep that up in the second half as well. Make the South Koreans wear themselves down chasing after it, and when a golden chance strikes, seize it!" Coach Yousef glanced up, his gaze penetrating. "Play! Every match is its own little war. Victory will never come by laying down your arms, and retreat is never an option. Because here, at this stage, the dead have no right to ask for a funeral!"

"Yes, Coach!"

Jassim gritted his teeth and stood up.

…

Coach Yousef's speech was quite inspiring. Jassim saw a burst of energy emit from everyone the moment they headed out of the tunnel.

Realistically speaking, it'd take four miracles to equalize against South Korea. The problem wasn't getting past their defense, it was not letting those two get past theirs. Jassim hyped himself up for the final half. They had to make something happen in the last 45 minutes. Even a single goal would've been something worthy celebrating.

And so they marched out with clenched fists and determined faces. Jassim didn't dare look at the stands, to see the disappointed and ashamed faces of the fans that made it all the way here just to see them lose like this.

Everyone on the team knew that as well, and silently swore to themselves that this half would've been different.

But, of course, nothing goes according to plan, and one's resolve could shatter into pieces in an instant if fate were to call your name.

That was when Jassim, and likely everyone else, realized that it doesn't matter how good a speech is, a message that may seem bold and daring at first was going to falter and fall flat the moment its recipient wasn't good enough to walk the walk. It didn't matter how determined someone was to wring himself dry and sweat blood in the face of an unstoppable force.

Jassim's eyes met Jae-il's, again.

And he felt like he was staring right up at the eyes of a fucking giant. That curious, surprised gaze... of someone who had just seen ant being more stubborn than the others, an ant that wasn't quite an ant.

'Can you climb this mountain, Jassim?'

His eyes then moved to Jun-hwan's, who was also quietly staring at him.

'Or will you fall here...?'

This shit was all in his head.

Jassim closed his eyes and turned away.

As expected, the second half played out much, much worse for Qatar.

Some people could not climb mountains no matter how much effort they put into it.

It's not because they're uncommitted; it's just that they lack the strength and talent needed to break through that impenetrable barrier called 'success.'

Perhaps there would've been a slim probability if the entire team worked on the same wavelength.

However, things weren't always that simple. In order for a goal to be made, there must be a starting point, a 'momentum' that builds the player's drive. A start that makes the rest of the endeavor possible, no matter how desperate the situation.

About ten minutes into the second half, Jassim noticed his men, exhausted and bedraggled, already backpedaling as if they knew a beating was coming for them.

Twenty minutes in, everyone realized that this was a lost cause.

No matter how many shots Jassim stopped from happening, the team failed to generate a single breakthrough. They got some good possession in, got some clean shots on target, and still, nothing went in. It was hard not to lose hope by this point.

Those few miraculous shots they managed to snatch, they could barely manage to do anything meaningful with them.

When South Korea decided to launch its next counter, everything was set and ready. Jassim felt his throat go tight, like the air itself was trying to strangle him. His feet grew sluggish as his eyes stared wide in disbelief.

Like a damning angel descended, the Korean striker, the devil Jae-il—unlucky to be the recipient of a lovely pass from his teammate—glided up the left touchline, cutting inside so cleanly that there was simply nothing Number 2 could have done about it.

Three touches. That was all it took. He barely shifted his weight, guiding the ball through narrow channels of Qatari players until none were left to defend it. The ball moved so fast, it barely spun, his feet were so quick and nimble Jassim wondered if maybe there were invisible springs in his boots.

Jassim ran out of his cage as Jae-il pounced upon the box, unchallenged.

One, two steps in, then the world paused as Jae-il waited until Jassim was close enough, and with a cheeky feint, pulled the ball away and beyond Jassim's flailing gloves. Now, totally alone, Jae-il gently nudged it in without further fanfare.

5-0.

His teammates descended upon him. There wasn't much fanfare to their celebration, just a few smiles, a couple of pats on the back, and they quietly returned to their own positions.

Everything became a white noise for Jassim.

After all, when it rained, it poured.

One more goal came just seven minutes later. Jun-hwan.

6-0.

And the coupe de grâce came less than three minutes before the final whistle. A header from Jong-su.

7-0.

Jassim remembered counting. At a certain point, the numbers started going wrong—fuzzy, out of place. Maybe because he was just too numb to comprehend the absolute shame and embarrassment of what was happening.

He couldn't really believe that he was a goalkeeper for the last forty minutes and that he let a record number of shots just come flying past his head.

But he did.

Seven. Fucking. Goals. All scored at his own goddamn net.

Did any of his teammates even make a save, or block anything from happening before this ridiculous outcome happened? Not to him, they didn't. The South Korean team's attacks seemed to be everywhere, never resting for even the slightest moment.

When the final whistle was sounded, it was like the sky suddenly shattered and Jassim felt the pain crash upon his shoulder blades, its weight so heavy that he felt it in his chest, about to burst, about to bleed from his fucking eyes.

Ah, it hurt so much.

Why?

"Aghhhhh!!!"

With an anguished, muted cry, Jassim crouched down, head on the grass, and sobbed quietly.

He couldn't hear the spectators going absolutely nuts, nor the South Koreans screaming their throats out in celebration.

Just that morning, he felt so good.

As if the heavens were smiling down upon him, promising him a bright, exciting future.

'You ready for what's coming?'

It seemed to say.

He could've sworn there'd have been no other day more exhilarating in the world.

But, boy, did they flip the script the moment the game began, because he couldn't have possibly had it any worse than this.

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