A loud voice rang down the corridor, echoing off the walls.
It wasn't from Kovacevic or Aranburu. It was from Manager Coleman.
Five years ago, he was the youngest manager in the Premier League and was known in Wales as one of the most upright football figures.
That part was true.
But there was something the media didn't know about him.
The "Cookie Monster."
That was his nickname as a player. People assumed it was due to his massive build, but the real reason was different.
"You bunch of scumbags."
Coleman was like a cookie—when he broke, he shattered completely.
Normally, he maintained his composure. But once he lost his temper, there was no bringing him back.
And this was one of those moments.
Kovacevic and Aranburu.
They had talked big, but once on the pitch, they contributed absolutely nothing. Coleman felt like his head was about to explode.
He had tailored his tactics around their requests, but once the lid came off, he realized it had been a mistake.
Especially watching Kovacevic curse at the fans, clueless about what had actually gone wrong. Coleman couldn't bear to watch.
"This is why players need character education first."
"What did you say?"
Kovacevic, too, had reached his limit. He had agreed to a one-year extension on the condition that his wages wouldn't be cut to stay in the Segunda División. But even he couldn't tolerate this anymore.
The two clashed.
Internal conflict.
Only the captain's intervention managed to cool things down temporarily, but the cracks were already showing in the team's performance.
From the start of the second half, Real Sociedad's teamwork had completely broken down.
The long-pass strategy they had relied on kept getting caught by the offside trap. The rhythm of the match kept getting disrupted.
Gaps appeared everywhere, and Castilla's offense came alive.
The young Castilla players, riding a wave of momentum and support from the fans, began to push forward.
Around the 65th minute.
After a clever build-up, Castilla scored a second goal, and Kovacevic's veins began to bulge with rage.
"Damn it!"
Then, in the 75th minute.
Callejón scored a third, sealing the deal, and Kovacevic's face crumpled like a discarded tissue.
And from that moment on—
"You're done."
With 20 minutes left.
Kovacevic snapped.
With the match clearly swinging Castilla's way, and the home fans booing non-stop, he began to act strangely.
Even the commentators picked up on it.
[Kovacevic is dropping deep into midfield. What's the intent here?]
[It's hard to say. It looks like he's trying to play as a false nine, but at this stage, what would be the point? Maybe he's given up on the attack and decided to join the defense.]
Instead of staying up top as the central striker, Kovacevic kept dropping deeper like a deep-lying forward.
Given the situation, it didn't seem entirely out of place.
Maybe it was just a forward trying to make up for doing nothing all match.
And then it happened.
"You stinking brat. How should I cook you up?"
"What?"
The two collided in midfield, eyes locked in a standoff.
Ho-young and Kovacevic.
"Tone it down before I give you an 8-month injury."
"Did you forget your meds or something? What's with you now?"
Despite being 20 years apart, Ho-young didn't back down.
Professional football wasn't like youth leagues. It was rough, relentless.
If you let yourself be looked down on once, it became a problem. You had to hit back hard from the start.
Still, Ho-young didn't lose focus. He kept performing his role with composure.
Kovacevic, boiling with frustration, began following Ho-young everywhere, aggressively body-checking him.
It looked like he was ready to commit a career-ending tackle.
And then it finally happened.
Whistle!
Ho-young went tumbling across the turf, and the referee rushed over, pulling out a yellow card.
It was for Kovacevic.
A reckless tackle.
Luckily, Ho-young wasn't injured, but it had been dangerously close.
Considering the home advantage and other factors, the yellow card could even be seen as a lenient decision.
[Referee Ángel tends to be on the lenient side, doesn't he?]
[Yeah, he is. If this had happened to an away player, it might've been a straight red.]
[But doesn't the second half feel much more intense? Something must've happened at halftime. Kovacevic looks like he's out for blood.]
[And now, Ho-young is lining up for the free kick. Looks like he'll take it himself, even though it's about 30 meters out.]
[It's far, but not impossible to shoot from. Sociedad's wall is set... and Ho-young is starting his approach... oh! Shot!]
Boom!
[He took it!]
The commentators' voices rose in surprise.
Ho-young hadn't even taken a proper run-up before swinging.
But since the ball was already in place and the whistle wasn't required, there was no problem with the quick kick.
However.
Thwack!
"Ugegh!"
The ball struck Kovacevic directly.
The impact was strong. He dropped instantly to the ground.
He clutched his groin.
"AAAAAAARGH!"
Kovacevic's face turned beet red as he rolled around in pain.
He hadn't even had time to protect himself. The shot came flying before he could cover up.
A direct hit to the groin.
[Oh no... that looked like it hit... down there...]
[Yeah… wow…]
The commentary team fell silent.
Players usually cover their groin when standing in the wall, but sometimes the ball still finds its way through.
And it never gets easier to watch.
That pain is something every man can relate to.
Then Ho-young jogged over and gently patted Kovacevic on the backside.
"You okay?"
"GAAAAH! SH-SHIT... DOCTOR! DOCTOOOOOR!"
"..."
He was in so much pain, he started shouting in Serbian.
Moments later, Sociedad's medical staff ran over to assess his condition.
Kovacevic kept screaming, writhing in agony.
"AAAAAAAAAA!"
"Kovacevic, calm down. It just grazed you. You're just swollen. Both sides are still intact!"
"Oh, thank God..."
Only then did Kovacevic let out a shaky breath.
It seemed the ball had only grazed his groin.
As he was taken off the pitch on a stretcher, Ho-young stood before the referee.
"I'm sorry. It wasn't intentional. I was just in a rush and didn't think…"
"Be more careful next time. You can take it without a whistle, but that was almost serious."
"Understood. Sorry."
The referee wrapped it up with a warning.
Since Ho-young hadn't taken the shot deliberately to harm him, and it wasn't an unusual incident, there was no further punishment.
Besides, Referee Ángel was known to be lenient.
Sociedad made a substitution, and the match resumed shortly after.
Already deflated, Sociedad struggled to regain control and conceded another goal just before the final whistle.
Ho-young, who assisted the goal, smiled with satisfaction.
Not just because of the assist.
"This should be a good lesson."
It was a clear message to the many players watching this match.
He may be young, but he wasn't someone to be taken lightly.
Go in with a dirty tackle?
He'd pay you back double.
That precisely placed shot, aimed just below Kovacevic's groin, was no accident.
If this was a battlefield, and the enemy fired bullets, you couldn't just sit and take it.
Not falling for provocations was one thing, but letting yourself be walked over was another.
So he shot.
A nutcracker.
If nothing else, a mortar strike like that should be enough to make them back off for good.
It was better to be clear-cut than half-hearted.
Still, he wasn't without his own sense of honor. He hadn't crossed the line.
Kovacevic's slight flinch had caused the ball to graze his groin. That was all.
But it should've been more than enough to get the message across.
And then.
"¡Vamos!"
"Castilla!"
The roaring chants of Castilla fans filled Ho-young's back with heat.
At the same time, the reward arrived.
[Select the talent you wish to obtain.]
- Superior Jumping Power (A-)
- Excellent Heading (B+3)
September 16, 2007.
It was the day he acquired jumping power.
But for Sociedad fans, it would be remembered as a nightmare.
Just four years ago, they had fought for the La Liga title against Real Madrid. Now, they had been humiliated 4-0 by Real Madrid's reserve team.
And it happened on home turf.
"Goddammit. 4-0? I've never seen such trash football in my life."
"Kovacevic is seriously losing it. He's been reckless lately."
Public opinion about Kovacevic was already on the decline.
Although he had been with the club for years, criticisms of his attitude had grown louder.
High wages, laziness, conflicts with teammates, poor match performances, skipping training—there were plenty of reasons.
Some fans even found satisfaction in his suffering.
At that moment, Kovacevic was lying in the medical room with an ice pack.
Once the pain subsided, he finally felt like he could breathe again.
"Oh, they're... still there…"
He reached down and, thankfully, felt something.
Kovacevic let out a relieved sigh.
But then, Ho-young's face popped into his head.
That 14-year-old kid.
Just thinking about him made his lower half tingle.
He still had goosebumps all over.
Normally, after something like this, you'd be thinking of revenge.
But not this time.
Kovacevic had seen it—just before being stretchered off.
He saw Ho-young's face.
He had looked concerned, but his eyes had said something different.
They were eyes that issued a warning.
"Shit…"
If even one of his parts had burst, it would've created a controversy that could have come back to Ho-young.
But nothing had burst. Nothing had happened.
So only he was left humiliated.
Not that he'd wanted anything to burst, but still...
There was something far more terrifying.
"Did that kid... aim to miss the groin on purpose?"
To hit that exact spot, fast and hard, in such a short time?
It was a warning.
Next time, he wouldn't miss.
Gulp.
Kovacevic's mouth went dry.
"What a freak."
He never wanted to face that kid again.
Nothing good ever came from messing with a lunatic like that in the twilight of your career.
The next day.
A screenshot of Kovacevic's contorted face at the moment of impact spread across every portal site.
In response, Real Sociedad publicly criticized Ho-young, claiming the free kick had been intentional.
But Real Madrid fired back, pointing out Kovacevic's tackle and defending Ho-young.
[Ho-young, nearly injured by Kovacevic's tackle, keeps his composure and leads Castilla to a massive win.]
As articles like that spread, public support tilted toward Ho-young.
Even if the shot had been intentional, Pérez was thrilled.
"If it was intentional, doesn't that mean his kicking technique is that good?"
At the same time, he issued a stern response toward Kovacevic.
"Let's make an example out of him. Scumbags only understand when you warn them properly."
"Yes, sir."
Media manipulation and politics were his specialties.
Not that it would destroy Kovacevic's career or blacklist him in the league.
Plenty of players fall victim to media play every day. If they all quit because of that, half the footballers in the world would disappear overnight.
But.
Media play could damage a player's image.
In serious cases, it could even affect sponsorship renewals.
Kovacevic might have to prepare for that.
"Just because it says Real on the badge, doesn't mean you're the same as Real Madrid."
Pérez could forgive insults to himself, but never to his assets.
And from that day on.
No one took Ho-young lightly anymore.
It was early autumn, and the moment his true rise began.
(To be continued.)⁶