In Bangkok's stadium, the stands were dotted with Thai flags, while a few larger banners showed the proud elephant crest of the War Elephants, as well as many small fans flapping and dancing to the beat of drums played nearby.
It seemed that the Thai supporters had already gathered in force and were ready for battle.
My ears picked up a swelling of cheers—purely male, gruff, and warlike—which reverberated throughout the field as soon as we lined up for the anthem.
From the look of it, the fans were roused up already, which was good.
The energy was real. I could practically feel the tension coming from the stands, even now. I took a breath. This would be an enjoyable experience, one that could put your fighting spirit at stake and call it forth if it lay dormant. This could get an athlete, and a crowd, pumped beyond compare. It reminded me why football is called a game for kings.
Across the stadium, I could see that my South Korean counterparts were pushing forth a similar wave of support, yet not nearly as loud.
A small cluster of red shirts stood out against the concrete terraces, their flags of crimson and white snapping weakly in the humid air. They shouted and clapped in unison, their voices sharp and insistent, but the sound carried only so far before it was swallowed up by the Thai drums.
It wasn't the roar of thousands, but the kind of defiant pocket of noise that told you these players were not alone on foreign soil. Jong-su, beside me, gulped nervously.
This wasn't the K League Youth Championship.
This was real now. Undeniably the beginning of something far greater. On paper, it was only a small friendly, a match that might seem inconsequential to anyone else.
But to us, it was a true international stage, a first step onto the path that pointed straight toward the World Cup.
I remembered what Coach Ahn Ki-seok told us in the locker room right before leaving for the field.
"Win, or we go home, and stay there." He said. "Compared to the sharks you'll be swimming with in the World Cup, these minnows may be much weaker—and maybe that is what's really eating away at your nerves, but do not take this for granted. Expect no kindness. Give none in return. Put yourself to the limit. Attack and defend as hard as you can until they hit the ground. Show that you mean to win and make them understand that winning will cost them more than they imagine. Go, and make me proud."
On the face of it, the speech didn't inspire, but I understood the mindset that he wanted to portray. Our fate and our hopes would hang upon every battle that we would fight as a nation. I closed my eyes, singing our proud national anthem.
This was nothing yet, I told myself. The stadium wasn't packed enough. The stakes not high enough. But someday, we would be a giant stepping onto the world stage.
When the music ended, the two teams broke apart and headed for their respective ends of the field. Our coach shook hands with the opposing coach, and the ref gave the thumbs-up, letting us take our positions.
I stared at the armband looped over my uniform sleeve. Coach had entrusted me with leadership, and with it came the weight of guiding eleven hearts through ninety minutes of war.
The referee, a tall, lean man in black with a whistle hanging from his neck, beckoned me toward the center circle. The Thai captain was already there—taller than me by a head, shoulders squared, his yellow armband bright against the deep blue of his kit.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held the calm of someone used to this.
We shook hands, firm and brief, no words exchanged. His palm was slick with sweat.
The referee produced a coin, glinting under the floodlights that had already begun to pierce the Bangkok dusk. He held it up between us, then called in clipped English. "Heads or tails?"
"Heads." I said without hesitation.
The coin spun upward, catching a flash of light, before landing with a faint slap against the ref's palm. He glanced down, then at us. "Tails."
The Thai captain gave a curt nod, choosing to start with the ball. I nodded, accepting the verdict, and we exchanged another brief clasp of hands before turning back to our lines.
As I made my way over, I glanced at my team. We adopted a 4-2-3-1 formation, with me spearheading the forward run, with an attacking trio, two midfield anchors and four defenders behind them.
The lads were nervous, I could tell. It would take time before they got used to such intense levels of spotlight. Then, their eyes strayed. As they landed on my features, I noticed them relax almost immediately.
I looked at Kim Jun-hwan, bouncing on his feet with a fiery, determined expression on his face. His eyes met mine. A nod. I nodded back.
Jong-su exhaled heavily at the back. His nervousness was palpable. Still, he smiled at me, rolling his shoulders.
Behind me, Song Sung-tae would act as one of my wings. He gave me a thumbs-up as he positioned himself. On the opposite flank, Choi Dae-hyun towered over most players. Despite his size, he was quite fast and aggressive, though not the best finisher; he tended to fumble during critical situations.
Whilst Kim Jun-hwan handled the center-mid slot.
The referee raised his hand, mouth curled in a whistle.
A sharp, piercing noise.
And, like a torrent, all of a sudden everything hit: the blinding floodlights, the deafening roars, the smell of dry grass and heavy-duty solvent. It felt like diving underwater, the weightlessness and the sounds muddled, before all at once exploding into sensation.
I felt a burst of heat rise through the tips of my toes. Blood surging. Energy shooting through me. God, I loved this sensation. I thought I could chase it forever and ever. I didn't think anyone, to date, had found a substance that could hit with the same potency.
The next moment, as if someone had poured oil all over the fire that burned within my heart, a smile lifted on my lips.
The whistle had barely faded when the Thai midfielder nudged the ball forward, and the game truly began. Sung-tae flared wide on the right. Dae-hyun raced up and down the left, using his athleticism against Thailand's fullbacks. On our backline, Jong-su settled comfortably into defense, while the rest played solid defensive-midfield.
The ball ping-ponged in their center circle, making its way back into their own half.
We quickly followed, like a three-pronged spear. We pressed, and the ball moved towards their backline.
The Thais were trying to pass around our press, and the ball ended up in their right back's possession. I saw Sung-tae surge forward. One of their defenders—the one closest to him, a tall, gangly teenager with a shock of black hair—strolled forward with the ball, seemingly nonchalant as he looked for an outlet.
Sung-tae pushed forward, trying to cut off any passing lanes. But the defender simply kicked it back toward the goalkeeper.
The goalkeeper stopped it with ease, before booting the ball up towards a striker. I watched as the ball sailed high into the air, before falling at the feet of one of their forwards. He controlled it easily, before turning and dribbling up the field.
The crowd roared. Their midfielders surged forward, trying to link up play.
Jun-hwan moved to intercept, but he couldn't quite reach the pass. The ball slipped through our lines, finding the awaiting feet of one of their strikers. Number 11, I noted, as the ball bounced ahead of him. He was a tall, muscular figure with close-cropped hair, and a determined set to his jaw.
He advanced on our defense, looking to get past Jong-su. The defender stuck out a leg, trying to nick the ball, but instead, his studs caught Number 11 squarely in the shin.
The striker yelped, collapsing onto the ground. The referee's whistle screamed through the air. Foul. Immediate. The freekick wasn't from a dangerous position, but the fact that we had already conceded one in the opening stages of the match wasn't good.
It set a bad precedent.
The Thai players gathered around the spot, discussing their next move. Too risky to attempt a shot at goal from here, they'd probably try to chip one in for a header or a tap-in.
We formed a defensive wall, trying to limit their angles. They lined up as if going for a cross, then suddenly one of them stepped up, passed it short, and the other player smashed it. It was a powerful shot, curling away from our wall, but our keeper read it well and pushed it aside. We scrambled to clear the rebound, and after a couple of desperate lunges, we managed to hack it away.
Jong-su got to it before the Thais could. He took a touch, then pelted it downfield. After a quick series of passes between our four defenders, we slowly moved up, and the ball finally found Jun-hwan's feet. As if the gears had finally clicked into place, I watched as his expression shifted. His eyes sharpened. The nervousness evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze.
I could see the thoughts running through his head. The options, the possibilities. The clock was ticking. Ten minutes were already gone.
We were only just getting started.
He played a quick one-two with Sung-tae, and the ball was at his feet again.
I watched, knowing what would come next. Sure enough, Jun-hwan glanced up, and his gaze met mine. He nodded. I nodded back.
He played the ball out wide to Dae-hyun, who was making an overlapping run. The tall boy collected it, then made a powerful run for it.
A defender tried to reclaim the ball but was easily shouldered aside. Dae-hyun took a moment to steady his momentum, then delivered a looping cross into the box. The trajectory didn't quite reach me. Instead, it fell just beyond the far side of the penalty area, where one of their center backs was waiting to clear.
He stopped it mid-air with his weaker foot, and the sphere rolled too far back into the center of the box. I pounced instantly, closing the distance faster than he could react. Another defender rushed in to save it, but his momentum betrayed him. By the time he got close enough to it, not only was I already in its possession—but his legs were wide open.
I grinned as I gently nudged it between them. He stumbled forward, eyes wide, caught off guard, while I was already moving past.
The space ahead opened like a runway, the angle perfect, my dominant foot ready. I drew back, coiled like a spring, and struck.
It flew through the air, spinning, bending, curving towards the top corner.
And the stadium went quiet. No cheers, no cries of anguish.
The goalkeeper flew through the air, stretching, his fingers barely managing to graze the side of the ball, but it was just enough to divert it to the side.