The roar of sixty thousand voices crashed over me like a wave I'd been riding for more than a lifetime. I sat in Section 214, Row K, Seat 17—the same seat I'd claimed for eleven seasons, ever since Seoul FC moved into this gleaming new stadium. Its retractable roof was shut tight against the cold February air, but the passion inside burned fierce enough to thaw any chill.
The plastic beneath me was cold, seeping through my coat and settling deep into bones that had known far too many winters. At eighty-two, my hands trembled slightly as I clapped, not from excitement but the frailty of age. These were the hands that had never held a professional contract, never lifted a trophy, never signed an autograph. Hands that had reached for a dream snatched away before it could bloom.
Around me, the crowd swayed—a living sea of scarves, painted faces, and raw anticipation. To my left, a young couple clung to each other, the girl burying her face in her boyfriend's shoulder as the goalkeeper made a spectacular save. To my right, a father hoisted his son onto his shoulders, the boy's small hands gripping his father's forehead as he screamed encouragement at players who couldn't hear him.
I watched them all with detached fascination. I was a spectator, always had been. A man who lived his passion through other people's legs, other people's courage.
The scoreboard above flashed 2-2. Eighty-seven minutes gone. Stoppage time looming.
The stadium smelled of fried chicken and beer, sweat and hope, and that peculiar electrical charge that surges when tens of thousands focus on a single moment. The floodlights blazed down, turning the pitch into a vibrant emerald rectangle that almost hurt to look at. I remembered when stadiums were dimmer, when the grass was patchy and crowds smaller. When Korean football was still finding its soul, its place.
I remembered when I'd believed I'd be part of it.
The memory came unbidden. I was seventeen again, lean and quick, dark hair falling into my eyes as I cut inside from the left wing. The youth academy pitch in Manchester was muddy that day, rain soaking the earth, each step a battle. I'd been confident—maybe too confident—taking on a defender twice my size, desperate to prove I belonged.
The tackle came from my blind side.
I heard the pop before the pain. Like a branch snapping, sharp and final. Then agony—a white-hot explosion in my right knee that silenced everything else. I went down screaming, clutching my leg, my entire future evaporating in that moment on a muddy pitch thousands of miles from home.
The doctors spoke in cold terms—ACL, MCL, meniscus—words that felt like a death sentence to my dream. Surgery, rehab, months of pain and uncertainty. Even if I recovered, I'd never be the same. In that era, such injuries ended careers.
I returned to Seoul six months later, my knee held together by screws and scar tissue, my dreams left behind in England like forgotten luggage.
Now, below the stands, Seoul FC's midfielder intercepted a lazy pass. The crowd surged to its feet. I rose, knees creaking, back aching, eyes locked on the developing play. The midfielder drove forward, drawing defenders, then slipped a pass wide to the left wing.
The winger—a young kid named Park Ji-sung, no relation to the famous one—took the ball in stride and accelerated down the touchline.
My breath caught. I knew this pattern. Had dreamt it a thousand times.
He cut inside, his first touch perfect, his second even better. A defender lunged and missed. Another closed in from the right. The penalty area loomed, packed with bodies, the goalkeeper rushing forward to narrow the angle.
It was the ninety-first minute. The last chance. Everything.
Time slowed. My heart hammered—too fast, probably dangerous for a man my age, but I didn't care. My life had been a series of moments like this, lived vicariously through others. Sixty-five years in the stands, watching the life I'd lost.
The winger shaped to shoot, then cut the ball back to the edge of the box.
The crowd's roar reached a fever pitch.
Seoul FC's captain—a thirty-four-year-old veteran in his final season—met the ball on the half-volley, technique perfect, timing immaculate. The ball spun, rising, unstoppable.
The net bulged.
The stadium exploded.
Something broke open inside me—not my heart, though it raced dangerously—but a deeper part, locked away too long. Joy. Pure, childlike joy. The kind I hadn't felt since before the injury, before the decades of what-ifs.
My face cracked into a smile so wide it hurt, muscles unused to such expression protesting.
Strangers embraced. The young couple kissed. The father and son jumped, the boy shrieking with delight. Scarves whirled overhead like flags. The players piled onto their captain, a mass of relief and triumph.
I stood among them, smiling, hands raised, eyes wet.
For one perfect moment, I wasn't an eighty-two-year-old man weighed down by regret.
I was just a fan, celebrating a goal.
I was happy.
When had I last been truly happy? Not content or satisfied, but genuinely joyful?
I couldn't remember.
My life had been fine, objectively. Married young to Jennifer, patient with my obsession. Two children, grown now. Forty years as an accountant—a job that paid bills but demanded little of my soul. Modest vacations, pleasant friendships.
But real happiness? That died on a muddy pitch in Manchester.
I'd spent my twenties watching Korean football grow, coaching youth teams briefly before the pain became too much. My forties and fifties were filled with matches, a regular in the stands, but never part of the community. My sixties alone after Jennifer passed.
And now here I was, smiling at a stranger's goal in a forgotten match.
The referee blew the final whistle. Seoul FC won 3-2.
Fireworks exploded overhead, colors reflecting off the retractable roof. The anthem blared, sixty thousand voices sang off-key and perfect.
My smile softened, grew gentle. Tiredness washed over me—not physical, but the exhaustion of finally letting go.
My legs weak, chest light. The cold seat spread through me, but felt almost warm, like slipping into a bath after a long day.
I thought of my children, busy with their lives in distant cities. I should call them tomorrow. Tell them about the match. They'd humor me, listening politely to stories about a game they never cared about.
I thought of Jennifer, gone twelve years, wondering if she watched. She'd said I loved football more than her. I denied it, but we both knew the truth.
I thought of that boy on the muddy pitch, screaming in pain, his future shattered.
I wanted to tell him something. That it would be okay? No—it never really was. That he'd find other things to live for? Yes. That the pain would fade? No. It became background noise.
Maybe I'd just say: I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry you spent sixty-five years wondering what if.
The crowd began to disperse—a happy, chattering mass. The young couple gathered their things, still grinning. The father lowered his son, ruffling his hair. The players waved, flushed with victory.
I remained seated. No rush. I watched the stadium empty, grounds crew emerge, lights dim in sections. The scoreboard still showed 3-2, frozen in triumph.
My smile remained soft and peaceful. My eyes grew heavy. The cold spread everywhere, but felt like floating.
This was a good place to stop.
I was glad I saw that goal.
Maybe, in another life, I could have scored one like that.
My eyes closed gently, like curtains falling at a performance's end. The smile never left.
Stars appeared above through the open sections of the roof—distant, indifferent, eternal.
And then, so gradually it was impossible to say when, the world began to fade.
Not into darkness—that would be simple, final.
Instead, it faded into white. Pure, absolute white.
The stadium dissolved. The seat dissolved. My body—aches, pains, decades of wear—dissolved.
Alan Han, who lived eighty-two years with a dream that died at seventeen, who watched others live the life he wanted, who smiled genuinely for the first time in decades as a ball hit the net, was gone.
Only white remained—endless, empty, full of possibility.
And in that white space, something waited