It started just like that.
A trivial little Q&A.
Dad! I wanna be the coolest guy in the whole world!
Back then, I was desperate to win over Seo Eun, my kindergarten desk mate. I figured the way to do it was to just become straight-up cool.
Dad answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Then our Seojun's gotta become a soccer player!
If I become a soccer player, can I be a cool guy? Can I date Seo Eun?
Of course! Become a great soccer player, and she'll be chasing after you saying how much she likes you. Hell, every girl in kindergarten might end up crushing on you!
That's the best!!
From that moment on, I dreamed of becoming the greatest soccer player ever.
Dad wasn't wrong.
Who are the coolest guys in the world? Famous actors come to mind, but pro athletes get just as much buzz. If anything, when it comes to pure coolness, sports stars edge them out.
That's the magic of sports—the thing that makes Erling Haaland look cooler than Leonardo DiCaprio.
Anyway, that's how I started playing soccer. There were ups and downs along the way, but I steadily climbed the ranks as a player.
At 199.4cm tall with a thick, sturdy frame, yet blessed with lightning-quick feet and agile movement.
I dominated the youth leagues on raw physical talent alone and debuted as a pro. As a target striker, I'd drop deep to shield the ball, keep the play flowing, then burst into the penalty box to act as the post for my teammates.
In my rookie season on the domestic pro stage, I racked up 8 goals and 7 assists in 27 games, earning top-prospect hype. That very next winter transfer window, the Premier League came calling, and I headed to Europe.
I thought I had real talent.
I was buzzing, convinced that if I honed it, I'd become the ultimate soccer star Dad promised—living large.
But that was as far as it went.
Visa issues kept me from the Premier League, so I spent my first season on loan at Bundesliga side Freiburg. That's when I truly felt the wall of genuine talent.
First season stats: 15 games (9 starts), 1 goal, 3 assists.
The club rated my physical tools highly and gave me plenty of chances, but I couldn't deliver.
Still, I'd joined midseason in January—adaptation issues, I told myself. I'd do better next year. Grinding my teeth in determination.
Come the second season, still stuck at Freiburg without a recall from my parent club. I played 30 games... and managed just 3 goals, 6 assists.
That's when it hit me.
I was an empty shell with nothing but my body GOAT specs. I'd debuted not because of talent, but because there was demand for a super-tall striker.
Sure, you could call that a talent in its own right.
But on the European stage, surrounded by real geniuses, I was nothing.
That's when my world flipped upside down.
No time for dating or anything—I poured everything into soccer just to survive.
Marouane Fellaini looked like a genius to me. Peter Crouch was the pinnacle of technique.
Zlatan was a god, and Messi and Ronaldo? Aliens from another dimension.
Becoming the world's best—the GOAT? I didn't even dare dream it anymore.
But I couldn't quit, either.
Why did I even start playing soccer?
Dating a pretty girl was just the spark.
What I really craved was one thing.
I wanted honor!
And that honor meant being the best.
Desperate to claim it somehow, I lowered my sights: aim for Korea's GOAT.
But even that bar was sky-high.
The achievements of my seniors and peers were insane.
To claim domestic GOAT status, you'd need top-5 league titles, Champions League glory, scoring titles, best player awards—the list went on.
I spent 14 seasons in Europe but ended with no trophies, no individual honors. Just 463 games, 69 goals, 121 assists before calling it quits.
The nicknames they slapped on me? "body GOAT", "Head Maestro", "Backboard God".
Soccer fans gave them to me with affection for surviving Europe to the end... but to me, they were pure humiliation.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇After retiring, I ended up on a variety show with ex-pro athletes.
But even that wasn't comfy. The others were the best in their fields.
Tennis, wrestling, baseball, badminton, shooting, archery—you name it.
Different sports, but all peaks of Korean achievement.
They joked that I'd made way more money than them, but I envied their aura—the relaxed confidence only true greats have.
Every time I saw it, my gut twisted.
Then, at the after-party, I overheard something weird.
I mean... if I'd done a different sport instead of soccer, things would've been different... Sigh...
Drunk and venting, I got laughed off.
Kid, you made it that far because it was soccer. From what I saw, you've got the physicals but zero skill.
Exactly. You think topping Korea in any other sport is easy?
It sparked a whole debate. Baseball? Sweep the domestic league, then hit WAR 35+ in the majors for undisputed GOAT. Tennis? Win ATP 500s and reach Grand Slam quarters.
Then someone quipped,
Basketball's gotta be easy, though.
In the NBA, you just warm the bench and you're a GOAT.
Korea's basketball legend Kim Jun-ki got pissed for real, but everyone ignored him.
Boiling it down: One solid season in the NBA bench rotation, and you're Korea's greatest ever?
Absurd.
But shockingly, everyone nodded—except Kim Jun-ki.
I jumped in, frantic.
But isn't it still crazy hard? I heard the NBA's physical competition is on another level.
Not anymore, they say. These days, even if your athleticism's meh, nail the three-pointer and you're good.
For real?
You think I'd bullshit you? You know Curry? Stephen Curry.
Heard the name...
But I'd never watched a game.
Basketball, huh...
What if I'd played that instead? Could I have been Korea's best?
Lost in wistful what-ifs, the table suddenly started hyping me up.
True, with your build, speed, height—you'd have crushed Korean ball and knocked on the NBA's door for sure. What do you think, Coach Kyung-won?
Seojun? If he'd played hoops, he'd eat Korean basketball alive and aim for the NBA. Hell, could he still do it now? I hear they're imposing height limits again. After all that backlash last time.
Yeah, banning imports over 2m this time too?
Pfft... What the hell... That's just them closing the lid.
Keeping the frogs in the well, basically.
It wasn't serious praise—more like poking at the fuming basketball legend Kim Jun-ki, who had this annoying superiority complex.
They used me as ammo. My physicals suited basketball better. I'd smash Korean hoops easy. Shortest-path GOAT. The booze had me flying high too.
Seojun, you could dunk, right?
Obviously! You think I couldn't? I'm not called body GOAT for nothing!
My raw physicals overwhelmed even Europeans. But that came with downsides too.
In soccer, excessive height hurts dribbling and ball control. And with my natural speed on top? Forget fine touches.
If I'd played basketball, I'd be dunking, draining threes... Yeah!
Even ball off LeBron James?
No doubt! And who was that you mentioned? Kevin Durant? He'd be nothing. If I'd taken basketball seriously, total scrub!
Swept up in the egging-on, I spewed nonsense.
Edwards, Mitchell, Tatum—names I'd never heard, parroted like a mynah bird. NBA? Piece of cake. I'd dismantle them all. Roaring drunk.
At minimum, Korea's GOAT, right?
Of course, I knew better.
People don't achieve what they haven't for no reason. NBA bench spot looks easy? Never is.
I was just soothing the void inside with this drunken chatter.
...That's why, when the chance actually came, I was floored.
Some glitchy blackout later... I was back as a high school senior.
Like the world saying, If you're so sure, go prove it.
My pupils dilated in shock.
This is real...
The time regression was wild enough, but worse:
I don't know jack about basketball?
I was a total hoops noob. Completely clueless about the farm.
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Read 39 more chapters ahead on NovelDex!
https://noveldex.io/series/the-freak-athletes-nba-journey
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