FC Seoul demolished FC Anyang on Saturday night. It was the single best team performance I have witnessed this year. This isn’t a match report. This is what 0-7 looked and felt like.
There was electricity in the air hours before kick-off. Intense thunderstorms and heavy rain overshadowed the build up to a derby that’s fast becoming K League’s must-see.
That electricity was transferred to the fans as kick-off approached. The rain had stopped falling but the ground was soaking. Overhead, a rainbow lit up the evening sky much to the joy of those around the stadium.
For the next 40 minutes, the sky above played games with our senses. Those vast, white, summer clouds had been transformed into gorgeous orange and brown by the setting sky. Pockets of sky blue emerged for the only time that day.
Those colours made way for navy blue, black, and even purple as the match got underway. It was impossible not to focus on the rapidly changing sky. What more treats would it offer?
A combination of the weather, the rainbows, and the summer skies helped create a crackling Saturday night atmosphere. Aided, no doubt, by a derby with top billing.
And that’s why I mention it. The buzz. The excitement. The sense of occasion. Those factors combined to give the sense of something momentous.
But there was another colour between the orange and brown and purple skies. As the players made their way onto the pitch, the skies above were suddenly an ominous grey and black. A warning, perhaps.
If Hans Zimmer could attach the same score for Dunkirk to my photos, it would stress the feeling of danger and fear. Red and black troops, traveling down from neighboring Seoul, ready to ransack their underpowered enemy.
To press pause on time at that exact moment would be fascinating. Anyang were up for this – their players given an almighty roar from the rickety pitch side stands as Zombie blared from the speakers.
Looking back, re-watching the videos of those fans anticipating a proper K League battle, knowing that it would end 0-7, is still hard to believe. How could this have happened?
The blows came early, and they came often. There was no time for Anyang to feel like this was a match they could win. 0-1 after six minutes. 0-2 after 12. It was five-nil at half time. Oh dear!
Half-time was the first opportunity to gauge what the local reaction would be. Unlike traditional football stadiums, the players do not walk off the pitch towards the main stand, under the protection of VIPs and the media.
At Anyang, they exit in the corner, walking straight past the core support group in the temporary stand. Even at that point, their safety isn’t guaranteed. They must trudge across the running track to the changing rooms. Players and fans separated by movable barriers.
They needn’t have worried. The applause and cheers were vociferous. There were no boos and jeers. No hint of dissent or frustration.
Whatever comfort that provided was wiped away very soon.
There were 58 minutes on the clock when Seoul made it 7-0. This was already a historic humiliation. Groans and disbelief. A car crash in slow motion. Your mind races back through all the previous matches you’ve seen.
Have I ever seen 7 before? Could they score 8? Maybe 10?
The home fans – for reasons I’ll never understand – wanted to record this gigantic defeat. They took photos of the scoreboard. Sporting grief makes us behave differently I guess.
Luckily for Anyang, poor finishing prevented more damage. Fans had started to trickle out, but not in great numbers. When the final whistle went, the stadium was not deserted.
This afforded the supporters another opportunity to express rage, or so I thought. I had expected a smattering of boos alongside polite applause, but mostly indifference. Yet again, however, the cheering and applause was boisterous. The manager, Yoo Byeong-hoon, heard his name chanted with particular gusto.
Was this the right response? It was said to me that this would never happen elsewhere. True, but Korean football culture can be different to other places. There are no rules. That’s what makes football the only true global sport.
Korean fans are often mocked for leaning too heavily on Europe and Latin America for songs, chants, banners, and support. This was an example of a fanbase not following another region, but the outcome is the same.
This felt like a rare, authentic Korean football moment. This is how those Anyang fans dealt with (in football terms) misery and embarrassment. They faced their record humiliation with defiance.
The 0-7 score line was humiliation, but the ending told a different story. The 8,890 in attendance, plus the players, coaches, and officials are unlikely to forget the evening they saw such punishment dished out. It was as wretched as it was enthralling.
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