It’s a World Cup summer. I caught the game—Korea vs. Czechia—alone in my room, having missed a chunk of the first half already. I watched with bated breath. When Korea scored the equalizer, I was happy, but I didn’t jump out of my seat in pure elation, and I didn’t scream with joy. When the final whistle blew and Korea won, the joy was there, but if you were there you wouldn’t have noticed. I couldn’t help but think back to previous World Cups. A wistful feeling overcame me, and without warning, my mind slipped back to that summer of 2006.
Drained by the blazing summer sun, my brain double-fried in times tables, I was lying face-down in the coolest sanctuary of the house—the guest room bathroom, with its cerulean blue tiles, tacky ocean-themed curtains and dolphin hand soap dispensers—when I heard the distant, eager chime of our doorbell.
The lukewarm skin on my cheeks lifted slowly off the cold tiles. I ran toward the door. Appa had returned. He stood at the doorway with a big smile, the summer light seeping into his silhouette. Hae-Young and I ran into his arms and took in the scent we’d taken for granted. He quickly sat us down on the living room floor, unveiling from his “Abibas” duffel bag the colorful beauty of a distant peninsula—glossy pink hairpins, flowery ahjumma pants, and the golden, forbidden juice packets of that cursed ginseng root. It was then that I caught a glimpse of the crown jewel. Tucked away deep within that cheap canvas treasure trove was a garment steeped in an unmistakable shade of pinkish-red. An edition of the 2002 Korea World Cup jersey.
On that luminous afternoon, my dad, having borne such precious gifts, had ascended into the realm of the gods. A Korean Hermes. And when he revealed that my grandma was the one who picked it out for me, that old lady whom I’d never met—the same one for whom I forced smiles during our mandatory Skype calls—was instantly elevated to the upper echelons of my favorite people, taking her seat between Appa and Jesus.
I didn’t know then that representing my country at the World Cup would remain a dream. I didn’t think about how the jersey would end up too small for me within a year, or how my fluency in Korean might peak at around that age level. I only knew that, for the first time ever, I held a piece of the country I so longed to be part of. I could wear it proudly across my chest. My reactions weren’t followed by subconscious analysis. I simply lived and felt.
As an adult, my instinct has leaned toward stifling those ardent emotions, as if feeling things too deeply were a symptom of an immature child who hasn’t yet learned the rules of the world. But sitting here in my room, I’m realizing the hidden cost of that defense mechanism. I feel like I lost something vital in trying to grow out of my capacity for awe. I’m trying to unlearn some of that now.
For Korea’s next world cup game, I’ve decided to run it back. Like I did in those first World Cups, when I let my raw feelings take over. Part of me still tells myself not to. It just feels so cringe. I can hear someone’s voice in my head shouting, “You’re pushing 30, man” from the back row. But I fear I have to. If anything, it’s for the kid in me who longs for the time when the excitement of a trivial win inspired me to run outside, kick a ball around, and approach life with boundless wonder.
marginalia 