Tribal (eBook)

Introduction

The Riddle of Hiddink

A year and a half before South Korea would host the 2002 World Cup, the Land of the Morning Calm was anything but. Its national soccer team, usually a regional power, had faltered in the 2000 Asian Cup, failing to beat lightweights like Kuwait. Meanwhile, its archrival and cohost, Japan, had gone undefeated to claim the trophy.

More than sports was at stake. After a difficult century of colonization, war, and political unrest, South Korea had ascended to the elite tier of economies. Its ethos of success through striving and sacrifice helped it land the World Cup. Then the 1997 financial crisis crushed its economy, exposed corruption, and brought a humiliating bailout from abroad. In the wake of this, leaders held out hope that an impressive showing could restore the country’s reputation for competence. But now the world’s oddsmakers were betting that it would be the first-ever host nation to fail to advance beyond group play to the tournament rounds. Yet another humiliation loomed.

The worried chief of the Korean Football Association (KFA), Chung Mong-joon, placed a long-distance call to the Netherlands. On the other end of the line was Guus Hiddink, a graying Dutch coach with a dog-eared passport, a rumpled tracksuit, and a track record for bringing out the talent in teams. In the 1998 World Cup, he led a formerly divided Dutch squad to the semifinals. Along the way, they thrashed South Korea’s Reds 5–0, which both depressed and impressed its soccer overlords. Now, those overlords were asking him to come coach their stumbling team at its moment of truth. From game tapes, Hiddink saw that the team’s style of play remained slow and outdated. He had heard that the KFA meddled in roster decisions, sometimes inserting players based on their social backgrounds rather than just their talents. He called Chung back, apologizing for his Dutch bluntness, and made some unprecedented provisos: absolute roster control, extra-long training camps, and a budget to invite the world’s best for exhibition games.

A month later, the ruddy-faced Hiddink landed in Seoul for his unveiling to the sports press. “I don’t know much about Korea,” he began. This was not false modesty, they later realized, when he didn’t recognize some names of prominent players. However, that lack of recognition might as well have been intentional. Hiddink’s first official act was to announce “open tryouts,” welcoming not only the country’s Alisters but also unknowns just out of high school. All had to prove themselves in demanding drills—and some famous names didn’t make the cut. This riled players and rankled fans in a society with a deep respect for age and experience.

Hiddink taught a tactical system called totaalvoetbal (“total football”), a fast, pressing style in which players move fluidly around the field to create unexpected plays. Perfected by the Dutch, it was increasingly adopted by elite clubs in other countries. From the scrimmages at the first training camp, however, Hiddink could see that this freewheeling style wouldn’t come easily. His players moved the ball in more regimented ways, often predictably passing to more senior teammates. Worse yet, the youngsters he had selected for their speed would balk in front of the net when they had clear shots. Then they’d apologize to the veterans for their mistakes, sometimes reprising this self-criticism in press interviews afterward.

The squad was playing poorly, but Hiddink didn’t cut the underperformers or chide them from the sidelines. Instead, he called a formal meeting. His Korean translator winced when relaying the coach’s gloomy assessment that their current form would result in an early exit from the tournament. To underscore this threat, he reminded them that the Reds had never won a game in five previous World Cup appearances. But if they would commit to a grueling regimen of advanced fitness workouts throughout their long training camp, there was hope. They might gain a stamina advantage like the one that had carried the miracle North Korean team into the 1966 tournament. The men in red met eyes for a moment and answered: “Ye!” They would do whatever it takes.

The coach then stunned the team with a new set of ground rules. The next round of training would be held halfway across the world—at an international soccer facility in the United Arab Emirates—where cutting-edge kinesiologists would lead them through next-level workouts. The Korean press would be ceremoniously uninvited. The changes extended even to matters of grammar: the Korean language’s honorific formulations (which he had learned rookies were using to address their veteran teammates, even in fast-moving situations on the field) were henceforth banned. Hiddink rationalized all these policies in terms of efficiency, but they also transformed the cultural cues surrounding players. Onlookers started to question the coach’s sanity—or at least his sensitivity. Was he “ignoring the cultural differences and asking Koreans to work, play and train like Europeans overnight,” as a New York Times reporter questioned? “Maybe you are right,” Hiddink replied, “or maybe these players can adapt quicker than you think.”

Soon, Hiddink’s bet seemed to be paying off. The changed setting brought out different sides of his players’ identities and fostered their learning. Players carried themselves like the other international pros who were training there. The Korean social habits that had been slowing their play—deference and self-criticism—surfaced less frequently on the field. Veterans became less attached to regimented set pieces. Rookies felt freer to react spontaneously and take scoring opportunities.

Still, as the Reds started their summer 2001 schedule against the world’s best teams, their totaalvoetbal often lapsed into total chaos. A central tactic is swapping positions with a teammate to throw off defenders. But the Reds didn’t have enough experience playing this way to read each other’s minds and mesh with their moves. In May, they fell to France 5–0. After another 5–0 loss in August to the Czech Republic, the Korean press branded Hiddink “Oh Dae Young” (Mr. 5–0). The Reds were losing worse than ever. A retired Reds manager blamed it on the “ignorant” foreigner. The team’s major sponsor, Samsung, canned a pricey TV commercial it had shot featuring the beleaguered coach.

During the extended camp that followed, Reds players continued to hone their skills and build their stamina. However, daily social interactions began to settle into old grooves of the team’s traditions. Veterans like Hong Myungbo (who had played in three previous Cups) guided the rest through the old-fashioned warm-ups the Reds had always done. Longtime staffers regaled players with tales of heroes from past squads. Rituals of camp life reconfigured themselves, such as rookies waiting at meals for veterans to first take a table. Some days they even polished the veterans’ shoes. All of this hit home for Hiddink one day when a rookie confided that it felt somehow wrong—against the Reds’ way—to swap places with a veteran famous for playing his position.

Traditions are invaluable for unifying a team, but these rituals were teaching the wrong lessons. Deference to seniority (whether from Korean habits or now from Reds traditions) impeded totaalvoetbal fluidity. But Hiddink kept faith in adaptation. If these Reds traditions had coalesced in the hothouse environment of training camp, then surely new traditions could be forged the same way. Once again, Hiddink imposed strange policies, this time transforming their daily social interactions. He nixed the veteran-led warmup routines as too “robotic.” He appointed younger players to captain-like roles. He assigned seats for all meals, interweaving rookies and veterans. He sat them together on flights and roomed them together at hotels. He started calling fouls on innocent players repeatedly until they finally protested, then he lauded them for standing up to authority. For players from a culture where even meeting the eyes of an elder can come across as insolent, these were unfamiliar and uncomfortable experiences. But after months of this every day, interacting as equals became the new normal: the new Reds tradition.

As their culture evolved—and their fitness training reached completion—the Reds’ game finally began to gel. In an exhibition game, they crushed Scotland 4–1. In the friendly matches leading up to the Cup, they fought England to an impressive draw. Then the Reds stayed within a goal of reigning champ France. In the sportsbooks, they were still 150to1 nohopers, but the players began to believe.

In the initial group play, their first draw was a towering Polish squad, which to the soccer savants in the broadcast booth portended doom. However, the Reds’ explosive attacks kept the Poles on defense. Thirty-three-year-old Hwang Sun-hong struck first to establish a precarious lead, then after halftime thirty-year-old Yoo Sang-chul added a swerving shot into the net. The home crowd of fifty thousand fans, including President Kim Dae-jung, rose to their feet for the rest of the game, clapping steadily to rally their team on to a historic victory. Next, the Reds faced a tough American squad and fell behind, placing tournament hopes in jeopardy. Yet their fan club, the Red Devils, carried on with its rhythmic chant—“Dae-Han-Min-Guk” (Republic of Korea), clap-clap clap-clap clap—drowning out any sound of “USA!” The Reds kept pressing in aggressive runs. Finally, in the...