The mask came off and so did the weight of a nation. When the final whistle sounded, Son Heung-min flung his face guard into the night air, liberated at last. But freedom for South Korea did not arrive so swiftly. Their 91st-minute winner against Portugal had fulfilled their side of the bargain, yet the World Cup gods kept them waiting. One more goal for Uruguay against Ghana, and the dream would die. For seven eternal minutes they stood together in the center circle, not on the pitch but on the precipice, faces lit by mobile screens, bodies clenched in prayer. Then came the eruption.
When the torment ended, South Korea's players sprinted to their fans. Behind the goal, euphoria exploded—the Wolves forward Hwang Hee-chan had just etched himself into folklore, completing a breathtaking comeback sparked by Son’s flash of genius. For most of the match, Son had been a quiet silhouette on the grass, distinguished more by his protective mask than his performance. But in the dying embers, he lit the fire.
From a Portugal corner, deep inside his own half, Son picked up a loose clearance and ran. And ran. And kept running, like a man chasing not just a goal but destiny. At the edge of the Portugal box, he slowed just enough to slip the ball through Diogo Dalot’s legs—a pass threaded between time and pressure. Hwang met it, took a breath, and buried it. With one cool finish, South Korea were in the last 16 for the first time since 2010. Or so they hoped.
In Montevideo, in Seoul, and on the turf in Qatar, time seemed suspended. Uruguay led Ghana 2-0. One more goal and they would leapfrog Korea on goal difference. Inches, moments, and margins separated celebration from collapse. Luis Suárez wept bitter tears. Son cried too—but his were of joy.
“Before the match, Son told me I would make something happen today,” said Hwang afterward. “He said, ‘We believe in you.’ When he got the ball, I knew he’d find me. He made my job easy.” The striker had missed the first two games with a hamstring injury. “It was a risk to play,” he admitted, “but I didn’t care what happened to me physically.”
The script had asked South Korea to win and hope—hope Ghana wouldn’t, or that Uruguay wouldn’t do so emphatically. The permutations were complex, but the task was clear: they had to beat Portugal. The odds improved when Portugal’s coach, Fernando Santos, made six changes to his starting XI. But any sense of complacency was shattered inside five minutes.
A moment of elegance, simplicity, and brutal efficiency saw Portugal strike first. Pepe released Dalot down the right. The full-back brushed aside Kim Jin-su and pulled the ball back to Ricardo Horta, who swept it into the far corner with a striker’s instinct. Portugal’s work in the group was already done—they had qualified—but they did not come to hand out favors.
Watching from the stands was South Korea’s coach Paulo Bento—suspended after a red card in the aftermath of the Ghana defeat. A Portuguese national himself, he had joked that he would sing both anthems to please everyone. In the end, he sang neither. His assistant, Sérgio Costa, stood in for him on the touchline and witnessed a determined fightback.
South Korea’s avenue back into the match was clear: set-pieces. And Portugal, for all their flair, looked fragile under aerial pressure. The equaliser came from one such moment of chaos. Lee Kang-in whipped in a corner, and the Portuguese defense imploded. Dalot missed his header. Neves missed his clearance. Then came Ronaldo—bizarrely turning his back on the ball. It ricocheted off him and fell to Kim Young-gwon, who pounced. At close range, he made no mistake.
It was not Ronaldo’s night. He chased the one goal that would equal Eusébio’s World Cup record of nine, but his every attempt fell short. Clean through once, he was denied by Kim Seung-gyu. A difficult header later also evaded him. With 25 minutes left, he was subbed off to the groans of his fan base in the crowd. He left visibly frustrated, and tensions flared further after the final whistle. “He was insulted by a Korean player,” said Santos. “He told Cristiano to go away, and Cristiano replied, ‘Maybe he had a bad day.’”
For South Korea, urgency had been strangely absent for much of the second half—until, suddenly, everything changed. Until Son ran. Until Hwang scored. Until belief became reality.
And then came the waiting.
Seven minutes of purgatory. Seven minutes that felt like seven years.
The Portuguese bench checked the other game. Korean players huddled, refreshing scorelines, trying not to hope too hard. And then, at last, the score in the other match stood still. Uruguay were out. South Korea were through.
Sometimes football is about tactics, technique, and statistics. Other times, it’s about masks thrown to the sky, a 90-yard sprint, a nation holding its breath, and a moment that changes everything.
This was one of those times.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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