There's something deeply unsettling about watching Ulsan Hyundai scrapping for survival. This isn't supposed to be the story. This is a club that's collected K League titles like they're going out of fashion, that's made the AFC Champions League their personal playground. But here we are, five matches from the end of the season, and they're sitting in ninth place, just three points clear of the relegation trapdoor, preparing to face a Daegu side that's already eyeing the drop with genuine terror.
That 2-0 win over Gwangju last weekend? You could feel the relief pouring off Ulsan like sweat in a sauna. Gustav Ludwigson's 21st-minute opener and Chung-yong Lee's 90th-minute insurance goal weren't just three points—they were oxygen for a drowning club. But here's what nobody wants to say out loud: winning one match doesn't fix what's broken. Averaging 0.7 goals per game in your last ten matches isn't a blip, it's a crisis. That's the kind of number that gets managers sacked and legends tarnished.
The recent 1-1 draw between these two sides back in September tells you everything about where Ulsan's head is at. They conceded first to Cesinha—because of course they did, the Brazilian's been Daegu's lifeline all season—then had to claw their way back through In-woo Back just to salvage a point. At home. Against a team sitting 12th. That's not championship mentality, that's survival instinct.
And yet, and yet. History counts for something in football, doesn't it? Ulsan haven't lost to Daegu in 28 of their last 30 encounters in K League 1. That's not form, that's psychological warfare embedded in muscle memory. When you've had someone's number for that long, it's in your DNA. The players might not consciously remember every result, but their bodies do. That confidence—even when everything else is falling apart—can be the difference between three points and a nightmare.
But confidence is a funny thing when you're staring at the abyss. Ulsan's season has been chaotic, disrupted by managerial changes, tactical uncertainty, players trying to remember what made them great. They're functioning under a caretaker manager, which is football speak for "we're making it up as we go." That's dangerous against any opponent, but especially against a Daegu side that has nothing left to lose.
Because make no mistake, Daegu are desperate. Six wins from 33 matches. Twenty-six points. They're not fighting relegation, they're fighting extinction. The difference? When you're this far gone, fear transforms into something else entirely. Look at their recent form compared to Ulsan's—they're averaging 1.4 goals per game, double what Ulsan's managed. Cesinha has dragged them to draws they had no business earning, scored goals that came from pure willpower. That 2-2 draw with Gangwon where he equalized in the 80th minute before Edgar Silva completed the comeback in the 90th? That's a team that refuses to die quietly.
The tactical battle here isn't complicated—it's primal. Ulsan need to impose their quality, their experience, their historical dominance. They need to play like the bigger club, because they are. Ludwigson's shown flashes, scoring in that Shanghai Shenhua draw in the Champions League and against Gwangju, but he needs support. Chung-yong Lee's late goal last week was vintage, but at his age, can he do it again with the weight of a club on his shoulders?
Daegu, meanwhile, will set up knowing they're supposed to lose. Cesinha will drop deep, collect the ball, try to orchestrate something from nothing because that's all he's done this season. Edgar Silva provides the aerial threat, the chaos in the box that can turn half-chances into goals. They'll defend deep, absorb pressure, then hit on the break. It's not pretty, but when you're fighting for your life, pretty doesn't matter.
Here's the uncomfortable truth that nobody at Ulsan wants to hear: form matters more than history when the stakes get this high. Yes, they've dominated this fixture for years, but this isn't the Ulsan of old, and Daegu have already proven they can hold them to a draw. The pressure at Munsu Football Stadium on Saturday will be suffocating. The fans will demand victory, the players will feel the weight of expectation, and when you're only averaging less than a goal per game, where does that winner come from?
Ulsan should win this. They have to win this. But "should" and "will" are two different animals entirely, and in a relegation battle, the team that wants it more often matters more than the team that's supposed to be better. Don't be shocked if Daegu leave with something. Don't be shocked if Ulsan's crisis deepens. And absolutely don't be shocked if come full-time, we're talking about how the mighty have fallen rather than how they've risen again.