Braving The Storm: Aleksey Korol's Story on Family, War, Grief and Recovery

Aleksey Korol coaches soccer in Chicago and is a former soccer star at Indiana. But soccer became a lower priority when Russia invaded Ukraine, where his sister sought cover from the bombings. This is Korol’s story on family, war, grief and recovery.

Aleksey Korol wanders the ground-floor corridor in the Physical Education Building at the University of Illinois-Chicago — outfitted in his navy white-striped Adidas tracksuit — the UIC logo stamped to his chest. Constructed in 1968, the facility has undergone renovations, but this particular hallway remains outdated — the floor glimmers with an oily granite or concrete.

The 46-year-old Korol is the breathing reminder of the Indiana University men’s soccer dynasty in the late 1990s. In Korol’s four-year collegiate career, which spanned 1996-1999, the Hoosiers captured Big Ten titles each season and back-to-back national championships in his final two as an upperclassman. He stands as the all-time leading scorer in NCAA Tournament history.

When the latest rounds of Indiana University students dock on campus, they're only briefed on the legend that is the men's soccer team. Timeless highlights aren't played on some video board — which they don’t have — at the stadium. Korol was among the many to build and preserve the tradition, supplying one-fourth of the program's eight national championships.

He’s now an associate head coach with the University of Chicago-Illinois men’s soccer team.

Korol strolls past the front desk in the outdated hallway and glances over his shoulder.

“You better be ready tomorrow,” Korol declares to his player working the desk.

“You don’t even play me,” Ezau Millan banters back.

Korol chuckles and continues his strides.

“Heh, he’s one of our best players,” he says.

Korol reaches the solid wooden door halfway through the hall and enters the windowless white-concrete coach's office. Two metal shelves are attached to the wall. Three Horizon League trophies settle there. The combined mass keeps the used sky-blue-and-yellow Ukrainian flag from folding onto the floor. It was placed there last year by fellow coaches, Sean Phillips and Minos Vlamakis. The three have coached at UIC for 15-plus seasons.

Matthew Byrne

When the bombs dropped in Ukraine, Sean and Minos were right by Aleksey’s side in support — but from a distance — and not by Aleksey’s choice. All he could do was vanish.

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Korol’s cheek muscles stiffen within the 30 minutes he’s sat at the roundtable in the office, the flag positioned behind his shoulders. He has braved agonizing storms before. Korol witnessed his father’s tears for the first time as they shook hands before he succumbed to cancer two decades ago. Korol fled Bloomington about 13 years ago — when he was fired as an assistant coach for Indiana men’s soccer — only holding the position at his alma mater for 10 months.

As another decade passed, in February 2022, he stood by helplessly in the States during the invasion of Ukraine by the Russians — his home country where he grew up under Soviet Union sovereignty until he was 15-years-old with his older sister, Natasha, and their parents. Soccer is Korol's purpose; he loves his players and the game dearly. Years of providing for Natasha’s family abroad and the two kids he shares with his partner fuel that purpose. But he’s been occasionally tormented by regret. This storm was ferocious. At the onset, it shattered his will.

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It was nighttime in Chicago when Russia launched the invasion. Korol arrived at the Physical Education Building the following morning, where the team conducts their indoor practices. Korol is tasked with running the sessions with his players, but he was incapable with the news. He sat and watched, alongside one of his players, Olek, who shared Ukrainian lineage.

“He couldn't train either,” Korol says. “We were sitting down, kind of talking about life. Talking about his family, my family, where we were, where they are, if they were getting affected. Then, the next day, I don't even know if I came in. Everything was overwhelmed. The news was everywhere. It was just shocking. [The coaching staff] understood we needed space.”

Korol took time away from practices. Three days later, he phoned Natasha — on the way to what would be the first session Korol was in charge of since the invasion of their country — to check that she was safe. She was in the hospital. Korol only reached the doors of the facility.

"She says, 'We might need to FaceTime,'" Korol says. "They were next to [my mom], and I saw her taking last breath. And that was it. That's the last picture of my mom. She's taking her last breath, like freaking out, you hear those noises. I texted or called Sean, I said, 'I'm out.'"

Korol disappeared for an unknown period. His mom battled leukemia for 24 years and lost. Regret infected Korol’s conscience. If he was on his last breaths, he’d want his children by his side. It’s what he thought his mom wanted. Natasha called Aleksey three-to-four weeks before the invasion began and told him that their mother was in poor condition. Aleksey perceived it as routine — that they’d need to use stronger medicine. Nonetheless, he searched for tickets.

“Brandi, my partner, she’s like, ‘You better go,’” Korol says. “‘You got to see your mom.’ [Three days later] she said, ‘You better not go, because the way it is, Russia is going all around the border … they're gonna invade.’ I'm like, ‘Brandi, they have done this for eight years. They have been on our border. They've been attacking us in one part of Ukraine. She’s like, ‘No.’”

If Korol didn’t have his partner and kids, he would’ve gone. He planned to visit Ukraine for five-to-six days. What would’ve been the final day of his trip was the day before the invasion.

“If I went and saw her, I would get out,” Korol says. “Haunt me? Oh, yeah.”

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Aleksey and Natasha, distanced by 5,000 miles, reminisced about their mother, crammed with laughs. Activities she used to do, phrases she would say, and character traits they picked up. The siblings pushed to stay upbeat, but when they hung up, the sorrow returned for Aleksey. Aleksey sought perfection in his playing career, control that he didn’t have anymore in his 40s.

The fresh anguish was cavernous. In the opening weeks of the invasion, Aleksey spoke with Natasha every four to five hours. She’d sometimes answer the phone already in the makeshift bomb shelter, which was in the basement below her husband’s workplace. She lives in the Bila Tserkva region, around 85 kilometers south of Kyiv. It was bombed in late February, 2022.

Aleksey occasionally heard the sirens in the background.

“‘Oh, here it goes, here it goes,’” Natasha would say to her brother from the shelter.

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When Aleksey was 15 years old, his parents transported him to upstate New York to better his future. Natasha and Aleksey wept in Ukraine the night before he boarded the plane for the States. Decades later, Natasha avoided over-dramatizing her region getting bombed. It runs in the family — not to tell the full truth of events — you can’t alter what transpires oceans apart.

“She'd be like, ‘Nah, it's okay, it’s far away,’” Aleksey says. “Right now, you know where the bombs are coming from, there is a lot more security. At that time, you didn't know. You might be next, this building might be next. The news would come out and they’d tell you the city, they tell you the location, what got bombed, how big of the building, how many casualties.”

“Sometimes, I know how the family works,” Aleskey says. “They try to tell you not to worry.”

Regardless of Natasha’s measures, Aleksey feared she’d be shot or bombed. He ran away from his players — he couldn’t demand as an associate head coach what needed to be required at practice. How could anyone? As Aleskey healed, and eventually returned, players mobbed him, gave hugs, and cracked jokes. They’re aware he’s the biggest self-proclaimed jokester. In turn, he cares for their development and prepares them for future endeavors.

“I don't bring much on my personal life to the office,” Aleksey says. “It’s all about these kids.”

The University of Illinois-Chicago associate head coaches for men's soccer, Minos Vlamakis (back) and Aleksey Korol (front) stand on the sidelines with head coach Sean Phillips (right) / UIC Athletics

Natasha left Ukraine in October 2023. Nineteen months had passed in the war. She couldn’t fly to the States, as Ukraine’s commercial airspace is closed. Natasha boarded trains to Warsaw, Poland, then boarded flights to the Czech Republic and landed in Chicago. She wanted to be with Aleksey’s kids, aged two and four, while they’re still toddlers, with the dual purpose of helping Aleksey and Brandi take care of the kids and home. Natasha stayed in Aleksey’s city apartment, but they didn’t see each other every waking minute because of his coaching role.

Coaches are busy, always on the move, and the Flames were on the cusp of their first NCAA Tournament berth in five seasons. The siblings spent most of their time at home, and Natasha liked to go on runs for hours. Aleksey doesn’t have lists of activities they did in the month that Natasha was in the States. She returned to Ukraine right before Thanksgiving. But for his twins’ birthday on Nov. 15, Aleksey’s host family — which has moved to Indiana — as well as Brandi’s that lives in Wisconsin, and Natasha too, all celebrated as one together in Chicago.

In the month-long visit, they rarely spoke about the past events of the war and the invasion. Most conversations about Ukraine were in the present — the reports of Natasha’s daily calls from Chicago to check on her husband and their twins back in their home country. Men of suitable age must stay in Ukraine as military reserves under martial law. Though, Aleskey is aware the events of the invasion have changed his sister — Natasha once told him. And it’s not that they aren’t communicative, rather, it’s an unspoken calmness that Natasha was safe.

Five thousand miles away from it all, Aleksey has learned to live through the torment. Stormy days haven't vanished, when he’s reminded about his mother's death and the first few months of the invasion. It won’t ever leave his consciousness. But Aleksey has family to live for. Kids, his partner, his sister, his foster family, and his players, for whom he stays cheerful for daily.

“This is the most I’ve ever told anybody,” he says.

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It’s mid-September on Indiana’s campus. Aleksey hasn't returned in 13 years — since his termination with the program — where he won two national titles. He is being inducted into the Indiana Athletics Hall of Fame that night at the ceremonial banquet. Most, if not all, in the crowd, which is filled with former inductees and Indiana legends, don’t know his narrative.

Aleskey starts with witty remarks.

“My little ones, I have twins, all right. They’re born on the same day two years apart,” he says.

Aleksey briefly speaks about Natasha.

“She's still there, uh, she's still there with her family,” he says. “It's not the easiest time for them. She couldn’t make it, she was trying to make it. They're trying to survive this disaster.”

People seated interrupt Aleskey, and applaud.

“My mom and dad, they’re no longer with us, but they would love to be here,” he says.

Aleskey is under time constraint. However, he doesn’t talk in-depth about his relatives.

Ten minutes pass, Aleskey wraps up his speech.

“I have a couple favors to ask. Coach Woodson, I'm a big Knicks fan. So me and you have to talk afterward, if you give me a couple of minutes, all right? … I’m crazy about the Knicks.”

“Last thing,” Aleksey says.

The banquet at Henke Hall of Champions falls silent for four seconds.

“...pray for my home country.”