Madness in the Transfer Window: EPL Opener - Man City vs Tottenham
Rain hammered against the windowpane outside in Manchester's muggy downpour. Fucking rain again. But the warmth inside made even that damp chill feel like someone else's problem, distant and irrelevant. Fresh out of the shower, I toweled off my wet hair and glanced toward the bed.
Haeyeon was lounging there at a slant, like she was posing for a photoshoot. She relaxed her pose and spoke up.
"So busy with transfers you couldn't even text? Just ghosting like that? Kinda sucks now that you're fading away."
Her voice had that sulky edge, but her eyes carried her usual lazy allure. I slung the towel over my shoulder and chuckled.
"Can't blame you for missing it. Guys like me don't come around every day. Your standards are sky-high."
"Hmph..."
A tissue flew my way, but it missed.
Haeyeon and I had met in high school through an intro from the school next door. The year I turned 19, I headed to Spain, then got called up nonstop for the national team, and we naturally drifted apart. Right when I was about to delete her number—no real memories, just a contact saved—she messaged me.
I'd replied that I'd buy it if she got famous, but to this day, I hadn't bought a single one. She was your typical mid-tier agency idol—never even a one-hit wonder, faded into the public's vague "I've seen her somewhere, heard the song maybe, but what's her name?" zone.
Still, her family's loaded, so no money worries. But cash doesn't fill an empty heart.
As we swapped pointless chit-chat about life in England and such, Haeyeon rolled over and stared right at me.
"But hey, isn't there drama with the new coach?"
"Huh? What about?"
"Yoon Seungwoo, the new guy they picked."
"Yeah. So?"
"People are saying the process was shady. Crony football or whatever. No interview?"
I paused, phone in hand.
With the coach hiring mess blowing up into a National Assembly hearing and even a Ministry of Culture audit, even Haeyeon—who knows zilch about soccer—and every stray soda can on the street knew about it. But hearing it from her lips made the whole thing hit weird.
Where the hell do I even start explaining this?
Would they even get it if I tried? Telling outsiders who don't grasp soccer's ecosystem or association structure about my frustration? Pointless mouth exercise. Her question nailed the public's gaze blanketing Korea right now, and it left a bitter taste.
I perched on the edge of the bed and asked lowly.
"You think a coach has to do an interview?"
"Duh! It's the national team coach."
"Why?"
"They're hiring one. Gotta vet 'em! Hear if they'll suck or not."
Vet. Nice word. But vet what, how?
Stick Yoon Seungwoo in a suit, call "Interviewee number 126, come on in," sit him at a desk, and grill him?
"Share your vision as a coach."
"What are your thoughts on our association's core values?"
"Name three strengths."
His tactical chops? Proven by back-to-back K League titles, burying a decade of failures. Recent results, too. His career's real-world calls—thousands of them on the pitch—are his resume, not some interview spiel.
Do the masses want a box-ticking "system" ritual, or an actually competent coach?
"Haeyeon."
"Yeah?"
"No country hires coaches via interviews."
She pouted.
"Still, there's such a thing as procedure."
"This is headhunting..." I gave up explaining.
EPL opener. Man City vs Tottenham match day. Etihad Stadium's heat had already boiled over. As the Blue Moon chants from the stands shook the turf, excited voices blared from the broadcast speakers.
The British commentary team chuckled like it was all good fun. 15th minute of the first half. Marmoush was hogging the left flank with a reckless dribble, killing the tempo. Pep gestured sharply, signaling a switch to the other side. Marmoush flinched at Pep's yell, nodded, and fired a low, quick cross into the center.
Thwack!
The ball caught Haaland surging forward and ripped into the net like it was tearing the mesh. 1-0.
From the bench, watching it unfold, I muttered in awe.
"Damn... this is Man City."
I could see it from the bench too. Pep, out to the technical area's edge, his bald dome flushing red live on the feed.
"Marmoush! You stubborn fuck! Keep it simple!"
Pep's roar echoed like it was caught on the mic. Tottenham was tactically dismantled. Press timing, buildup spacing—everything meshed like gears. This was a slaughter. Man City beating Tottenham like stray dogs on a hot day gave me chills.
The problem came next.
Leading now, Marmoush slipped back into his own world. Even after Pep stressed "simple," he kept pulling flashy tricks, diving between two or three defenders.
"Marmoush! This little shit...!"
Guardiola's face heated up in seconds. He's always fiery, but with today's heat, his scalp was turning crimson.
"Hey! Marmoush. Ignoring me?"
Pep charged to the bench front, bellowing. He looked like a ripe takoyaki ball or an octopus tossed into boiling water.
Whoa, takoyaki's pissed for real.
Staring at Pep's reddened dome, a random thought hit: That's prime octopus sashimi vibes. Dip in chojang and it'd be perfect.
"Ah... craving octopus sashimi."
But Marmoush, defiant, nutmegged between two defenders' legs and burst into the box.
Through that?
Had to admit, impressive. Tactics be damned—raw individual skill mocking the system. Tottenham's backline flailed like dogs headed to the slaughterhouse. Defenders once called walls crumpled like paper under one step from Marmoush.
"Holy shit, what? Ignoring me? The fucker's good."
Fake, turn, shake, burst—the speed made it hard for defenders to track. Awe slipped out.
The broadcast cut between Marmoush winking post-goal and Pep clutching his head, trembling at the bench front. Halftime in the locker room, Pep stormed in like a burglar, yelling.
"Sit! Sit down! Shut up and listen! Drink some water and sit!"
Locker room went dead silent.
"Opponent's Tottenham—they'll gift points. Quick goal, then manage energy!"
Marmoush bowed his head.
"Premier League's a different beast from Bundesliga. Different from La Liga too. Listen to me!"
I stared straight at Pep. After watching Tottenham get dog-walked, this was City playing right...
"Not kids! Not youth ball! This is pro league!"
Pep, flushed and steaming, looked every bit the octopus sashimi from behind. As I secretly smacked my lips, Pep whipped around. His rage-filled eyes locked on mine.
"Ryan!"
He called me.
"You. Know the difference between you and Tottenham?"
I shrugged.
"Chicken...?"
"What? You nutjob."