Chapter 101
Chapter 101
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: uly
Chapter: 101
Chapter Title: Must Grow (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 101: Must Grow (1)
Once training wrapped up, most of the players showered and headed straight home.
But a few were different.
Thwack-!
"That's not it, you idiot. I told you not to hit it like that."
Off in one corner of the first-team training pitch, the strikers and wingers were deep into shooting practice.
Standing in the middle of them was none other than Emmanuel Adebayor.
Thud-!
Following Adebayor's instructions, Tong-ah Pak unleashed an instep shot with his right foot from just outside the penalty arc.
"Whoa! Goddamn! That was idiotic!"
Adebayor bent over laughing as he tore into Tong-ah Pak's shot without mercy.
"Your plant foot's balance shifted outward again. Were you trying to hit it with the inside of your foot just now? Huh? Speak up."
"No, I definitely went for an instep kick...!"
"Then why's your plant foot drifting outward?"
"I've never...!"
"That's why I keep telling you to fix that damn foot of yours so it doesn't look so stupid."
"..."
Tong-ah Pak wasn't the only one there. Shearer Kane and Sensuous Ruff were part of the group too.
"Next!"
Adebayor shoved aside Tong-ah Pak, whose shoulders had slumped, and turned to Sensuous Ruff.
Sensuous Ruff flinched.
*Why'd he have to give me that killer glare right when it's my turn?*
Even so, he locked in with intense focus and set his stance.
He planted his left foot to the left of the stationary ball and whipped his right foot across the right side in a front-foot strike.
Thud-!
The ball, curled with the front-foot technique, spun wildly through the air and rippled the net cleanly.
"Yes!"
Sensuous Ruff thrust a clenched fist skyward with a short roar—anyone could see it was a great shot.
But Adebayor just let his mouth droop and shook his head slowly.
"No way?"
Sensuous Ruff furrowed his brow hard.
Adebayor wagged his index finger side to side.
"Your stance was garbage. What are you, David Beckham? Why swing your arms so wide? It's predictable."
"Predictable how?"
"FroMad Dogefender's view: 'Oh, this idiot's about to shoot.' Your motion's too big. Took you forever to get the shot off too."
Adebayor added that no EPL defender would ever fall for it.
"You'll turn the ball over before you even attempt the shot and get chewed out for being an idiot."
"..."
Sensuous Ruff's shoulders sagged too.
Shearer Kane, at least, passed.
Thwack-!
Adebayor finally rounded his mouth in approval and stuck up a thumb at the powerfully struck shot.
"This guy's no idiot after all?"
A good while passed.
The training pitch was now completely empty.
That's when one player stepped onto the field.
Under the glaring sun, his bald head shone brighter than ever.
"Hoo-!"
The center-back with the bald dome, Quick Floyd, kept sighing heavily even as he entered the pitch.
He kept glancing around furtively.
Double-checking that everyone was gone and he was truly alone.
Finally confirming no one was there, Floyd pulled a few balls from the storage bin and rolled them lightly toward the penalty arc.
"Hoo...!"
Another habitual sigh escaped his lips.
Thwack-!
His face would scrunch up mid-shot during these late practice sessions.
Sometimes he'd grit his teeth.
*Why won't it go right...!*
No pressure from opponents meant he could ripple the net with an easy kick.
But the timing of the shot and the feel off the foot afterward? Utterly unsatisfying.
*It keeps feeling off.*
Quick Floyd could sense it in his bones.
His upper- and lower-body balance wasn't consistent during shots.
When he put everything into it, the ball sailed harmlessly over the crossbar every time.
How much time passed like that?
Thwack-!
He slotted the final ball neatly into the net before collapsing to the ground.
"Hoo-!"
Yet another sigh burst from his mouth.
"My skills have definitely improved..."
His appearances proved it.
Under Derek Scott, he'd been second-team fodder.
But under Ma Jeong-woo this season, he'd already played in 14 of Bolton's 22 matches.
Versatile positions too.
He'd played center-back since turning pro, but per Jeong-woo's guidance, he'd filled central midfield and even winger roles at times.
Quick Floyd hadn't found it particularly tough.
The responsibilities were similar across positions anyway.
*Ball carrier...!*
With his top-notch dribbling, Floyd either carried for Owen Doyle directly or drove forward to pull defenders.
*Unlike at first..., it's definitely drawing them out now.*
One by one, opponents reacted to his aggressive dribbles, getting dragged out of position.
That created better pockets of space for Owen and the others.
Bolton's current manager had been a huge help.
Unlike past coaches, only Jeong-woo had backed him fully.
Boosted his confidence too.
Floyd wiped sweat from his bald head with a towel as he thought.
*So now..., I can even play some forward passes.*
He'd taken shots here and there too.
But that was it.
Suddenly, Quick Floyd dropped his head.
"Feels like I'm the only one who's stalled."
The reason for his worries was simple.
In the last five games, Quick Floyd had appeared just twice.
Sub appearances of 20 and 15 minutes, that was all.
And he knew exactly why his minutes were drying up.
*I'm too vague.*
Dominic Shield, a monster center-back, anchored the spot.
Dennis Slip covered Dominic's speed issues as his partner.
Against aerial threats, the 2m giant Joel Biggs paired with Dominic.
Floyd? Just good at dribbling.
At 184cm, he was short for a center-back too.
"Midfield's got..., Dave and Frank."
David Dignity and Frank Gerrard had been syncing well lately.
Beyond their rare hexagonal skill sets for Bolton, they were the team's stamina kings.
Winger? Vague there too.
Sensuous Ruff, Tong-ah Pak..., plus multi-player Cole Palmer.
Up top? Emmanuel Adebayor with his recent explosive short bursts, and the clinical Shearer Kane.
"..."
No matter how he racked his brain, there was no spot for him.
That realization was eroding Quick Floyd's confidence bit by bit.
*If only I could shoot properly...*
Some press had pointed it out.
With his dribbling strength, finishing would make him a Bolton game-changer.
*Even just nailing pass timing...*
But that was a stretch.
In 14 appearances this season, Floyd had zero goals.
Zero assists.
Five sub spots, six at center-back...
"The rest were on the wing."
Shooting felt less daunting than before, but he still hesitated.
Most attempts sailed wide anyway.
Floyd, who'd once dreamed of being a striker, was thrilled with Bolton's winning streak lately.
But it also hammered home the harsh reality.
Seeing Shearer Kane and Adebayor's unreal finishing made it worse.
"Looks like..., my striker days are done..."
"Don't hunch your shoulders, man. Your muscles'll shrink."
"...?"
Floyd jolted before he could finish, trembling.
He looked toward the voice, and his eyes widened in shock.
Beyond the training pitch fence, from the office with its wide-open window, Jeong-woo leaned out, staring right at him.
Jeong-woo grinned at the stunned Floyd.
"Training volume wasn't enough, huh? Still hanging around with that deflated look."
In one fluid motion, Jeong-woo hopped the windowsill.
"Time for some brutal extra work."
Jeong-woo strode toward the pitch entrance, loosening his already slack tie.
Finally, he said,
"Alright, let's play some Ronaldo games."
* * *
Arsenal, based in London's Islington borough, was one of North London's flagship clubs.
But their prestige had hit rock bottom in recent seasons.
Precisely since Arsene Wenger—rivaling Alex Ferguson—had left.
"Our identity was Wengerball."
Richard Garlick, head of football operations, couldn't smooth the deep furrows in his brow.
Across from him on the sofa sat none other than Arsenal's current manager, Mikel Arteta.
Arteta just sat silently, listening to Garlick.
"But at some point..., we drifted away from Wengerball."
"..."
An undeniable fact.
Wengerball had revolutionized the EPL, still clinging to kick-and-rush tactics.
Fast, fluid, built on short passes, forward passes, and switching play to carve counters.
Gunners—the Arsenal fans—had once hailed that process itself as beautiful football.
But no traces of Wengerball remained in today's Arsenal.
"We prioritize possession like Wengerball, sure..., but nothing else matches. And the team's mired in slump."
Even so, Mikel Arteta stayed silent.
He knew it too.
He craved pragmatic results over beautiful play.
Arteta was a manager who tailored tactics to opponents.
Specialized in dissecting rival strategies.
Normally, they'd be sparring over tactics right now.
But he couldn't.
Mikel Arteta knew exactly what this meeting meant.
And football operations chief Richard Garlick laid it out bluntly.
"One game."
"..."
"One game from here on out—FA Cup, whatever. Lose it, and we have to sack you."
Arteta wouldn't even meet Garlick's eyes.
He just nodded faintly from his seat.
No excuses left anyway.
The results spoke for themselves.
Since January, Arsenal sat at 18th in the table.
Injuries played a part, but he didn't want to lean on that now.
The only reason he hadn't been fired yet? Massive compensation fees, plus the owners' eyes on other sports over football.
But even that had reached its limit.
On the flip side, Arsenal had performed well in the FA Cup.
Garlick sneered subtly.
"League form's trash..., but damn if you haven't reached the fourth round in the FA Cup, huh."
Just like he said, in six days...
Arsenal would host Bolton—the FA Cup bogey team of late—at the Emirates Stadium.
*Bolton, huh.*
Arteta just gave a bitter smile at Garlick's jab.
Of all things, his fate hinging on a third-division side.