Chapter 106
Chapter 106
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 106
Chapter Title: Must Grow (6)
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Korean fans watching the match live were left baffled.
- <LifeIs90Minutes> : What the hell? Why pull him? Why take off our God Debayor hyung?
- <GodDebayor> : Hold up! He just scored—how long ago was that? Already subbing him out?
- <ComebackKing> : No way, insane. Did the fourth official mess up the number board?
- [Veteran Adebayor] : This ain't right. Our God Debayor scores and gets yanked this early? He's gotta be gutted!
Even the away fans in the Emirates Stadium murmured in confusion.
"What? Subbing off Adebayor right now?"
"We could just pin him up top like before and go for those counter bombs..."
The commentary team couldn't hide their bewilderment either.
[Unbelievable. Bolton Wanderers pulling off Adebayor after he scores on his one and only shot!]
[And the sub coming on is Quick Floyd. He's played center-back, central midfield, even attacking mid..., but under Ma's system, I don't think he's ever lined up as a striker?]
Just as the commentators said.
If it had been a like-for-like sub with Shearer or Kane, they wouldn't have reacted with such shock.
Whatever.
Adebayor trudged off with a reluctant expression at the substitution signal.
Uuuuuu-!
The Gunners unleashed a barrage of jeers at Adebayor, who wasn't even jogging—just strolling back.
But soon enough, a faint smile crept onto Adebayor's lips.
'Perfect...!'
He'd scored exactly as planned.
And this sub was pre-arranged.
A few days before the match, Jeong-woo had laid it out.
'One goal. Just one, then I'm yanking you without mercy. If you don't get it, I'll pull you at the right moment anyway.'
Sure, there was some regret.
But objectively, his job was done with that one goal.
'I've saved face.'
He'd felt it the moment he stepped onto the pitch at kickoff.
He thought his form had picked up lately, but enduring Arsenal's EPL-level tempo and pressure for a full match? Deep down, he knew he couldn't.
His heart was world-class, but his body wasn't keeping up.
It hit him like a blast from the past.
From here on, as the scorer of the opener, Arsenal would lock him down tight.
Adebayor accepted it.
'Play fifteen minutes and become world-class, Adebayor.'
That was Ma's new path for him.
Ma had gone further.
This one goal would skyrocket his value overnight, while Arsenal erupted like a volcano.
Bolton would keep hammering the wound he'd opened.
This disappointed vibe right now? Part of Ma's playbook.
To keep the sub signal from tipping off the opponent.
Adebayor lifted his head slightly.
Uuuuuuu-!
The Gunners' boos rained down endlessly.
Some were still hopping the barriers in rage.
By now, Ma stood by the fourth official, whistling casually with a grin.
Adebayor caught sight of hiMad Dog felt a brief chill.
'Is this guy really a League One manager...?'
Having been coached by him for half a season, he knew this man was no third-tier talent.
* * *
[Bolton's got a positional shift!]
[Formation stays the same, but Owen Precision slots into the central striker role in the front three, and Quick Floyd drops to central midfield!]
Mikel Arteta struggled to mask his discomfort.
He'd have to face Bolton's new wrinkle without fully covering his earlier mistake.
His assistant coach Steve Round and the staff offered plenty of input.
"Not much changes. Just assign a dedicated marker to Owen."
"Right. He doesn't have Adebayor's work rate..., and his ball recovery under pressure is even weaker."
Following their advice, Arteta instructed holding midfielder Miguel Azis and center-back Takehiro Tomiyasu.
If Owen drifted into Arsenal's defensive zone, Tomiyasu marked him.
If he dropped deeper for passes, Azis went man-to-man, cutting off supply lines entirely.
'Owen's the key.'
Arteta had pored over Bolton footage dozens of times.
His takeaway: Shut down Owen.
Quick Floyd's sub was a minor annoyance, but no real threat.
'Great dribbler..., but no end product.'
So, mark Owen.
Meanwhile, he'd keep pushing the flank attacks led by left-back Nuno Tavares.
One goal conceded? He still backed himself.
The equalizer was coming soon.
39th minute of the first half.
Splash-!
The net rippled.
Yeeeeeeeeeees-!
The Gunners, who had jeered nonstop since the opener, rose as one in ecstatic roar.
Arteta, still uneasy as he watched, pumped his clenched fist sharply.
"Yes!"
Nineteen minutes after conceding, just as predicted—the equalizer.
[Nuno Tavares-!]
Nuno had shredded the left flank beyond words.
A ferocious burst from halfway carried him deep into enemy territory.
An underlapping run froze Dominic Shields, then a nutmeg on the onrushing center-back left him in reverse gear.
He capped it with a low drive into the far post corner.
"Uwaaaah!"
Nuno sprinted to the corner flag, bellowing in triumph at the first-half leveler.
41st minute of the first half.
The commentators chimed in.
[Subbing Adebayor off so early might've been the trigger.]
[Ma at Bolton's known for heavy rotation even in League One..., but this call looks like a miss.]
The negativity wasn't just from the equalizer.
Subbed-on Quick Floyd had already coughed up the ball three times.
He'd drive forward with his signature progressive dribbles, only to hesitate at the end and get robbed.
And that fed straight to Nuno Tavares for a blistering counter.
The Gunners were buzzing now.
Some fans chanted.
"Nunooo! Bag a brace! Hit 'em with the comeback ceremony right back!"
"Crush Bolton flat like a soda can, yeah?!"
* * *
The first half ended 1-1.
Losing the lead stung, but for the Wanderers, a halftime draw against this opponent was a solid fightback.
Arsenal saw it the opposite way.
The media hammered them mercilessly at the break.
[Arsenal! Trading first-half goals with League One Bolton...!]
[Arsenal's dire first half... What about the second?]
[Mikel Arteta's Arsenal! Toe-to-toe with a third-tier side..., is this okay?]
The top-flight blues.
But the criticism flipped to praise soon enough.
47th minute.
Splash-!
[Gooooooal-! Bukayo Sakaaaaa-!]
Saka blew past fullback Morten Pedersen on the right with pure speed, then abruptly cut inside toward the right edge of the box.
That was that.
A left-footed in-swinging rocket for the turnaround goal.
Bolton's keeper, Skrtich, charged out but could do nothing as it bounced once and burrowed under him.
The big screen flashed Saka's celebration.
The pitchside ads blazed "Goal!" in lights.
"That's it!"
Arteta thrust his fist again, roaring briefly.
His face brightened.
Assistant Steve Round smirked smugly now.
"We were winning anyway..., but Bolton's manager rushed that bad sub and sealed his fate."
Arteta didn't fully agree.
Still just one-goal lead—no room for complacency.
Even so, his eyes on the pitch shimmered with anticipation.
Now it wasn't just Nuno Tavares—Saka and the rest were firing on all cylinders.
51st minute.
From the technical area, Arteta scanned the game with sharp eyes.
His gut felt settled.
'Yes, keep it like this!'
Adebayor's taunt might've lit Arsenal's fire.
Plus, Floyd's sub was baffling no matter the angle.
Sure, the dribbling was elite.
Tap, tap, tack-!
[Quick Floyd! Phantom dribble into out-front trap...! Then a Rabona fake shakes three defenders in a flash!]
Whoosh-!
As he hit the penalty arc, Arsenal's Nuno Tavares launched a full-body sliding tackle from the side.
Tap-!
Hop-!
Floyd vaulted over it like he had eyes in the back of his head.
He breached the attacking third again.
But that was it.
Unlike past games, he tried shots—but straight at the keeper or wide every time.
Arteta had the escape routes sealed.
"Hoo-!"
Floyd exhaled sharply.
His eyes darted around.
'Flanks are blocked!'
Every time he neared the defensive line, Floyd tensed up.
No change there.
He never knew what pressure was coming.
But something was different now.
'Just like he said...!'
Jeong-woo's words echoed in his mind.
'The moment you shape for a shot, our guys will pounce.'
Spot on.
Pak raised his hand deep on the left.
Sensus Rough on the right.
Owen was jostling shoulders with a defender in the right box for position.
Tuck-!
Floyd slowed, nudging the ball under the arc, replaying Jeong-woo's advice.
'The other manager ain't dumb—he'll block every passing lane.'
Just like that: straight ahead, Arsenal center-back Rob Holding closed fast.
Defenders swarmed Pak and Sensus.
Owen lost the shoulder duel, position gone.
In that instant, Floyd's gaze shifted mockingly past Holding's right shoulder.
Staring at the far post—Jeong-woo's final tip hit.
'Curve it or whatever—just swing. If it deflects, we've got the better odds on the rebound. We're set up for it. Worst case, hit a man.'
Pak and Sensus locked eyes on Floyd, poised to sprint.
Crunch-!
Floyd's planted left foot gouged the turf.
A tiny smile tugged at Arteta's lips.
He'd narrowed Floyd's angles during the hesitation—pass or shot.
Next move was obvious.
'Back pass to reset.'
Ma's plan was crystal clear now.
'Originally meant to use Floyd for pocket zones.'
Arteta wouldn't allow it.
He knew Floyd slowed noticeably in the attacking third.
Timing his teammates to block every channel.
Subbing Adebayor was a net negative, just like...
Bang-!
Thud-!
Ting-!
Splash!
[Goooooooaaaal! Quick Floyyyyyd-!]
[What is this?!]
[Floyd! From the left angle of the box, a right-footed in-front shot finds the net!]
[2-2! The game's level again!]
"..."
Arteta's mind blanked for a second.
His mouth hung open slightly.
The replay had commentators yelling louder.
[Own goal? It hit the defender and deflected off the post! Arsenal's luck is rotten!]
[Yes...! Own goal! Holding's down for it! Bounced off his shin and veered in!]
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