Chapter 107
Chapter 107
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 107
Chapter Title: Must Grow (7)
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Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 107: Must Grow (7)
Floyd, who had contributed to the opponent's own goal, couldn't muster much of a celebration.
‘This... this went in?’
His expression was one of utter bewilderment.
Arsenal's goalkeeper, Karl Hain, stood with hands on his hips, staring blankly at the sky.
The culprit behind the own goal, Rob Holding, clutched his head in shock.
Whoosh-!
“Huh?”
Suddenly, Floyd toppled sideways like he’d been knocked over.
Dignity and Chong-ah Pak, swept up in greater joy than Floyd himself, had rushed over and piled on top of him.
“You crazy bastard...! What the hell was that goal?! That might as well have been you scoring it outright! Right?”
“You aimed for that deflection, didn’t you? You totally did!”
“Man, that shot didn’t look half-bad at all!”
Even Adebayor, who had been subbed off, sprinted to the touchline to shout his congratulations.
Waaaaaaaaah-!
The Wanderers fans in the away stands were jumping for joy.
Even in the midst of it all, as his teammates hugged him tight, Floyd mumbled in a daze.
“Did... did I score that?”
He still couldn’t believe it.
He’d just hoped for a deflection since there was no angle for a shot.
And he’d wanted to help his teammates with a second ball.
‘But a goal...?’
His gaze suddenly drifted to one spot.
Ma Jeong-woo, lounging crookedly in a folding chair in Bolton’s technical area, wearing a rumpled suit. He flashed a grin their way, shrugging his shoulders.
For a split second, Floyd’s eyes grew misty.
At the same time, words Jeong-woo had once said for his sake came rushing back.
‘Balls are round anyway. Look at the other guys. They aiMad Dog it still doesn’t go in. So if there’s a goalpost, just swing at it.’
Smack-!
Amid it all, someone slapped Floyd’s gleaming bald head.
“Wow~ You’re getting bolder by the minute.”
Park Hee-won, standing beside him, muttered with his mouth formed in an O.
Just as he said, Jeong-woo could see it too from his vantage point.
The number of shots Quick Floyd was taking after forward dribbles was steadily increasing.
Jeong-woo chuckled dryly and replied.
“He’s lost his fear of scoring. Back in the day, just stepping into the attacking third felt like sinking into quicksand.”
“And this guy scores against Arsenal today? Or should I call it an assist?”
Hee-won flashed an incredulous smile before adding,
“Anyway, you’re one weird dude. How do you even utilize him like that?”
Jeong-woo shrugged at the comment.
“Simple. Mental blocks come from pressure. So I take that pressure off with the sweetest damn pep talks and set up the perfect environment for shooting. You know how powerful words can be?”
Then, with a nod and a sly whistle, he grinned.
“Look at him go. Thrashing around like a fish in water.”
Thwack-!
[Ohhh! Floyd-!]
The commentators shouted.
Unlike the first half, Quick Floyd had unleashed a surprise shot the moment he entered the attacking third.
It missed the goal, but there was no regret on Floyd’s face.
No pressure either.
If anything, the opposite.
‘Feels... so damn good...!’
Rob Holding’s own goal felt no different from one of his own.
And that’s why.
With the fear of goals gone, the nagging pressure that had always tugged at him whenever he struck the ball vanished in an instant.
‘So what if it doesn’t go in...!’
Even as he thought it, Floyd repeated Jeong-woo’s words in his head and out loud.
“Balls are round...!”
“It all comes down to mentality in the end.”
Jeong-woo muttered from his folding chair, flashing white teeth.
His eyes were fixed on the pitch.
Even though it was recorded as Rob Holding’s own goal, the Wanderers fans were chanting Floyd’s name.
Soon, Jeong-woo’s eyes crinkled in a smile.
“In the end, you have to break through it yourself.”
Slumps were akin to panic attacks.
And Floyd had been suffering a brutal one with his shooting. Jeong-woo had made the call to overcome it.
By throwing him into the Arsenal match.
Suddenly, Jeong-woo threw his arms wide and raised his eyebrows dramatically, yelling in an exaggerated tone.
“I scored against a big team! In the EPL no less! Against Arsenal! How’s that for a confidence boost? Inducing an own goal is still a goal. Right? Look at them. Sitting there like they’ve tasted shit, all quiet.”
Just as Jeong-woo said, the Gunners who had been belting out chants bare-chested moments ago were now all deflated.
“No matter who we’re playing, he’s got that shooting slump anyway.”
On the flip side, Floyd had shown excellent dribbling against any opponent.
And the Arsenal game was no different.
That’s why Jeong-woo hoped.
For the dam to break big-time.
Of course, tactically, he’d made it easier for Floyd to shoot too.
By having all outfield players except the back four push forward when he dribbled ahead.
Suddenly, Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes.
“Operation name... Spark.”
A tiny spark, but if it lands right, it becomes a raging fire.
It was still just a draw, but the smile on Jeong-woo’s lips wasn’t fading anytime soon.
The reason was obvious.
“Now it’s time to really have some fun.”
“Huh?”
When Hee-won asked back, Jeong-woo whistled slyly and murmured.
“Watching closely... Arsenal’s more attack-oriented than defense. So this? It’s a slugfest.”
Moreover, Jeong-woo could see it.
Quick Floyd’s eyes sharpening now.
His cheeks flushed red.
Heh.
His lips were already splitting into a grin.
“Ronaldo possession incoming.”
* * *
Second half, 13th minute.
“Huff, huff, huff-!”
Right after scoring, Floyd had changed completely.
As he kept playing, he kept recalling Jeong-woo’s words.
‘Just unload freely. Angle or no angle. Do whatever feels right. Better to swing for the fences and get criticized than lose the ball dithering in their half and take the heat. No more ‘damn, should’ve shot there’ regrets.’
The next words were enough to stir Floyd’s heart.
‘You gonna spend your whole career mulling it over till you’re stuck in League One? Huh? If not... break the slump yourself. Become the player Bolton really needs. And you, man. You’ve got what it takes to be a goalscorer.’
Coaches he’d had before had trashed him, saying he lacked the talent for goals.
Naturally, Floyd had dropped to center-back.
But Jeong-woo was different.
And today, against Arsenal, Floyd had seen it clearly.
Whether the contact was clean or not, just attempting the shot made him a threat.
During training, Jeong-woo had said it.
Missed shot or homerun, just the attempt alone forces the opponent to shrink back.
Jeong-woo had also pointed out.
‘Floyd. Look around. See how they’re all tense? Waiting to see if you’ll shoot or pass. Even if you fake it, they’re all aggro’d on you.’
It was true.
The moment he dashed into the arc, Arsenal’s shape shifted drastically.
Fullbacks on the flanks clung tight to Chong-ah Pak and Sensuous Ruff’s ankles.
Down on the right, another man-marked Owen Precise.
The rest of Arsenal’s players quickly positioned around him to block lanes.
Up front, Rob Holding charged like an enraged beast.
“You bastard!”
Holding vented his rage openly.
That damn shiny bald head had forced him into the humiliation of a suicide goal.
Swish-!
That’s when Bolton’s Frank Gerrard cut between the right center-back and fullback.
In an instant, fire sparked in Floyd’s eyes.
And he saw it.
‘They’re scared...!’
Just from Rob Holding charging in with arms tucked back, he could tell.
The guy wasn’t lifting a leg easily like before. Clear proof he was terrified just by Floyd entering this zone.
Bang-!
By now, Floyd didn’t hesitate.
But soon, his brow furrowed slightly.
‘Mishit...!’
He’d meant to strike the front of the ball but clipped the left side instead.
Rob Holding, who’d stepped in close, flinched in surprise and spun around.
‘What the?’
For a moment, his mind blanked in confusion.
Mikel Arteta was thorough; he’d briefed them in detail on Quick Floyd’s style.
‘Quick Floyd’s the type who hoards his shots. He draws aggro with dribbles, then feeds side passes to teammates in open space.’
Rob Holding had seen the club footage too.
Quick Floyd’s dribbling from deep was insane.
Pushing the ball under fierce pressure, wobbling but never losing it.
But that was it.
‘Side passes? Maybe one or two out of ten...!’
In the videos, Floyd’s end product was always lacking.
He’d break into the attacking third, then his decision-making would cloud, missing shot or pass timing constantly.
That equalizer in the second half? Pure luck, he’d concluded.
Twaaaang-!
Suddenly, a metallic clang rang in his ears.
“Gah...!”
Rob Holding’s jaw dropped in shock.
Quick Floyd, who’d been regretting the mishit, stared wide-eyed.
The ball had struck the inside of the right post, deflected, grazed the lunging goalkeeper’s back heel, and ricocheted into the net.
Splash-!
As the net rippled, the commentators erupted in near-screams.
[Oh! It goes in like that again! Off the keeper’s head this time!]
* * *
Second half, 22nd minute.
Splash-!
[Folarin Baloguun-!]
[Arsenal’s striker levels it again with a standing header from the corner!]
Even with Balogun’s goal, Mikel Arteta couldn’t celebrate anymore.
The scoreboard read 3-3.
Twenty-three minutes left until full time.
But Arteta’s fury hadn’t subsided one bit.
‘A draw...!’
When they’d equalized and then taken the lead, he’d been sure Arsenal had the edge.
Wrong.
Every time they scored, Bolton hit back with an equalizer, then a go-ahead goal.
The goals themselves were sloppy too.
‘Floyd’s two goals were both deflections...!’
Especially Holding’s own goal—a shot that had veered wildly off course.
Without the deflection, it would’ve sailed wide of the post.
And that unlucky break had turned an easy win into a grind.
At this point, Arteta thought.
If there really was a football god... maybe that god was dead set on getting him sacked.
Second half, 34th minute.
Finally, Arteta went for broke.
[Eddie Nketiah Out, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang In]
Bringing on his in-form star striker from the first half.
Against a third-tier side, subbing a key player at 3-3? The press would crucify him.
But Arteta had nothing left to lose.
‘Even a draw gets me fired...!’
If it ended like this, sacking was certain.
The teams were evenly matched.
Against a League One underdog, no less.
So he aimed to settle it in regular time.
Second half, 42nd minute.
Arsenal right corner kick.
Splash-!
[Goooaaaal-!]
[Pierre Aubameyyyaang-!]
“Yes!”
Arteta, watching tensely from the edge of the technical area, finally let out a short roar.
Eight minutes after subbing on, Aubameyang had snatched the lead again with a diving header on a cutback.
Waaaaaaaaah-!
At last, roars poured from the furious Gunners fans.
Arteta quickly instructed them.
Just three minutes of regular time left—waste time with delays.
A team like Arsenal was leagues ahead of Bolton in time-wasting and breaking pressure.
Second half, 44th minute.
Bang-!
Thud-!
Splash-!
[Goooaaaal-!]
[It’s a goal!]
[With just over a minute left in regular time, Bolton snatches a buzzer-beater!]
[4-4! Another equalizer!]
[Replay... Oh! What is this?! Another own goal!]
[Quick Floyd’s right-footed curler from distance deflects off defender Takehiro Tomiyasu’s header!]
The commentators continued with pitying tones.
[Arsenal! What in the world is happening?]
[This bad luck... unbelievable...?]
“...”
Standing stunned in the technical area, Arteta was convinced: there really was a football god.
The silver lining? Six minutes of added time.