Chapter 119
Chapter 119
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: uly
Chapter: 119
Chapter Title: FA Cup Quarterfinals (9)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
[Adbayor! Adbayor does it!]
[An dramatic equalizer in the 15th minute of extra time!]
[Oh! Emmanuel Adbayor! The moment he proves he's still alive!]
The commentary team was no longer just standing—they were on the verge of bursting out of the booth, screaming at the top of their lungs.
Oooooaaahhhhh!
University Bolton Stadium was drowned in the Wanderers' roars.
And Emmanuel Adbayor galloped like a horse straight to the corner flag, dropping into a knee slide.
"You fucking pricks! See that?!?"
Adbayor, who'd just slotted home a dramatic goal against Man United, bellowed like a madman.
And that was that.
Thud!
His teammates swarmed him from behind in an instant, piling on to form a human heap.
Adbayor yelled amid his joy.
"Hey, you fuckers! Get off! I wanna do my celebration!"
* * *
Korean fans watching the live match were swept up in ecstasy.
- <LifeIsAFootballMile> : Waaaaah—! Goal! GOOOAAAL~!
- <PenetratingPhysiqueGOAT> : Our God Debay oppa is insane! Melted Man U in the blink of an eye!
- <WannaGoBackToSergeantKang> : What? What the hell?! I went to the bathroom thinking it was over—what happened?!
- : Bolton Wanderers! Rise up! Wake this dawn! Uwaaaah~~!
- <DemonOfThePitch> : Straight fire. Owen's knuckleball dipped over halfway in. De Gea didn't even react! Then our tenacious God Debay grabbed the second ball and buried it!
* * *
"Yesssssss!"
Donald Victor, deep in the middle of work, shot to his feet and let out a full-throated yell.
He'd been watching the match live on his computer.
And he didn't stop there.
"Yes! Yes! That's it! This is Bolton!"
Overcome with joy, he twisted his suited hips in a graceful sway, breaking into a dance.
His antics had the office staff bursting into laughter.
The marketing department erupted first, arms thrown wide in cheers.
Team leader Daniel Chai was even shedding tears of emotion.
"Sniff... Bolton...! Bolton...!"
The strategic planning office stayed relatively quiet.
Even on match days, if there was critical work, Charlotte Emma ordered full focus on tasks.
A few staff sat with stoic expressions, buried in their jobs.
Though some were sneaking peeks at the live feed with the sound off.
'She's extra focused today...'
One employee, Alan Say, hunched over his desk and glanced around.
Far off at the team leader's spot, Charlotte Emma sat ramrod straight in her executive chair, unmoving for the full 120 minutes.
Only the constant clacking of keyboards echoed around her.
'A working machine... a machine!'
It was a relief for Say.
He could keep watching without her noticing.
Even if the sound was off.
Meanwhile, Emma stared at her screen, earbuds in.
[Bolton Wanderers! They drag it level!]
[Oh! The ref signals added time!]
[Five minutes! My God! Five whole minutes!]
She'd tapped out keys sporadically through the 120 minutes.
- : Ma Jeong-woo is the best.
* * *
Wobble!
Ole Gunnar Solskjær nearly buckled at the knees.
If Michael Phelan hadn't steadied him from the side, he'd have collapsed.
"This is insane...!"
A surge of rage hit him, then drained away just as fast.
Even then, Phelan shot him a sharp look.
"We need to push the line up and go all-out. They're just as tired."
"..."
Solskjær hated that look in Phelan's eyes.
It screamed blame.
Even contempt.
Just moments ago, Phelan had warned him.
Keep pressing until the final whistle.
But Solskjær had stubbornly dropped the defensive line right at the end.
Owen's knuckleball had rattled the post, and Adebayor's strike tore the net.
'Unbelievable...!'
His facial muscles twitched nonstop.
Dark circles quivered under his eyes since the goal, showing no sign of stopping.
A glance sideways: Bolton's Ma was up from his seat, striding to the edge of the technical area.
Hands jammed in his suit pockets, he murmured something to a nearby player.
Above all, unlike Solskjær—tossed about in an emotional whirlwind—he looked utterly composed.
More than that...
'He's... smiling?'
A smirk. A faint grin.
"While the rice is good, eat it 'til you're stuffed."
Jeong-woo stated flatly.
His upturned lips showed no sign of dropping.
To claim victory in football, certain elements are key.
Talented players meshed with fitting tactics.
Strategies that counter the opponent's.
A dash of luck.
Motivation that overwhelms.
Flow and that one split-second timing...
And now, Jeong-woo saw it.
Through one grizzled veteran who'd weathered every storm, all these factors crashing together in this instant.
'How did it come to this?'
Best case was penalties.
Next best: a narrow 1-0 loss after extra time.
But not anymore.
Jeong-woo cocked his head sideways.
"Our God Debay bro laid the table. If we don't finish now, I quit coaching."
Jeong-woo chuckled, slowly stepping along the line. Then he bellowed at the players.
Win or lose.
Time to throw down proper.
"Push up! Fuck! If we lose now, we're the fuckers they say! We're here—let's end it! Yeah?!"
His raw shout—Korean and English tangled—blasted across the pitch.
Maybe because extra time was nearly done.
Legs dragged more than ran across the field.
Hearts felt half-spilled from chests; some cramped up, clutching thighs before staggering back up.
Yet the fire in their eyes blazed on.
They summoned strength once more.
"You fuckers! Here! Over here!"
Adebayor, staggering but voice booming after his goal—Owen smirked at him.
For some reason, his fuckery rang sweet in his ears right now.
Park had once said of Adebayor's cursing.
Like a foul-mouthed granny at a Korean restaurant.
Everyone watching the YouTube clip Park showed had laughed.
It hit the same now.
The kind you couldn't hate.
His ankle tensed anew.
'If even Emmanuel's raging like that...!'
This breather felt too precious.
Then, the coach's shout rang from the technical area.
"Push up! Fuck! If we lose now, we're the fuckers they say! We're here—let's end it! Yeah?!"
That was the signal.
Owen powered his legs and charged.
Not just him.
Thwump!
They surged forward on instinct.
Like Pavlov's dogs.
And in that moment, one word filled their minds.
'Victory.'
* * *
Added time was a brief, brutal skit.
Solskjær just stared blankly at the pitch, then keeled over like a dead tree.
The net rippled with a heavy splash right then.
"Uwaaaaaah!"
The blond scorer roared, bolting to one spot with everything he had.
Tweet, tweet, tweeeeeet!
The ref's full-time whistle pierced the air.
At the same instant, Jeong-woo dashed onto the pitch without hesitation, throwing an uppercut.
"Yesssss~!"
The commentary team, hoarse after 125-plus minutes, screamed till their throats shredded.
[Owen! Owen does it!]
[Right before the equalizer! From that midrange rocket spot, Owen unleashes another miracle midrange shot to ripple the net!]
[Magical! Oh! Magical doesn't cut it—this is a mad night!]
Voice cracking or not, they kept yelling in frenzy.
University Stadium pulsed with Wanderers' roars and chants.
In between, Owen hurled himself at Jeong-woo, arms wide.
Park and Adebayor followed, flattening Jeong-woo like a steamroller.
Hee-won, mid-joy-rush to join, froze.
"You maniacs...! Ugh, urk!"
Now ten players piled atop Jeong-woo.
'Fuck, don't they usually do a bump toss?'
Looked like grudges had built up.
Enough to leave him groggy.
From afar, though, pure comedic beauty.
The commentators gushed.
[The coach and players in one big tangle, celebrating victory!]
[Camaraderie! Beyond brotherhood—a beautiful scene!]
* * *
The journalist-slash-tactics analyst in the press box paused mid-keystroke.
"Unbelievable...!"
It etched clear in his view.
Manchester United's red kits slumped like felled trees, one by one.
Bolton Wanderers players swarmed their coach like bungee jumpers.
Like a choir, the Wanderers in University Stadium belted chants with cheers.
'Bolton is the king of Manchester!
Bolton is the king of Manchester!
We've beaten Manchester United already!
They're fucked!
Bolton is the king of Manchester!'
The Man U-specific chant fans had roared pre-match.
One new line added.
'We've beaten Manchester United again!'
"Ha, wow!"
Truly astonishing.
"Bolton takes down Man U."
That friendly win before? Plausible.
Youth-level lineup back then.
But this?
"Double squad out there..."
Rising Ronaldo started.
Half-time subs: Jadon Sancho, Bruno Fernandes, Edinson Cavani.
Even without them, Man U's paper strength should've held.
Yet the result flipped every prediction.
A glance.
BBC vet of 15 years, Aaron Vic, eyed the board.
Final: 2-1.
Bolton snatched victory in extra-time grind—no penalties.
Tactical masterclass, too.
One-sided, really.
As journalist and analyst, Vic's gaze locked on Ma.
'Bolton's owner-coach...'
Flat-out: Ma's total win.
He'd trapped Solskjær in a tactical maze all game.
Solskjær's stunned face on camera? Like he'd taken dozens of punches.
'Looks punched for real.'
Pale face, bruised eyelids—spot on.
Cheeks hollowed already.
Click!
Vic hit enter, uploading.
[Bolton Wanderers! On March 17, 2022, they pull off historic giant-killing against Manchester United!]