Chapter 123
Chapter 123
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 123
Chapter Title: Uphill (3)
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Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 123: Uphill (3)
In the 2021-2022 season, Bolton had just two games left.
Plymouth Argyle, holding onto third place, and Hull City, in first.
“Huff, huff—!”
And so, Emmanuel Adebayor was still running laps on the training pitch long after regular training had ended.
His eyebrows shot up in fierce determination.
‘I need to whip this shitty stamina into shape!’
It was something he’d felt all too clearly during the Manchester United match.
His fitness hadn’t been great to begin with.
But every clash against an EPL side like United had felt like it was chipping away at his endurance bit by bit.
Heh, heh.
Even so, the corners of his mouth kept twitching upward.
In the end, they’d fought with pure grit to pull off a dramatic equalizer.
Even though two months had passed, the memory remained crystal clear for Adebayor.
After that, he’d gradually earned more playing time, racking up assist after assist.
‘Already 14 goals.’
Coming off the bench in 15 games during the second half, he’d scored 14 in the league alone.
Even with limited minutes, he’d nabbed MOM honors plenty of times.
Having shown flashes of world-class play just as Jeong-woo had demanded, Adebayor felt his ambition surging even higher.
‘You’re not dead yet, man.’
Jeong-woo’s firm words kept igniting his heart.
That might’ve been why he was training even harder.
Just like those words said, he was discovering himself coming alive again, far from dead.
“Hahk, hahk...!”
How much time had passed?
Adebayor straightened his torso, heaving rough breaths.
“Oh yeah...!”
He flashed a satisfied grin at the veins popping on his arm muscles, striking pose after pose.
“Even this shitty gut’s sucked right in.”
When he’d first joined Bolton, a frog belly had been sticking out.
But between Manager Ma’s hellish training and his extra sessions, it had vanished before he even realized.
Deep down, Adebayor felt truly grateful to Manager Ma.
“Boss is more straight-up decent than he lets on.”
He’d bark complaints during training, but afterward, he’d hand over a cool glass of water with a “Good work.”
“Hmm.”
Suddenly, Adebayor furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin with one hand.
“Feels like he’s paying extra attention to me, too...”
Muttering to himself, Adebayor soon slung his sports backpack from the bench over his shoulder and started walking.
“Where the hell did that not-so-shitty shitty guy go?”
He meant Ace Park.
* * *
Adebayor hopped on his bike and left the training ground.
At that moment—Tatata-tat!—someone burst out from the entrance, swiftly mounting a nearby bike and pedaling hard after him.
It was none other than Ace Park.
‘This time for real!’
Park chased after Adebayor, a mix of excitement and impatience bubbling up.
He thought to himself.
‘There’s gotta be some special training involved.’
Adebayor’s form had been improving day by day lately.
And Park had overheard something in the locker room.
That Adebayor was doing extra training after sessions.
Adebayor had boasted about it proudly.
‘Feels like this shitty body’s getting back to normal. Like my blood’s flowing smooth again? Park, it’s like your legs are finally shaking off the shittiness.’
Of course, as his teammate and shooting mentor, Park was thrilled.
Adebayor’s growth was genuinely joyful and a boost for the team.
But a competitive fire was starting to burn, too.
‘Already 14 goals.’
In contrast, Ace Park had hit 24 goals, climbing to second in the scoring charts.
Purely by attacking returns, Park was ahead—but when you broke it down, Adebayor’s goals were far more efficient.
‘Racking up that many off the bench...!’
Park, meanwhile, had grinded out nearly full minutes, forcing in instep shots for every one.
Plus, Adebayor had a ton of wondergoals—stunning strikes.
Park’s were mostly speed breakthroughs followed by tapping in crosses from Owen or others.
So yeah, as the ace, Park was dying to know.
What kind of special training was Adebayor doing to keep evolving like this?
He ruled out swimming as just a hobby.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later.
Peeking through the glass wall at the pristine white interior, Ace Park’s jaw dropped.
Adebayor was wearing skin-tight black leggings.
Park muttered in utter disbelief.
“This... is the special training?”
Soon, Adebayor’s agonized screams rang clear in his ears.
“Urgh! Aaaah, ughhh! This shitty...!”
“Come on, let’s stretch it a bit more.”
“No, not any further...!”
“No, you can go deeper. Trust me.”
“No way, my bones’ll pop!”
Adebayor was in cat pose, one leg splayed wide to the side.
Beside him, the yoga instructor pressed down harder on his bending knee.
Her other hand widened the kneeling leg even more.
“Urghhh! This shit...!”
Adebayor groaned as if his pelvis might snap any second.
His face burned beet red, thick sweat drops rolling down his forehead.
* * *
At the same time, in Jeong-woo’s office.
“Our Adebayor’s doing yoga, right?”
Hee-won, back from scouting Blackpool with the team, flopped onto the sofa and asked.
Jeong-woo, buried in the tactics board from his executive chair, nodded slightly.
“Our Adebayor’s turning 38 soon. At that age, muscles tighten up fast even with exercise.”
Tight muscles meant higher injury risk.
“That’s why I got him yoga tickets after the swimming. Great for core work and mental focus. The guy needs to bounce back some elasticity.”
“Fair point, though.”
“Personally, I’m getting greedy, too.”
“Greedy?”
Hee-won, staring at the ceiling while sprawled, craned his neck with effort to eye Jeong-woo’s head.
Still glued to the tactics board, Jeong-woo replied.
“Regaining his old peak might be tough, but... I can see his ability climbing.”
It was undeniable.
Adebayor was showing noticeable growth with every game.
“Honestly... it’s more like recovering a chunk of his existing skill than pure growth.”
Every now and then, Adebayor would flash form that perfectly fit the adage: Class is eternal!
Even if just for a few seconds.
‘Like against United.’
That’s why the greed was building.
“If we can push his level higher and extend that world-class mode from the United game, it’d be huge for the team. The young talents would grow even faster through that Adebayor.”
“Mmm, yeah. Manager Ma’s got it right!”
Only after a long while did Jeong-woo lift his face from the tactics board.
Over an hour, it had turned into a mess of dotted lines, solid lines, and figurine scribbles.
A glance showed Hee-won snoring away already.
“This guy.”
No wonder he was wiped.
He’d handed Jeong-woo a tactics proposal the day before, then gone scouting new players in Blackpool.
Jeong-woo reached for the cigarette pack on his desk and pulled one out.
Tap, tap!
Flicking the lighter twice sparked gray smoke curling up.
“Whew—!”
Inhaling through the filter and exhaling through his nose, Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes.
From morning wake-up, it felt like 10+ hours of every 24 went to tactics.
Opponents had unique styles, and even in League One, standout managers dotted the league.
Wigan’s Lowell Gardner was one, along with his mentor, Gillingham’s Steve Bruin.
‘But topping them are Hull City’s Andy McCann and Plymouth Argyle’s Ryan Bowan...’
Definitely beyond League One level.
They’d posted strong FA Cup runs, too.
‘Though like us, quarterfinals was their ceiling.’
Still, no room for complacency.
Those two teams outvalued Bolton’s squad easily.
‘Hull beat Wolves in the FA Cup third round, Plymouth took down a Championship upper-table side.’
Some outlet had even run a headline: ‘League One’s Rebellion!’
‘Anyway, just two games left...’
Bolton needed to win them for promotion.
Other cups were already out early.
Jeong-woo had gone all-in on league and FA Cup.
It gave them a fitness edge.
Meanwhile, he was thinking ahead.
‘After promotion to the Championship.’
If they went up, Bolton’s value would skyrocket.
Like Sunderland.
Jeong-woo’s original plan: sell after promotion.
Bites were already coming.
The so-called billionaires were circling, banking on promotion.
‘Economic value’s shifted, too.’
The glamping site alone proved endless tourism potential.
Add the amusement park, and it was prime bait.
But now, Jeong-woo had changed his mind.
‘Hell no, not selling.’
His eyes sharpened.
“Too bad to let go.”
He’d accomplished so much for Bolton.
The glamping, amusement facilities—endless growth ahead.
“And the players.”
He’d run, trained, fertilized the pitch under them, converting potential to ability with everything he had.
Just recalling those scorching days filled him with regret.
“Damn it, not even for 80 million pounds (120 billion won)!”
Promotion alone would spike the value.
Humans were creatures of desire.
“Why stop at Championship? Might as well aim for the EPL, right?”
Through the games, he’d seen the potential.
This squad could compete in the Championship.
He’d felt it body and soul against Sunderland, Arsenal, United.
Overwhelmed by surging emotions, Jeong-woo took a deep breath in and out to steady himself, muttering.
“Secure promotion first.”
Then his gaze caught an A4 sheet half-folded on the table.
He reached out slowly and unfolded it.
Scrawled handwriting filled it.
[To Owner Hyung, thank you!]
From Cyrus Muamba and the kids after the amusement park— a rolling paper.
Beyond Muamba’s note, the white page brimmed with the children’s messages.
[Championship here we come~!]
[Owner Hyung! Bolton to EPL?]
[Owner Hyung rocks!]
[Owner Hyung, play Adebayor more!]
[Owner Oppa! Love you! ❤︎ღෆ :]]
Even the handwriting oozed their innocence, drawing an involuntary chuckle.
“These kids made this without me even asking...”
Thinking of them, he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.
That’s when.
His eyes drifted to Hee-won’s feet sticking out from the sofa armrest.
The brown shoes were caked in dirt.
For some reason, Jeong-woo’s gaze lingered on them.
“Shoes... come to think of it...”
Suddenly, one neglected item bubbled up in his mind, pushing aside the rankings.