Chapter 126
Chapter 126
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: uly
Chapter: 126
Chapter Title: Uphill (6)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
[126. Uphill (6)]
Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 126 Uphill (6)
[When I first saw the starting lineup, I had to do a double-take!]
The commentary team muttered in disbelief as they watched Bolton's players on the pitch.
[I thought maybe he'd use Park and Censorus as central midfielders in a box-to-box role!]
Jeong-woo had experimented with speedy wing-forwards in that position a few times before.
But just three minutes into the first half.
[No matter how you look at it, it's a 4-4-2 with four up top...! Oh!]
The commentators couldn't finish their sentence.
Thwump-!
Owen Pressais lofted a left-footed inswinging cross from the center.
The ball arced low and dropped right at Park's feet as he sprinted into the right half-space.
Plymouth Argyle's fullback, Simon Lowe, pulled his hips back and retreated in a hurry.
His eyes sharpened, but he couldn't just watch Park dribble forward unchecked.
On the other hand, a question nagged at him.
'They're pushing the line up this high?'
A quick glance sideways revealed it.
While Park advanced, Bolton's other attackers tangled with Plymouth players in the center and on the opposite flank.
Thud-!
The thought didn't last long.
Park spotted Lowe's momentary lapse and smashed the ball long with his right-footed outswinger.
"Where're you going!"
Lowe twisted and lunged desperately toward the ball breaking behind him.
But in that instant, Park—now two meters ahead diagonally—had hurdled the ball like a steeplechaser and backheeled it.
Tap-!
"What?!"
Simon Lowe jumped in shock.
In that dumbfounded moment, Park felt a strange thrill.
'You're getting further from being a total moron.'
Adebayor's admiring words from before echoed in his mind.
At the same time, Jeong-woo's advice from a few days ago resurfaced.
'You're not a finisher like Kane. Your chances of scoring from the wing or half-space are abysmal. So let's maximize your strengths.'
Jeong-woo had said to use his elite speed and line-breaking to sow chaos in the defense.
And so, Park pulled the ball back into space with a backheel as eyes focused on him.
He spun around to look behind.
Tap-!
Just then, Shearer Kane—after tussling with the center-back and drifting right—received the back pass.
No pressure came his way, as they figured the angle was too tight for a shot.
Plymouth Argyle manager Ryan Bowan felt a chill run down his spine.
His zonal defenders were suddenly five steps or more apart from Kane.
"Mark him!"
Bowan yelled from the edge of the technical area.
"Damn it!"
Center-back Joe Hallett heard him, gritted his teeth, and charged.
Thwump-!
"Huh!"
But he froze after barely a step.
Shearer Kane had leaned forward in his signature stance and unleashed a left-footed instep shot.
Ooooooh-!
The Wanderers half-rose, roaring.
The ball rocketed off his laces in a flash, piercing between the center-backs.
Twaaaaaang-!
Aaaaaaaah-!
The cheers turned to groans of regret.
"Fuck!"
Kane spat a curse as the ball smacked the crossbar near the right post and flew over.
But he quickly clapped and jogged back casually.
Park flashed him a thumbs-up.
"That shot was filthy! The bar's still ringing!"
Adebayor, who had been bodying off the opposing fullback and a dropping midfielder in the center, smirked and chimed in.
"Right? Die on impact."
Censorus Ruff, who had sprinted down the opposite flank to disrupt the backline, wrinkled his nose playfully.
"Tweak the curve a bit, man. Two to the left and one down..."
It was one of Jeong-woo's common training quips.
Kane shrugged.
"Next time I get it there, it's a goal for sure."
"Wanna bet? On whether your feet are trash or not?"
Adebayor grinned, teeth flashing, prodding him slyly.
Young Kane nodded without hesitation, eyes fierce.
"I'll put up seven quid."
"Then I'm in for ten! Kane scores!"
Censorus and Park jumped in right away.
* * *
The first ten minutes flew by.
At first, Plymouth manager Ryan Bowan was baffled.
He couldn't fathom why the opponent had opted for the rare 4-4-2.
But now, he saw it as an opportunity.
'They're skimping on defense for this aggressive setup.'
Part of him was incredulous too.
'I know they did well in the FA Cup. But isn't this overconfidence?'
His assistant coach, Chris Hunter, felt the same.
If he had to guess why Ma had gone so extreme, only one reason came to mind.
"They think we're weaker than Bolton."
Hunter muttered uncomfortably.
It made sense on the surface.
Strong teams often attack freely against weaker ones.
Weaker teams counter with kick-and-rush: defend deep, hit on the break.
The thought bruised his ego a bit.
Hunter's eyes twitched as he watched the pitch.
"The players are loose too. Totally relaxed."
Just as he said, Bolton's players were bright and chatty.
Bowan felt it viscerally.
Whenever the ball went out for a throw or there was a pause, they'd laugh and banter.
No one seemed urgent or tense.
Hunter added,
"Bolton's ahead in the table, but only by a point. This tactic... it's arrogance. Just keep managing like this, and we'll score soon enough."
Ryan Bowan mostly agreed.
Bolton's attack-heavy approach let Plymouth claim the ball centrally and build more easily.
It was happening now.
Tap, tap-!
[Oh! Ed Acsi!]
Plymouth's prodigy central midfielder Ed Acsi drove forward from near his own box.
But even as he reached the edge of Bolton's center circle, no fierce pressure came.
Bowan narrowed his eyes.
'Zonal defense...'
As he thought, midfielders Frank Gerrard and Owen Pressais had dropped to form a zonal setup.
'Six in the box on defense.'
Arranged in a 3-3 zigzag to constrict space.
But it had limits.
'Can't cover the flanks completely.'
Thud-!
As Bowan predicted, Acsi saw the solid center but loose flanks and slipped it right.
Thud-!
Plymouth winger Hill McClean took it cleanly and advanced.
'These bastards...!'
He frowned, feeling underestimated.
Tap, thwack-!
McClean soon chipped it left-footed outswinger into the half-space.
Only then did the defenders in the box turn to press him.
Thwang-!
McClean pondered a dribble but chose a cross—the space was too tight.
Thwack-!
It bounced off 2m tall Dominic Shield's header.
But just two minutes later, Plymouth got a similar chance and floated another into the box.
Missed again.
Thud-!
[Oh! Keeper! Screech punches it long!]
Frank Gerrard burst out of the area and smashed it clear.
Plymouth players in Bolton's half were dragged out.
In that moment, Gerrard opted for a turn and back pass over a forward dribble.
Thwang-!
Owen, lingering deep, lofted a long roving pass.
But it lacked precision.
'Damn it.'
Owen cursed inwardly.
He wobbled back under pressure.
Bowan smirked.
'Not great at beating the press, is he?'
He'd anticipated Owen getting it and assigned striker Sammy Hodges to press.
Owen's pass crumpled under the shoulder barge, falling to Plymouth.
"Modern tactics emphasize the center. In that regard... doesn't Bolton's Ma seem to have misjudged?"
Hunter crowed as possession and shots ticked up for Plymouth.
He kept jabbing: Ma's complacent! Fallen for the genius myth!
But Ryan Bowan couldn't agree on that.
'Complacent...'
He'd seen it clearly.
Ma dismantling foes with countless tactics before.
His substitutions masterful too—stealing momentum with one change.
Bowan played down Ma in the press, but inside, he respected him deeply.
'He's got something up his sleeve...!'
The lingering unease proved it.
* * *
First half, 20 minutes.
The commentators voiced concerns.
[Will Bolton stick with this tactic?]
[With all the emphasis on attack, their center might as well not exist.]
As they said, Plymouth dominated midfield.
[The opponent's spamming crosses. Near infinite crosses!]
[But only one tall forward.]
[No headers among midfielders either. Plymouth won't push their back four up recklessly, but...]
[One lucky deflection, and they lose all momentum.]
Even the Wanderers watched anxiously now.
Plymouth's end erupted in fervent chants.
Energized, their players attacked bolder.
"They're pouring it on."
From the technical area, Hee-won muttered distastefully.
Possession, shots, passes—all trending Plymouth's way.
The loose center weakened links between defense and attack.
They were man-marking Owen to tie his feet.
Hee-won glanced at Jeong-woo.
He lounged crookedly in the folding chair.
His face graver than ever.
Chin in hand, then pressing his temples.
Eyes squeezed shut, then open.
After about a minute,
He lit up, idea struck.
"How about Operation Ant Hell? Feels perfect, right?"
"You bastard. That's what you were pondering?"
Jeong-woo grinned at Hee-won's deadpan stare and eyed the pitch.
Contrary to the worries, his sharp gaze spotted it emerging.
Plymouth's line creeping higher.
* * *
First half, 24 minutes.
Splash-!
The net rippled early.
Commentators shot up, as if their worries were forgotten.
[Emanuel Adebayooooor~!]
[Owen's roving pass! Park's flank run and cutback! Adebayor's turn-and-shot seals Bolton's opener!]
-----------------------------------------------------------------