Chapter 127
Chapter 127
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 127
Chapter Title: Uphill (7)
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Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 127 Uphill (7)
A few days earlier.
Bolton first-team training ground, bathed in sunlight.
Adebayor sat cross-legged, his brows furrowed deeply as he stared straight ahead.
In the middle of the training pitch, Jeong-woo sat the same way, his shirt stripped off entirely.
Having joined in the training himself, his body was drenched in sweat from head to toe.
Jeong-woo, with a physique more ripped than any player, furrowed his brows with a serious expression just like Adebayor.
After some time had passed,
"Hmm."
Jeong-woo rubbed his chin with one hand and spoke up.
"You're all starting this time. All four of you."
"All four?"
Adebayor was the first to voice his surprise.
He couldn't quite grasp what that meant.
Jeong-woo fixed Adebayor with a piercing stare, then grinned.
"You four. Sensuous Ruff, Park, Shearer, and you—the one who's not a total moron."
"...But."
Even as he objected, the corners of Adebayor's mouth twitched upward without him realizing.
His skills had been steadily improving, but he still came off the bench more often than not.
These days, he actually quite liked the super-sub strategy of aiming for that one big moment in limited minutes.
'Physically, there are limits, after all.'
He glanced sideways.
Kane and Sensuous Ruff sat to his left with their mouths slightly agape, while Park to his right looked quietly pleased.
At the same time, Adebayor thought to himself,
'I've grown kinda fond of these guys.'
He was nearing 39 years old now.
He knew full well that it was getting tough for him to hold down a starting spot as a regular.
Lately, he'd even started enjoying mentoring the younger players.
There was something oddly satisfying about sitting on the bench and watching Park, Sensuous Ruff, and the others play the way he'd taught them.
But a sudden start?
And Ma the manager had just said all four of them were starting.
Looking right at the four strikers.
As if agreeing with the question in the air, Jeong-woo swept back his sweat-matted bangs and continued.
"Plymouth Argyle is third in the table, and we need to win our last two games for the title to be ours. Beating them puts the brakes on their chase and seals our promotion. Anyway, bottom line."
For a moment, Jeong-woo's eyes flashed sharply.
Everyone but Adebayor gulped dryly.
Jeong-woo stared at them intently for a beat before adding,
"It's a big game, sure, but you think we're gonna lose to those guys? They go on about individual charts and whatever, but soccer's a team game. Sure, they have cracks in their lineup, but we've got one too—even if we're a bit quick on the trigger."
"What?! Quick on the trigger?!"
Adebayor bristled at Jeong-woo's gaze.
"Anyway. This match is our proof. Proof that we don't belong here anymore. Yeah, they're top of the scoring charts overall, but this group's firepower is already the best in the league."
Jeong-woo kept going.
So he was saying throw all four attackers in from the start and kill Plymouth Argyle dead.
"We beat Sunderland, we beat Arsenal, and we even beat those damn Manchester United bastards."
It wasn't empty talk.
He'd thought about it steadily, even in staff meetings.
Market value-wise, Plymouth Argyle crushed Bolton.
But looking purely at individual stats this season, they weren't behind at all.
"Hell, our impact is even stronger."
The moment he said that, the players nodded in agreement.
It was an undeniable fact.
'Yeah, that's right!'
'We beat Man United—what's Plymouth Argyle got that we can't handle?'
Just planting the idea that they'd beaten local rivals Man United and Arsenal sparked a massive confidence boost.
And as flames of determination flickered to life in the players' eyes, Jeong-woo, true to habit, poured gasoline on the fire.
"So, we're not sitting back defensively. Instead,
we're playing top-down soccer and eating Plymouth alive. Don't you dare drop back. Attack, attack, and only attack."
Adebayor gazed at Jeong-woo with sparkling eyes full of anticipation.
If he was starting, that was even better.
Jeong-woo scanned each of the players, including Adebayor.
"So this game is just us proving it. Proving we're truly Championship level."
At the end, Jeong-woo slyly curled up the corner of his mouth.
"Of course, we'll still dig a few traps."
* * *
[What a fantastic combo play—!]
[Owen! He was struggling against that striker's man-marking early in the first half!]
[But in that one moment—one single lapse—he hits them with a direct counter!]
[Park completely tears apart the left flank!]
[Emmanuel Adebayor spots the ball rolling into the box without even moving much and finishes with a turning shot!]
The commentators shouted, bouncing in their seats.
Yeeeeeeeeah—!
The Wanderers in the home stands thrust their arms high and roared.
"Yes! Yes! Yesssss!"
Adebayor, who'd run even more in those 24 first-half minutes than his usual activity, capped it with a knee slide.
"Wahahaha!"
Prodigy Park was the first to charge over and hug him from behind.
"You see that? Huh? I'm the king of Adebay—!"
Before he could finish, Adebayor naturally toppled sideways.
The rest of the players seized the moment, piling on top of him like a bungee jump gone wrong.
Smack!
Someone even slapped the back of Adebayor's head with a solid palm.
"Finally, the dam's broken."
From the technical area, Jeong-woo grinned at Adebayor, now flattened like a burger patty.
"They're gonna go even more aggressive now, yeah."
Beside him, Hee-won chuckled softly.
Jeong-woo nodded slightly.
"Yeah. They've gotta get that early equalizer somehow." "Right? Why push the line up and gift us space behind... tsk tsk!"
Hee-won was spot on.
Plymouth Argyle, having taken control in midfield, gradually pushed their line higher.
Meanwhile, Bolton's front four hovered on the edge of offside, ready to pounce.
Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes.
"They are man-marking Owen heavily, though."
It was pretty smart marking.
Whenever Bolton had the ball, a nearby player would stick tight to Owen like a cover, pressing him.
Owen's skills were improving, but he was still weak under pressure.
And early in the game, Jeong-woo had deliberately left Owen exposed.
It was a tactical feint, a temporary sacrifice.
Hee-won shot Jeong-woo a sly glance.
"If I were the opposing manager, I'd be pissed. Nah, I'd have thrown in the towel already. The moment they pushed the line up to a reasonable height, you surrounded Owen with bodyguards. You knew they'd target him from the start."
Undeniable.
That goal just now was the same.
The instant the ball went to Owen, a defender screened off the oncoming opponent with perfect body play.
That was why they'd closed the gap between Owen and the back four to the extreme.
Jeong-woo shrugged smugly now.
"Owen's our best playmaker, no matter what anyone says."
Then, with a wicked grin, he added,
"He's tasty bait, too."
First half, 30 minutes.
Having conceded early, striker Tony Burtland gritted his teeth and charged.
Thwack-!
As winger Brian Ducks crossed from the left into the box, he immediately stepped inside.
Thud-!
The moment he crossed into the area, he leaped without hesitation.
Taht-!
"Fuck!"
But only curses spilled from his lips.
The lone tall guy, Dominic Shield—a handspan taller—burst out and headed it away easily.
Screech-!
No time to even sigh in regret—Burtland spun and ran back the second he landed.
The deflected ball had dropped right to Owen on the left edge of the area.
'Block Owen no matter what.'
The manager's orders flashed in his mind.
'Cut off Owen's passing lanes, and we've got a 70% win in the bag!'
It had been hammered home in the locker room.
Above all, Burtland had realized it naturally from pressing Owen multiple times early on.
Stealing the ball from Owen was easier than against any other player.
His eyes sharpened in that instant.
'Intercept, then shoot again...!'
Swipe-!
"What?!"
He didn't even finish the thought.
Instead, as Burtland closed to within two steps of Owen, he furrowed his brows.
A small back suddenly loomed in front of him.
"You little shit! Move!"
Startled for a split second, Burtland reached out to shove the small frame aside.
Frank Gerrard, blocking his path, staggered left from the push but held firm.
A smile crept onto his face.
Thwump-!
In that brief marking lapse, Owen had lofted a long ball to the right half-space.
Thud-!
Just then, Sensuous Ruff broke through the defensive line.
"Block him—!"
Plymouth center-back Joe Hallitt spun back into his own half, veins bulging in his neck as he yelled.
Thump-!
Sensuous controlled the dropping ball with his left outfront, then immediately underlapped into the area.
Full-back Simon Lowe blocked late.
"You rat...!"
He spat curses but ended up stomping in place.
Sensuous had dashed forward, then abruptly stopped.
At the same time, Adebayor appeared clearly in his view.
'You idiot!'
Adebayor signaled with his eyes, lurking outside the left penalty area before bursting toward goal.
Thwack-!
Sensuous whipped in a looping cross.
"Shit...!"
Horrified goalkeeper Asmail, clinging to the far post, straightened up and backpedaled frantically.
He leaped desperately, even as he toppled backward.
Stretching his fingertips to punch it away.
'Got it...!'
Luckily, his middle finger just clipped the ball heading for the opposite post.
Whoooosh-!
'Huh?'
A dark shadow fell over his face right then.
The airborne goalkeeper Asmail's pupils dilated hugely.
Like an unexpected downpour, Adebayor barreled in, eyes bulging, smashing the ball's front with his forehead.
Thwack-!
Clang!
* * *
First half, 37 minutes.
Thump-!
[Oh no! Plymouth Argyle lose the ball in the opponent's half again and concede a counter!]
[Dominic Shield! Short pass to Owen shifting left...!]
[Ahh! Plymouth winger Brian Ducks presses Owen...!]
Thud-!
"Ugh!"
[Bolton's center-back Dennis Slip shoulders Brian Ducks off balance!]
Thwack-!
[Ooh! Owen lofts it up in the gap!]
The commentators' eyes widened; they shot to their feet, screaming themselves hoarse.
Thud!
[Smack! Smaaaack-!]
Unlike the others, Park could overtake even from two or three steps back, blowing past the full-back on the wing.
Thwump-!
Arriving at a sharp left angle in a flash, Park took a potshot at goal this time.
His left-footed strike sailed well wide of the far post, but the Wanderers applauded anyway.
At first half 42 minutes, Owen lofted another, and Park infiltrated clearly.
At 43, Adebayor chest-trapped and unleashed a sneaky long-range shot.
Screech-!
[Ahh! Keeper Asmail throws himself and just tips it with his fingertips!]
As time ticked on, Plymouth manager Ryan Bowen's face grew stiffer.
Bolton had started pouring forward more fiercely after landing that unexpected blow on Plymouth.
Still, Ryan Bowen planned to regroup in the second half and chase a turnaround.
'Owen was the problem...!'
Realizing too late that Owen was key, he switched from cross-pressing to a single man-to-man.
He shifted to side play, but low crosses instead of high ones.
Bolton dominated the air.
Second half, 7 minutes.
"..."
Ryan Bowen couldn't help twitching his cheek.
His eyes on the pitch narrowed uncomfortably.
He'd finally adjusted tactics and found a counter...
'Pushing the line up?'
Now Bolton had raised their defensive shape to the halfway line, compressing the distance to the front line.
And they didn't stop there.
Tweet-!
The ref pointed to the fourth official and blew.
[Emmanuel Adebayor Out, Quick Floyd In]