Chapter 153
Translator: uly
Chapter: 153
Chapter Title: I Want to Become a Rival (1)
The East Asian Cup wasn't a particularly major tournament.
‘Most European players aren't even selected for it.’
Even Japan, one of the participating nations, had filled its squad mostly with domestic talent.
Korea hadn't called up any Europe-based players in recent years either.
Even if they had requested them, clubs would refuse anyway, right in the middle of the Boxing Day schedule.
‘They'll probably eat shit from everyone for this.’
Given the tournament's low profile, just selecting Son Heung-min alone would draw backlash.
There were only four teams in the finals.
Korea, Japan, China, Mongolia...
It was a small-scale affair just for them.
Even when the Korea Football Association sent merger requests, clubs had the right to refuse.
But Jeong-woo didn't.
‘This bastard.’
Jeong-woo stared intently at the young man sitting across from him on the sofa.
A few days ago, for some reason, the buzzcut prodigy Pak had shaved his head bald, and now his cheeks were flushed bright red.
Whatever he was imagining, the corners of his mouth kept twitching upward.
"That good, huh?"
Jeong-woo smirked and asked.
Pak flinched, his shoulders jerking, then nodded vigorously.
"O-Of course...! The national team—the national team...!"
"Right, you've never even played for a youth side."
"Yes...!"
For a footballer, earning a national team cap was the ultimate dream.
Sadly, prodigy Pak had zero connection to the senior team.
Back in his K-3 League days, he'd been nothing more than a benchwarmer in the third division.
And now, today, he'd finally received the call from the current national team coach, Paulo Bento.
Jeong-woo couldn't possibly turn it down.
It was perfect for boosting the player's value, but...
‘This is an opportunity.’
In Jeong-woo's eyes, Pak still had plenty of room to grow.
National team experience held real value, regardless of the tournament's prestige.
Honestly, Jeong-woo wondered why they hadn't called him sooner.
‘They could've summoned him during the League One goal-scoring race.’
Pak had been at the peak of his powers.
It was the same in the Championship.
Sure, the pressure was fiercer than League One, cutting his goals, but his mere presence remained a threat.
‘Just his speed slicing through already makes one flank creak.’
That opened up easier attacks for the others.
Jeong-woo was convinced the English Championship outclassed any other European second division—or even the K League.
The gap with the K League was even wider.
‘Games: 38 vs. 46, for starters.’
The K League had relegation, but a safety net—no drop below second tier.
European leagues like England's had no bottom; you could keep falling.
That mindset separated players and coaches.
The clearest difference? Transfer fees.
‘The K League's all-time record incoming fee is barely 73 billion won...’
The Championship's? Over 400 billion won.
And the talent pool.
‘Even mid-table sides have multiple players worth north of 100 billion won.’
Put it together, and Pak's growth was staggering.
In just two short years.
That's when it hit.
Pak's excited expression shifted to worry.
"Do you think... I can really do it?"
Now that he was in the squad, joy came with anxiety and confusion.
Jeong-woo sprawled on the sofa, crossing his legs.
"Remember when I first pitched it to you?"
"First time?"
"Yeah, when I lured you in. Told you to do well here, then cash in big in the Middle East or China. For your retirement fund."
"Ah...!"
Pak nodded, as if it had just clicked.
He'd fallen for Jeong-woo's temptation easily back then.
No other options.
Now he knew it was the right call.
Hell, offers from China had come during his League One stint.
Jeong-woo locked eyes with Pak's embarrassed gaze and added,
"Your mindset back then? That was the limit. But not anymore."
"..."
"What I'm saying is, push as far as you can. Bluntly, you're worlds apart from the you of one or two years ago. You've improved massively."
Pak couldn't hide his grin stretching ear to ear.
Jeong-woo slammed his fist on the sofa armrest, as if to halt it.
Thud!
As Pak flinched,
"That growth came with a mindset upgrade. No more talk of cashing out in China in front of me. Instead, I've got a guy burning with ambition right here. One clawing for more progress. Just look at how you pester Adebayor. You're at his place damn near every day."
"Oh, you knew?"
Pak scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
Just like Jeong-woo said, he'd been visiting Adebayor's house like clockwork after training—or on off days.
To pick up shooting tips and other know-how.
Only then did Jeong-woo's lips curl up.
"Of course, man. That guy's always ranting over pork belly, saying you're getting less of a dumbass by the day."
Dumbass must be glued to his tongue.
Still, hearing Adebayor praise him to the manager puffed Pak up.
Jeong-woo eyed him, then suddenly lowered his voice.
"But one thing hasn't changed: I can't say for sure."
Pak's eyes widened at the final words.
"What I do know is... in the Premier League or wherever, no one matches you for bursting through and driving forward. You're the top dog there. So prove it. Grab a solid spot on the national team, yeah? Tension? Keep it moderate. Just play like you have in the league, and Bento will eat it up."
* * *
January.
Wigan Athletic vs. Queens Park Rangers.
75th minute of the second half.
Thud, tap, thud—!
[Oh! Raheem Stroooong!]
[After the flashy body feint, a phantom dribble shakes two, three defenders in a flash, driving into the heart of the box...!]
The commentators couldn't finish.
Strong had dipped his left shoulder against the onrushing center-back, then exploded the opposite way for a shot.
Thwack—!
The ball rocketed into the top right corner.
Splash!
The commentators leaped up, roaring.
[GOOOAL! It's in! Wigan Athletic! 75th minute! After an eternity of back-and-forth, Wigan's ace Raheem Strong strikes the late winner!]
"Yes!"
Wigan manager Lowell Gardner pumped his fist in a brief celebration.
He immediately reshuffled the formation.
[Wigan's boss Lowell! Looks like he plans to make Strong's goal the decider!]
[Wigan halts the onslaught and drops deep!]
He even subbed out goalscorer Raheem Strong for a center-back.
Uncharacteristic for Lowell compared to his League One days.
Until now, he'd chased aggressive tactics, despising park-the-bus soccer.
In the end, Lowell Gardner successfully shut down QPR's attacks with ten-man defense for the final 15 minutes.
QPR's manager blasted him post-match, calling it bedsheet football.
But at the press conference, Lowell was cool as ice.
"It was just part of the tactics. Plus, we've got the FA Cup third round in four days. Managing key players' fitness was essential."
Some time later.
"Hoo!"
Lowell Gardner gave short interviews and greetings to the hardworking squad before returning to his office.
He sank straight into the executive chair.
"My eyes are killing me..."
He removed his rimless glasses, setting them on the desk.
Then closed his eyes gently.
A name surfaced.
"Director Ma..."
Bolton's owner-manager, Ma Jeong-woo.
It always came to mind before or after big games lately.
To Lowell Gardner, he was the man behind two crushing defeats.
Especially the first one—it had cost Wigan a Championship promotion a year early.
Last season too.
"After that loss... it was razor-thin."
They'd barely scraped into the playoffs, beaten Gillingham—his mentor Steve Bruin's side—and joined Bolton in the Championship.
He'd been furious at Ma Jeong-woo more than once.
"Felt like he was screwing me over on purpose."
Lowell's irregular soldiering on the pitch had left him battered without a proper counter.
"Like getting counter-punched into oblivion..."
Just thinking about it made his twice-broken toes throb.
His mentor Steve Bruin had once said:
‘Ma's an outstanding manager. Honestly, better than you or me.’
Lowell had denied it, even disappointed in his teacher.
‘What the hell about Ma.’
Back then, he wouldn't easily acknowledge Ma Jeong-woo.
But now he knew that was stupid.
He'd seen it with his own eyes.
‘Even against strong sides... such flexible tactics.’
Ma dressed his players in the perfect system.
Prodigy Pak, Owen Fresais, Ethan Lobery, Gary Todd—they were proof.
Under Ma Jeong-woo, they'd propelled Bolton up the table.
Lowell slowly opened his eyes.
Glancing out, he saw a few lingering players chatting on the training pitch, kicking a ball around.
Steve Bruin's words came back.
‘You... you're starting to look alike.’
"Alike how?"
‘Your tactical style's resembling Director Ma's.’
"..."
Lowell had scowled then.
Now, he just stared blankly out the window.
Soon, a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Yeah. I admit it."
He got it now.
All those days, he'd felt massive inferiority toward Ma Jeong-woo.
Watching Ma's games proved Bruin right.
‘He's... better than me.’
And from the moment he accepted that, Lowell Gardner had whipped himself toward growth.
Unimaginable for the old Lowell.
Before Ma, he'd fancied himself among the top tacticians.
Just stack wins with great tactics, climb the ladder.
Lowell let out a ridiculous, self-mocking smile.
‘Frogs in a well, that's what I was.’
A thought struck him.
"Getting this team to the Championship... might be thanks to you, Director Ma."
Plus, Wigan had beaten QPR to climb to fifth.
And in four days, he'd face Bolton's Ma again in the FA Cup third round.