Chapter 22
Chapter 22
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 22
Chapter Title: League Round 30 (3)
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[Ma Jeong-woo, OUT!]
Pickets calling for the club owner to be kicked out were dancing wildly in the air, brimming with fervent support.
“Ooooooh!”
The fans erupted in cheers as if they’d never booed at all.
They still held their pickets, but their faces had lit up with excitement after that single goal.
The stadium announcer, swept up in the suddenly boiling atmosphere, shouted.
[Incredible! Bolton Wanderers!]
[Classic Bolter style! Showing their strength against divisional rivals!]
“Oooooh! Oooooh! We got ‘em! No, we scored!”
Beside him, Park Hee-won chimed in with a face full of joy.
Ma Jeong-woo was honestly surprised too. He hadn’t expected Chong-ah to score so quickly.
“Oh, fuuuuuck!”
He was so thrilled that he pumped his clenched fist in the technical area, yelling toward the stands.
“Did you see that shit? Did you?!”
“This crazy manager! Hell yeah!”
Ma Jeong-woo shouted at the crowd, mixing in curses, while an old man holding an “OUT! MA” picket looked back at hiMad Dog went wild with delight.
As Park Hee-won watched this in disbelief,
“Coachhhh!”
From the pitch came a joyful shout.
Chong-ah was sprinting full tilt toward them, black hair whipping in the wind.
Even in the third division, his face flushed with the thrill of scoring on his debut.
In truth, all Chong-ah had done was follow Ma Jeong-woo’s orders: charge forward at blinding speed from the opponent’s center circle.
And right then, as if by magic, the ball floating in the air cleared the penalty arc just as Chong-ah leaped over the defensive line like a hurdle.
That was it—
Still charging, Chong-ah flicked the dropping ball with the tip of his right boot.
It was a shot that nearly skimmed over the crossbar.
In other words, a shot so precise the keeper couldn’t even react.
“Hell yeah!”
Whoosh—!
Ma Jeong-woo threw his arms wide open, face beaming with ecstasy.
“That’s it! Get over here, baby!”
In response, Chong-ah—who’d closed the gap in a heartbeat—leaped high and launched himself at Ma Jeong-woo like he was climbing a tree.
* * *
Before the match, Ma Jeong-woo’s supporters had been few and far between.
The starting lineup was the problem from the get-go.
Dominic Shield, who’d shone in League Two, anchored the back four... but the rest were all backups.
Even Victor Jones, a starter under Derek Scott’s regime, began on the bench.
Whenever the broadcast camera caught Jones, he shook his head with drooping lips.
Even the commentators had raised questions.
[Guess they’re short on players.]
[Facing a divisional rival with backups... Hmm.]
But Ma Jeong-woo silenced all the complaints and doubts in just seven minutes.
Now, he brimmed with confidence.
‘Okay, it’s working!’
Before heading to England, he’d figured there’d be a big gap between K-3 League and here.
But between watching as club owner and experiencing it firsthand, he saw no major difference.
‘They’re about even, really.’
Still, it was his managerial debut, so he’d been a bit tense.
Of course, after the first goal, tension gave way to a thrilling buzz creeping up from his toes.
There was good news too.
Contrary to expectations, Rochdale’s manager had rested some starters today.
It was a lineup closer to 1.7 squad than 1.5.
‘Divisional games are all about smashing them with full strength.’
They’d clearly underestimated Bolton to field that lineup.
‘Idiots.’
Sneer.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
‘Perfect. With their slow defenders, attacks exploiting Chong-ah’s speed hit even harder.’
From then on, Ma Jeong-woo operated with full confidence.
“Dominic! Hold the balance in defense!”
“Rider! Number 6! Number 6 is dropping into midfield! Cut off the pass to him!”
“When defending deep, use zonal marking, not man-marking! Keep proper distances! Don’t get too close! Hey! Don’t lunge! You can block passes without closing in!”
He issued simple instructions.
For a simple reason.
‘The players haven’t had time to absorb the tactics.’
It was a drawback, sure.
But he didn’t mind.
He could just direct them play-by-play like this.
Calming the excitement from the first goal, Ma Jeong-woo’s sharp eyes scanned the pitch.
‘Can’t let the opening salvo fizzle out.’
True to his analyst roots.
As he focused, the field’s developments came into sharper focus, breaking down in detail.
‘They’ve shifted from a low-block to 4-1-4-1.’
Rattled by the early concession, Rochdale’s manager had climbed out of the technical area to tweak the formation.
“That cocky bastard switched formations?”
Park Hee-won noticed too and chimed in.
A hint of resentment flickered in his eyes toward Rochdale’s manager.
Mostly because his pre-match handshake offer had been rebuffed.
Ma Jeong-woo nodded.
‘4-1-4-1, huh.’
It allowed flexible responses.
‘The anchor in front of the back four and overlapping midfield play can confuse opponents. But...’
With two attacking mids and a front two, the opponent’s lone volante—the anchor—would have his feet tied up.
Finishing the thought, Ma Jeong-woo narrowed Bolton’s focus to the center.
Switching to a wingless 4-2-2-2.
“What the...?”
David Dignity, wearing the captain’s arMad Dog for the first time today, looked baffled.
From the technical area, Ma Jeong-woo had called for a switch to 4-2-2-2.
Murmurs of confusion rippled from his teammates.
“4-2-2-2? We haven’t mastered that yet...”
As the words suggested, under Ma Jeong-woo, the squad had prioritized fitness over tactics in their rushed prep time.
Dignity shoved aside his frown and yelled.
“Just do it!”
Dignity was a backup too.
Yet Ma Jeong-woo had given him a shot—and the arMad Dog, citing leadership.
Not wanting to betray that trust, Dignity shouted again to his teammates.
“It’ll work somehow!”
Luck or not, they were up a goal thanks to the manager’s tactics.
* * *
[Aaah! Rochdale’s anchor can’t even reach their own center circle!]
“What the hell...!”
Rochdale manager Butland was in chaos.
His pupils had started shaking right after the goal, and they wouldn’t stop.
Anxious scenes kept flashing before his eyes.
In the gap as the opponent’s two attacking mids exchanged a one-two,
Swoosh—!
Park Chong-ah blazed through the left half-space at insane speed.
That charge alone shattered their offside trap.
Thud—!
A through ball rolled to his feet right then,
Bang—!
[The shooooots wide of goal!]
[Great attempt, though!]
[Aaah! Park gets applause from the Wanderers fans!]
Flinch!
Butland’s heart skipped at Chong-ah’s direct shot.
“What the—how’s he that fast?!”
He’d chalked up the opener to complacency.
So he’d switched tactics.
Funneling play to Rochdale’s striker to equalize fast.
But...
“Huh? W-we’re the ones looking shaky?”
His assistant coach stammered in panic beside him.
Right on cue with Rochdale’s changes, Bolton had made a massive shift too.
‘No wingers?’
They’d doubled down on the center instead.
The biggest issue: Rochdale couldn’t even counter it.
More precisely, one player had slipped through while they fixated on the tactical shift.
* * *
“Huff! Huff! Huff!”
Park Chong-ah, fresh from Korea, panted raggedly.
Thirty minutes into the first half.
He’d probably racked up more sprints than anyone here.
Per Ma Jeong-woo’s orders.
‘Run no matter what. Sprint like a maniac. Today, you’re Usain Bolt.’
And he was enjoying this match more than ever.
‘Me, scoring a goal...!’
He recalled Ma Jeong-woo’s instructions from moments ago, when a teammate collided with an opponent, creating a brief delay.
‘4-2-2-2, but the squad hasn’t gelled with it yet. It’s like a thin wall—could crumble anytime. You’ve gotta fix it. They’re all zeroed in on you after that early goal.’
It was true.
Glancing around, he felt glares like he was public enemy number one.
Ma Jeong-woo had asked.
‘So what now?’
Chong-ah hadn’t overthought it.
‘Keep running... right?’
Ma Jeong-woo ruffled his hair roughly and added.
‘Into the open space, always into the box. You know tackles are more frequent here than K-3? Physical too. So get inside. You’ll see.’
He still didn’t fully grasp what “you’ll see” meant.
But one thing was clear: they hated his speed.
First half, 33rd minute.
Chance.
Bolton’s right-back Delicate, ace crosser, whipped an out-front cross from the right half toward the goalmouth.
Da-da-da-da-da—!
Chong-ah sprinted like mad, recalling the orders.
Opponent shouts whipped past with the wind grazing the ball.
“Grab him!”
“Foul him out!”
“Trip him just before the area!”
Then—
Thwack—!
Whoosh—!
“Urk!”
His foot scraped the turf, and his momentum sent him diving forward, body lifting off.
Like slow motion, the opposing center-back grimaced right in front of him, as if tasting something bitter post-collision.
Even then, Ma Jeong-woo’s words echoed in Chong-ah’s mind.
‘Get in the box, and something’ll happen.’
He got it.
That’s what he meant.
Thud—!
“Guh!”
Tweet—!
[Penalty kick! Penalty to Bolton Wanderers!]
“Penaaalty!”
Ma Jeong-woo jumped for joy the instant he saw Chong-ah sprawled after the full-body collision.
“Card! Red card!”
He mimed pulling out cards over and over.
Relief washed over him as Chong-ah winced briefly but got up fine.
On the other hand, triumph surged.
‘Got it! We’re golden!’
With this squad, full tactical execution was impossible.
He’d pushed 4-2-2-2 anyway for two reasons.
It blocked Rochdale’s current setup just by repositioning.
Second, to maximize Chong-ah.
‘Front two splits their focus. Add switching attacking mids, and Chong-ah slips in easier. Heh.’
Plus Chong-ah’s unexpectedly quick feet.
Result: penalty.
Waaaaaaaaah—!
Now every Wanderer fan was on their feet, roaring passionately.
Some stripped off shirts and danced.
Suddenly, Ma Jeong-woo frowned.
Everywhere, “Ma Jeong-woo, OUT!” pickets waved amid the joy.
They probably didn’t even notice what they held.
Ma Jeong-woo thought.
‘You bastards. Either swap those pickets or celebrate.’
Bittersweet.
* * *
At halftime, Butland unloaded a torrent of abuse on his players.
Then, declaring to the staff,
“They’ll play bed football in the second half.”
Face twisted in fury, he bellowed.
The analyst cautiously objected.
“Bed football’s a Middle East thing, isn’t it? Bolton’s manager is Korean, I thought...”
“Asia’s all the same.”
Butland cut him off.
Gave him a scolding look for not knowing.
“Put yourself in their shoes. Up 2-0? I’d park the bus too. So...”
No need for more words.
Eyes blazing, Butland said.
“We go full-pressing!”
* * *
Tweet—!
“Gah!”
“What the...!”
Second half kickoff whistle blew, and Rochdale players freaked.
Per Butland’s orders, the moment they crossed midfield on the whistle, Bolton players swarmed in crisscross.
“What the fuck are these guys—!”
Butland, tense on the bench, jolted to his feet in shock.
Second half, 3rd minute.
“...”
Butland was speechless.
Jaw agape, wouldn’t close.
At kickoff, Bolton had left only their slow center-back Dominic Shield at the back and sent everyone forward.
Commentators yelled, faces flushed.
[Bolton! Full-court press like basketball, hounding Rochdale!]
They bounced in their seats at the spectacle.
[Winger...! No, center-back! Bolton’s center-back deep on the right flank, linking up!]
[Wait—what? Right flank... in the opponent’s final third... a center-back, not a winger?!]