Chapter 33
Chapter 33
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 33
Chapter Title: Gateway (4)
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Once the pre-match interview wrapped up, Steve Bruce climbed into the car alongside his assistant coach.
They were heading straight to the hotel that served as their base camp.
The assistant coach, seated in the passenger seat, glanced at Bruce in the back through the rearview mirror and spoke up.
“Aren’t you overrating Bolton a bit too much?”
Bruce’s brow furrowed.
“Overrating them?”
“They’ve had some good results lately, sure, but every opponent was missing a few key starters. Lower-table teams, at that. Against strong sides... they got crushed without fail.”
While some praised Bolton’s current form, others begged to differ.
Realizing his own assistant was one of the skeptics, Bruce shook his head firmly.
“That’s exactly the problem.”
“Pardon...?”
Through the rearview mirror, the assistant shot him a puzzled look.
Bruce let his mouth twist downward as he continued.
“I’m not overrating Bolton. I’m just saying we need to be a little more cautious. Unlike those past managers who lost through complacency. Dismissing the opponent before the game even starts, like you’re doing... that’s one of the main reasons for defeat.”
“...I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And two of those ten games, Bolton faced teams that actually fielded their full starting lineup. They still won. The opposing managers were just idiots.”
Gazing out the window at the raindrops now pattering down, Bruce added,
“The reason Bolton won was pure fluke.”
“Fluke... you mean?”
“It must’ve been a disaster for the opponents.”
A fluke was an unexpected stroke of luck.
Bruce narrowed his sharp eyes.
“They lost because they didn’t know the opponent’s strategy. Or rather, from what I saw, those managers didn’t even bother to find out.”
Steve Bruce had analyzed several of Bolton’s victories.
His first conclusion: the opposing managers approached the games with complacency from the kickoff.
Just look at how they benched most of their starters or left them out of the squad entirely.
Even so, Bruce kept his ears open.
Ma Jeong-woo’s voice flowed from the car radio.
[Just as Steve Bruce shows respect, I respect him too.]
At that moment, the assistant coach mustered his courage and spoke up.
“Still, Owen’s two-footed threat was sharp...”
“Exactly! But that wasn’t a fluke.”
As if he’d been waiting for it, Bruce raised his voice.
“Ah, yes...!”
The assistant nodded, pretending to understand.
Bruce crossed his legs and pressed on.
“Owen? Right, sharp as you say. Classic strikers are rare these days, but he can fill that role just fine. Problem is, stick a dedicated marker on him as planned, and that’s it. Slow feet, weak physique—easy to shut down with a strong man-to-man defender.”
He went on to mention the ace.
“His close control, finishing, shot power—they’re all pretty poor. And yet... those last few teams got toyed with by the combo between Pak and Owen. Once you know, you can stop it too.”
Bruce’s eyes grew even keener.
“The fluke I’m talking about isn’t those two.”
“Huh? Then...”
Instead of answering, Steve Bruce narrowed his eyes further.
He was always dead serious about every match.
And watching Bolton’s games had convinced him.
Everyone was missing the point.
The real fluke was Bolton’s manager, Ma Jeong-woo.
Promoting the ace, boldly starting Owen, maximizing their potential—it was all down to Ma Jeong-woo. Not the kind of gamble the current coaching staff would take.
The opposing managers’ arrogance and carelessness in overlooking him had led to their defeats.
Right then—
[But... I wonder if you’ll still show that respect after the game... I’m a little curious.]
[May I ask what you mean?]
[Because Bolton will crush Gillingham without mercy. My tactics will dominate, for sure. So... let’s see after tomorrow’s match. Whether he’s a big man or not.]
“...What the hell...!”
The assistant coach bristled instantly.
Bruce, on the other hand, burst into a hearty laugh.
“He’s a unique one, that’s for sure.”
* * *
Owen Presayce had marked his return from injury with a flashy show, regaining the fans’ support.
Despite missing two games to injury, he’d proven his worth—even a salted fish like him—with a priceless winner.
Today, too, the Wonders hoped.
For Owen to score and beat Gillingham.
But things didn’t go as planned.
In the 38th minute of the first half.
“What the hell is that, a tick?”
From the technical area, Park Hee-won vented his frustration with a red face.
Ma Jeong-woo stared intently at the pitch, brow deeply furrowed.
“He’s sticking to him like glue.”
Just as he said, the opponent’s holding midfielder Batista was marking Owen man-to-man.
Aggressive but never fouling enough to stop play.
Pushing him intelligently with his shoulder rather than his feet.
“We expected it to some degree.”
As Owen shone, the previous teams had tried man-to-man on him too.
It usually led to fouls, then free kicks, and goals conceded.
But this aggressive, intelligent pressure was a first.
In 37 minutes, Owen had attempted just two key passes.
Meanwhile, the opponents threatened with a high-line counter.
A direct route.
Push the line high for pressure and interceptions, then feed a straight pass to the striker crashing the box.
Thwack—!
Owen finally escaped the marker on the left half-space and squeezed out a killer pass.
He promptly fell on his ass.
But Ma Jeong-woo wrinkled his brow.
“Damn it.”
Tap—!
The ace had just burst into the half-space to connect,
“Huh?”
The ace’s panicked expression was visible even from the technical area.
Thud!
The fullback on him had applied just enough shoulder-to-shoulder pressure to unbalance him without fouling.
That screen play alone pushed the ace gradually away from goal.
Whoooosh—!
A late kick flew off the ace’s instep.
Ma Jeong-woo’s eyebrow shot up at the shot sailing way over the bar.
The keeper could’ve just watched that one.
“Foot golf.”
In the 40th minute of the first half.
Another intermittent key pass from Owen.
But,
Whoooosh—!
Squeezed to the side in a blink, the ace rashly hit an inside-of-the-left shot and wore a defeated look.
Park Hee-won glanced at the opposing bench and muttered.
“Our Pak... they’ve turned him into a total donkey.”
Ma Jeong-woo laid out the facts.
“He was always one.”
Still, Park Hee-won had a point.
The opponents weren’t just waiting deep—they closed quickly at the right distance when the ace made his run, nudging him farther from goal bit by bit.
That alone had tanked the ace’s already shaky decision-making to rock bottom.
Suddenly, Ma Jeong-woo chuckled.
“These bastards... they pulled it off. Dedicated markers on each one.”
Even in this moment, the two players impressed him.
Just two months ago, they’d been lambasted just for being signed and called up to the first team.
Park Hee-won scowled at Ma Jeong-woo’s casual remark.
“Hey, man, this isn’t the time to talk about success. Our only two attacking routes are completely shut down!”
“It’s fine. When the old routes get blocked, we pull out new ones.”
“You don’t mean... that?”
Park Hee-won’s face turned intrigued for a moment.
Instead of answering, Ma Jeong-woo shoved both hands into the pockets of his rumpled suit pants.
His eyes quickly scanned the pitch.
Checking how the opponents reacted to specific movements.
Tactical battles thrived on real-time adjustments.
Even the tastiest tactic, cooked up over days, was worthless if cracked.
‘This is exactly that.’
Gillingham’s high-line counter kept Bolton’s defensive line pinned.
And those steely eyes spotted it.
A zonal defense disguised as man-marking screens.
Their sole attacking routes—Owen and the ace—were bottled up by it.
With the strongest counter neutralized, Gillingham could dictate play comfortably.
‘We can’t threaten their defensive line—our final third is impotent.’
Steve Bruce had hit Bolton’s vital point.
‘I figured as much from the interview.’
But,
“There’s a saying: You can huddle and sweat over tactics before battle, but in the heat of it, plans fall apart nine times out of ten.”
Park Hee-won’s face screamed, *What nonsense is this?*
Ma Jeong-woo shifted from staring at the pitch to eyeing the opposite bench.
Gillingham’s manager, Steve Bruce, was sharply scanning the field.
The corner of Ma Jeong-woo’s mouth tugged upward slyly.
“Damn. That old man’s got solid basics.”
He’d tried provoking him with the interview yesterday, just in case.
But the guy wouldn’t even glance over.
Guess phrenology was science after all.
“No shake in him. Not some shaky Simmons bed.”
He craved a smoke right then.
Abruptly, Ma Jeong-woo turned to the bench.
His sharpened gaze landed on one player.
“Time to play our sub card.”
* * *
Tweeeeeet—!
The ref signaled to the fourth official.
Five minutes before halftime, Bolton made a change.
[Delicate’s coming off for Quick Floyd!]
[A center-back... changing the formation?]
The commentators sounded puzzled. Maybe Delicate had tweaked something? No.
[Do they really need to burn a sub five minutes from halftime?]
[Gillingham’s been the slightly more dominant side... but it’s still 0-0.]
[Putting Floyd at center-back—maybe switching to a back three...? Uh?]
The broadcast booth faltered in surprise.
Contrary to expectations, Quick Floyd wasn’t dropping back—he was heading straight to the front line.
“A center-back up top... Pfft!”
Gillingham’s assistant coach smirked openly at the sight.
“Delicate off, Owen repositioned—getting cocky? A center-back as striker?”
The other coaches around him chuckled in agreement.
Gillingham’s manager, Steve Bruce, stayed silent.
His brow furrowed even deeper.
‘What’s the play?’
Curiosity mingled with rising competitive fire, his pupils flickering.
His gaze drifted to the technical area, to Ma Jeong-woo standing with hands jammed in his pockets.
And rightly so,
“Pulse Nine...?”
The sub, Quick Floyd, wasn’t a plain striker.
A pulse nine rampaging through the attacking third and even the midfield third.
Something about it seriously irked him.