Chapter 35
Chapter 35
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 35
Chapter Title: Gateway (6)
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Johnny Barnes, Gillingham's assistant coach, watched the flow of the game and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.
'It's nothing special...'
For starters, bringing on Quick Floyd looked like a clear failure.
Seeing Floyd step onto the pitch right before the second half...
'His spirit's broken.'
You could tell just from how slumped his shoulders were.
Floyd had always had a bit of a slouch, to be fair.
Some hardcore supporters clustered near the fence immediately unleashed a barrage of abuse at the sight of him.
"Pass the damn ball, you prick!"
"Are your eyes just for show? Huh? There were so many passing lanes, and you missed them all? You fucking—"
Johnny Barnes rolled his eyes.
Jeong-woo and the coaching staff had just exited the tunnel and were heading to the bench.
The rabid fans directed their foul-mouthed tirade at Jeong-woo as well.
Jeong-woo, of course, didn't even glance their way.
Barnes's eyes narrowed into thin slits.
'Don't get complacent,' he'd been warned.
On the face of this match alone, Gillingham held a slight edge.
Of course, in the first half, Gillingham hadn't registered many shots on target.
Steve Bruin had employed a high line combined with a defense-first tactic from the start.
It was defend first, counter second—but at a higher level than usual.
They'd created several more threatening moments than Bolton.
Their turnover count was nearly three times lower than Bolton's, for one thing.
All in all, Gillingham had the upper hand.
Barnes was convinced.
Just give it a little more time, and they'd score the opener soon enough.
Unlike Barnes, Steve Bruin was more cautious than ever.
'What is it?'
Despite his uneasy gut feeling at halftime, Quick Floyd had put in a dismal performance.
It was almost enough to make you question if someone could play that poorly in such a short span.
Tactically, it was a success.
Bruin had aimed to shut down everything Bolton relied on as their core.
You could see it from how they'd neutralized Owen and the prodigy.
'Man-marking combined with zonal defense. And numerical superiority to stop their counters.'
It wasn't an exaggeration to say they'd thrown every defensive trick in the book at them.
They were even using subtler defensive schemes that wouldn't be obvious to the untrained eye.
Whenever the prodigy tried a line-breaking run, it wasn't just one marker on hiMad Dogouble team formed nearby.
A sort of block.
It narrowed his field of vision.
Owen Precision faced the same treatment.
Sometimes, when Aaron Leppard or the prodigy made simultaneous runs, they'd add an extra center-back to maintain numerical superiority.
Quick Floyd, under this pressure, dragged the ball even more.
One added instruction: hit Floyd with aggressive interceptions.
Bruin could see it.
'A few chances popped up.'
Even if Floyd hadn't spotted those chance routes, danger was danger.
The problem started with him dribbling deep into their territory.
'We have to stick tight and press relentlessly.'
But the unease lingered.
A quick glance showed Jeong-woo standing in the technical area, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the pitch.
And his expression...
'He's smirking...?'
Despite Gillingham dominating the first half, he looked like a kid with a fun prank up his sleeve, the corner of his mouth twitching.
* * *
False nine.
The term refers to a striker who doesn't primarily hunt for goals but instead drops deep into midfield to link play and create space with dribbles.
Of course, if they have the skills, they can handle goals, assists, even third assists.
Like Lionel Messi of Barcelona.
"But Quick isn't that."
10th minute of the second half.
Jeong-woo muttered while staring at the pitch.
Floyd, who had dropped all the way to the halfway line without fail, tapped the ball forward and advanced.
His stats were abysmal outside of passing, shooting, and dribbling.
Yet every time he pushed forward, nearby players rushed in for interceptions.
"Know why they're doing that?"
Hee-won, beside him, furrowed his already wrinkled brow even deeper, looking deep in thought.
"Hmm, well, his dribbling is dangerous in itself."
"Right. The guy probably doesn't mean to, but every time he drives forward, threatening passing lanes open up and vanish."
The issue was Floyd blowing right past them.
Like a total newbie driver navigating without GPS.
But,
"That play alone is threatening. It's enough to pin the opponents."
You could tell from how Steve Bruin kept blocking Floyd's path and forcing interceptions nonstop.
"Preventing any potential accidents before they happen."
Still, Floyd stubbornly pushed on, showing off his ball-keeping ability.
Most turnovers happened deep in the opponent's half, from delayed shots or passes.
Above all, the opponents couldn't maintain those blocks for a full 90 minutes.
Not physically, not mentally.
Focus inevitably waned.
And Jeong-woo was working to erode that focus even further.
Inducing complacency along the way.
The groundwork had started the moment Floyd subbed on.
In that short time, they'd deliberately let him take reckless shots and passes.
The results were better than expected.
Over the last 5 minutes of regulation plus 2 minutes of stoppage—7 minutes total—Floyd had played abysmally.
Even into the second half, he'd squandered a few more chances.
The opponents were already showing cracks.
Jeong-woo slyly curled the corner of his mouth.
"That Joshua Ramsey punk. He's underestimating Floyd."
When Floyd advanced, his pressure intensity was noticeably lighter than in the first half.
And it wasn't just him.
Jeong-woo could see it.
"Look at those idiots. Their man-marking and zonal defense is starting to crumble. Heh heh."
Whether Steve Bruin adjusted instructions or not, Floyd's blind shots and passes in the first half had lulled the opponents into complacency.
Jeong-woo always held one card back.
Even back in his playing days in Korea.
You might analyze the opponent's tactics pre-game and counter them, but no guarantee it'd work for 90 minutes.
Some managers threw curveballs every match. In this case, he'd hidden a card for a different reason.
'The usual lineup wouldn't break through.'
He'd known Gillingham's high-line defense was rock-solid.
Jeong-woo had run countless simulations in his head before kickoff.
Could this squad pierce Gillingham's back four?
Out of twenty sims, Bolton won only twice.
Slim odds.
That's why he'd prepared Quick Floyd.
He'd created unexpected ripples.
Even if the player himself was clueless.
And,
Crack, crack.
In Jeong-woo's ears, the sound of Gillingham's back four fracturing grew clearer by the minute.
* * *
In the second half, Floyd felt much freer than in the first.
The halftime talk had definitely calmed him down.
More than that,
'I can do this!'
It filled him with confidence.
At halftime, Jeong-woo had looked at him with full trust in his eyes.
And he'd said,
'You'll be the running Owen. Just pretend to be a striker.'
It could've felt burdensome, but Floyd didn't take it that way.
If anything, energy surged through him.
Especially the bizarre sensation of the logjam at "center-back up top" bursting open.
An angle he'd never considered.
That's when it happened.
Thwuuump—!
[Owen's surprise long-range strike!]
Owen connected a ball from deep with a mid-to-long-range shot.
"Gah!"
Gillingham keeper Ryan Moses freaked out, stamping his feet before diving full force toward the right post.
Squeak—!
[Ryan Moses with a brilliant save...!]
[Just tips it away with his fingertips! He almost let in a goal there!]
[Incredible from Owen Precision!]
[He strikes from distance the moment Gillingham's pressure loosens!]
Watching from the left flank, Floyd let out an involuntary gasp of admiration.
'Amazing...!'
Even with reduced stamina, the guy's long-range shots were lethal.
17th minute of the second half.
Floyd sensed the pressure on him easing as time wore on.
Instead, it intensified on Owen.
Those two feet were dangerous in every way.
At the same time, Floyd exchanged glances in real-time with Owen, Pack, and Leppard.
His eyes were sharper than in the first half.
Weirdly, after Jeong-woo's "center-back up top" comment, his vision had started opening up.
Psychological, maybe.
With the defensive block shifting to counter Owen's long shots, Pack and Leppard's half-space runs became easier.
Things invisible in the first half.
"Huff, huff!"
All those forward dribbles left him breathing heavily through gritted teeth.
In that instant, Floyd's eyes lit up.
'I see it...!'
He'd dropped below the halfway line and received a pass.
He immediately turned and drove straight forward with the ball.
In the process, he spotted teammates' movements that had eluded him before.
Meanwhile, Joshua Ramsey and nearby midfielder John Donald edged closer cautiously.
But unlike the first half, they weren't aggressive.
They thought,
'He's gonna whiff it again.'
'He'll take it too deep.'
So they crept up, then started backpedaling even before Floyd reached the edge of the arc.
Better to form a block.
Ramsey had learned from marking him all first half.
'Form blocks in spots, and he loses it! No need to stick tight. Holding the defensive shape is the real lockdown.'
The paint job Jeong-woo had planted late in the first half was finally paying off.
At the same time,
"Stick to himmm!"
Steve Bruin's desperate shout echoed from the technical area.
"Huh?"
Joshua Ramsey, backpedaling, blurted out dumbly.
He'd bet the house on Floyd forcing another bad dribble into a wild shot or blind pass.
But no.
Tap—!
Even the commentators leaped up.
[Quick Floyd threads a left-footed curler—!]
Everyone's predictions went wide of the mark.
Floyd had played a clean ground pass.
For a split second, Ramsey's neck hairs stood on end.
Ooooh—!
The Wonderers, with no expectations, shot to their feet and roared.
In their wide eyes, they saw it.
The ball rolling across the turf connected perfectly with Owen's left foot at the left edge of the arc.
Only then did Floyd understand what Jeong-woo meant by "paint."
About two seconds.
Pressure on Owen vanished completely.
Pack and Aaron Leppard surged into the half-spaces on both sides, dragging defenders out naturally.
A butterfly effect from Quick Floyd's unexpected curler.
And that wasn't all.
David Dignity and Dominic Shield positioned around the box, scattering eyes.
In that moment, the Bolton players recalled Jeong-woo's halftime words to the team.
'Alone, they might fall short, but together? Messi, Neymar, Ronaldo. Not bad, right?'
Above all, Owen was the league's best long-range specialist in one-on-one situations.
Thwuuump—!
Clang—!
* * *
Post-match, Steve Bruin took his seat at the press conference.
Flash, flash!
Camera strobes popped nonstop.
Assistant coach Johnny Barnes's crumpled expression showed no sign of smoothing out.
And why would it?
"Bolton beat Gillingham 1-0 in league round 41. That ends your three-game win streak. Your thoughts?"
Steve Bruin replied calmly to the reporter.
"The players fought well."
He meant it.
Sure, sloppy defending midway through the second half had let in the goal, but they'd fought hard.
Another reporter raised a question.
"Then what do you see as the cause of the loss?"
This defeat was a big blow for Gillingham.
One loss dropped them two places in the table.
Maybe that's why.
The Gillingham reporter who'd traveled looked dissatisfied.
His eyes screamed for a satisfying answer.
Suddenly, Bruin looked up.
In the press box ahead, high on the wall, a banner caught his eye.
"This Month's Best" printed large, below it a fan photo gleefully hanging the club mascot in effigy.
"...Pfft."
Bruin burst out laughing.
He'd thought the guy was quirky watching recent games.
Experiencing it firsthand, Bolton's manager was quirky—and dangerously so.
'Striking where it hurts like that.'
A fatal blow in an instant.
From a completely unexpected moment.
Like a lion leaping from the brush to clamp the prey's neck.
With that, the now-composed Bruin said flatly,
"It's plain as day. Ma Jeong-woo won. Tactically... this one was a perfect loss for me."
The room buzzed.
Flash flash flash—!
Strobes exploded without end.
Among managers facing Bolton, Steve Bruin alone admitted tactical defeat—and called him "manager."
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