Chapter 36
Chapter 36
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 36
Chapter Title: Low-Division Signing Operation (1)
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Dark night.
“Hoo~! Hoo~! Slurp, slurp!”
In one corner of the office, there was a tent.
Jeong-woo sat in a camping chair, blowing on the ramen he'd boiled in a portable pot.
The only light illuminating the office was the flashlight on his phone.
Park Hee-won, who often went home early for family reasons whether he wanted to or not, had already left.
Jeong-woo slurped up the noodles with practiced ease, then grumbled.
“This is why you shouldn’t get married. In a free democratic world, you lose all your freedom.”
But for some reason, a corner of his heart felt heavy.
By now, Hee-won was probably enjoying a cozy dinner with his lovely wife and daughter.
Hahaha, hohoho, hehehe, laughing away.
“Fuck.”
Soon, Jeong-woo shook off the bittersweet feeling and turned his gaze to the tin tray he'd brought from Korea.
A tablet PC sat on it, glowing dimly.
Jeong-woo soon narrowed his eyes.
[[18th] Bolton Wanderers: 41 matches, 11W-4D-26L, 37 pts.]
[[19th] MK Dons: 41 matches, 10W-5D-26L, 35 pts.]
[[20th] Accrington: 41 matches, 10W-5D-26L, 35 pts.]
[[21st] Shrewsbury Town: 41 matches, 10W-4D-27L, 34 pts.]
[[22nd] Rochdale: 41 matches, 9W-6D-26L, 33 pts.]
[[23rd] Swindon: 41 matches, 9W-5D-27L, 32 pts.]
[[24th] Tranmere Rovers: 41 matches, 8W-7D-26L, 31 pts.]
League One played a total of 46 matches, with the top three teams earning promotion to the Championship.
Conversely, with so many clubs, the bottom four—from 21st to 24th—faced relegation to League Two.
“What a mess.”
Jeong-woo grumbled briefly as he eyed the portable pot, now left with only broth.
Even after securing 7 wins under his regime, the total points stood at just 37.
Moreover, the gap to the last-place Tranmere was a mere 6 points.
It was a stark reminder of how much shit the previous manager, Derek Scott, had piled up.
“That money-grubbing bastard. Wonder if prison food tastes good to him?”
Then, suddenly, Jeong-woo furrowed his brow.
“British prisons... do they even serve rice? Anyway... what’s the point of winning 7 games? Derek and the interim manager already lost 23.”
Under their tenure, there had been only 4 wins.
In 29 matches, the rest were draws.
No matter how many points he piled up, the standings wouldn’t budge easily.
“Even compared to 21st in the relegation zone right now, it’s just a 3-point gap...”
Shrewsbury Town, with two fewer games played, had narrowed the margin with a couple of draws.
At least they hadn’t won—that was a small mercy.
But every match was a must-win now.
“If we slip up once... well, we could still edge it on goal difference.”
It’d be a nightmare, though.
Only 5 games left.
If they played like they had in the last 10, survival would be all but secured without much trouble.
But a problem had arisen.
“The squad’s showing signs of fatigue.”
The limited roster size was definitely a disadvantage.
Jeong-woo had rotated his 18-man squad extensively, in every way possible.
In the last 10 games alone, they’d used more rotation than any of the 24 teams in the league.
Plus, early exits from cup competitions gave them a fixture advantage over some rivals.
However,
“My tactics are the issue, if anything.”
For slow players like Owen Pressais and Dominic Shield, he’d opted for a hold-position approach.
This left gaps that other players had to cover.
“With their one standout tool—top-class—but other stats below League One average for most.”
Without covering it with work rate and teamwork, these results would’ve been impossible.
“Hmm.”
Jeong-woo crossed his arms while still seated in the camping chair.
After the last game against Gillingham, the ace had complained of slight cramps in his thigh.
Diagnosis: a few hamstring strands torn.
‘Two strands, was it?’
That would heal in a few days or a week with rest.
Of course, the medical doctor wasn’t optimistic about him playing the next match.
A certain documentary came to mind.
‘I get why Mourinho chewed out the doc to play Son Heung-min despite his arm injury.’
At this critical stage, every game mattered, and the current ace was a talent rivaling Son in League One, at Bolton at least.
His mere sprint was a weapon.
“So I made sure he rested properly... and focused training on high-intensity plyometrics.”
But humans aren’t machines.
Time passed in that spot.
Tick-tock, tick-tock—the wall clock’s hands approached 9 p.m.
Jeong-woo remained like a statue, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
About five minutes later,
“Right.”
Jeong-woo nodded as if he’d made a decision.
“Tomorrow, I need to meet that arrogant prick.”
* * *
Sensus Ruff was a 26-year-old young man this year.
He’d dreamed of becoming a pro footballer since childhood.
Born in North West Greater Manchester, he loved only one team.
Wigan Athletic.
He’d even played for their youth setup, if only briefly.
His lifelong dream was to make it big and return to wear the Wigan shirt on the pitch.
But reality was harsher than he’d imagined.
“Ruff! How about dinner at my place tonight? We can talk career stuff too.”
After the game against Marine from the eighth tier, a teammate approached.
But Ruff shook his head with a grimace.
“Got work in the morning, so I need to head home early.”
As he said, Ruff was a footballer and a factory worker.
He had no choice for survival.
26 years old.
The young man who’d dreamed of Wigan had spent over a decade scraping by in the eighth tier.
His weekly wage? A measly 42 pounds (about 50,000 KRW).
That wasn’t enough to live on for a month.
And it was ending in two days.
The club had been struggling financially for about a year, and disbandment was now official.
He’d already received his release notice.
Essentially jobless after today’s game.
His body and mind were in tatters.
“Shame. Let’s grab a bite this weekend then.”
The teammate left, regret in his voice.
Ruff wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead with the back of his hand and slung his battered sports backpack over his shoulder from the bench corner.
His mind had no room for a leisurely meal.
‘What meal...’
Right after the game, he’d slammed into reality’s wall again.
He’d talked to a few teams... but they backed off once they learned of his assault record.
The interested clubs didn’t satisfy him either.
But he desperately needed money now.
He had a family.
His wife was carrying their precious child.
No time to rest.
* * *
“I’m home...?”
Sensus Ruff couldn’t finish his sentence upon returning.
A stranger sat at the rickety dining table visible right from the entrance.
An East Asian man in a disheveled black-haired suit.
Across from him, his wife Ariana smiled back.
“Who...?”
Ruff asked, lightly furrowing his brow.
Ariana turned to him with a bright smile.
“He’s the Bolton owner.”
Right on cue, the owner—Jeong-woo—flashed the bright smile he’d learned from Richard Geers and rose from his seat.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Ma, owner of Bolton.”
* * *
According to Hee-won’s report, Sensus Ruff had worn an electronic ankle bracelet for a year.
It wasn’t a sex crime.
As a kid, he’d seen his disabled friend bullied by strangers and swung his fists in rage—that was the trigger.
The youth club, unaware of the circumstances, naturally kicked him out.
‘They probably never bothered to find out.’
There’d been a long gap afterward.
No team takes a player with an ankle monitor history.
His basics had naturally suffered.
But,
“That line-breaking penetration... it was downright astonishing.”
Jeong-woo had already watched countless clips of Ruff’s play, filmed sporadically by scouts and Hee-won.
He’d come straight here after watching just the first half live.
The first half was enough.
In short, he was smitten at first sight.
‘Hee-won was right, that guy.’
Poor fundamentals meant subpar first touch and footwork.
But his straight-line penetration was exceptional.
Watching him play live, the thought hit:
‘Ace up top, Rapid on the wing, Ruff in a front three... with Owen Pressais as playmaker...’
Three up front breaking lines, Owen and the delicates feeding balls— the picture formed.
His heart raced just imagining it.
Perfect replacement for the ace right now, too.
Ruff even edged him in finishing.
‘Definitely not eighth-tier level.’
Speed, shooting, that beastly instinct—like Luis Suarez or Jamie Vardy.
League One level, of course.
And that was plenty for Jeong-woo.
Even if everything else fell short.
‘Teammates can cover the weaknesses.’
Even in the eighth tier, he topped the scoring charts.
Jeong-woo had seen it clearly.
This guy had an animal instinct beyond mere goals.
‘Tried signing him for the fourth tier, but backed off over the assault record?’
Jeong-woo kept firing sales pitches.
All while maintaining a stern owner-like demeanor that didn’t quite suit him.
He didn’t skimp on praise.
“Your shooting was so instinctive. Not calculated... pure gut feel. Especially calm in the box, better than anyone. Great anticipation too...”
The timing turning back on a defender was uncanny.
In leagues below Championship, raw blistering pace wins half the battle.
‘Close to the ace’s level of wheels.’
To Jeong-woo’s eyes, Ruff looked like Leicester’s fairy-tale hero, Jamie Vardy.
So he passionately pitched Bolton’s vision.
Even fabricating where needed.
Really, he was freestyling on the fly.
Absurd situation, really.
The guy was an eighth-tier player.
He’d be on his knees thanking the gods for a third-tier offer.
But there was a variable.
‘This prick... he’s not biting.’
Jeong-woo talked while scanning Ruff’s expression.
From the start, he’d hidden nothing of his discomfort.
“I’m not interested in Bolton. It’d be like changing my religion.”
He said it outright.
Jeong-woo’s lips drooped before he narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Born in North West Greater Manchester... there’s a reason for refusing. Wigan Athletic fan, right?”
Wigan Athletic.
Top of League Two, promotion all but locked.
And Bolton’s inseparable arch-rival.
Games between them required full police deployment—the bad blood ran that deep.
‘Supporter brawls before and after matches are routine.’
Rival among rivals.
Ruff nodded without hesitation.
“A move to the third tier? I’m grateful for the offer—unbelievable, really. But I can’t abandon Wigan.”
Hard for a Korean to grasp.
But among Brits who live and die by football, many guard their club loyalty like this.
To them, their hometown or favorite club is religion itself.
Ruff was a die-hard Wiganer.
But Jeong-woo had no intention of backing down.
“Who said abandon Wigan?”
“Pardon...?”
Ruff countered at the unexpected words.
Jeong-woo added shamelessly.
“Come to Bolton, but love Wigan like always. Hell, I’d pick Wigan over Bolton too. They could hit the Championship if they play it right. We’re just fighting relegation right now.”
“What are you... saying?”
Ruff couldn’t make sense of Jeong-woo.
First time facing a top-club owner, and he’s casually dissing his own team?
The next line was even wilder.
“Let me be blunt. I need you now, Ruff. To boost survival odds, talent is essential. Rival club an issue? What rival are we to a relegation-worried Bolton?”
“...”
Jeong-woo didn’t spare practical persuasion on the stunned Ruff.
“Besides, this is your chance. No matter how you shine in the eighth tier... teams in the third tier or higher won’t glance your way. Unless you meet one in a cup upset and dominate—like Tottenham’s Dele Alli. Though Alli was a step above eighth tier.”
“...”
Ruff’s fists clenched on his knees.
It wasn’t wrong.
Jeong-woo glanced at Ruff’s wife beside hiMad Dog added,
“As a father and breadwinner, too.”
It could bruise Ruff’s pride.
But oddly, it didn’t feel like Jeong-woo was looking down on him.
Hard to flat-out refuse again.
Jeong-woo stared straight at him with bird-of-prey eyes.
And said,
“Who needs loyalty to Bolton? Grow here and leave. No love for the team required. Play for yourself, Ruff. For you and your family.”
Jeong-woo grinned.
“I’m giving you a shot. Prove it to your beloved Wigan. ‘Fuck! Take me, Wigan!’ Make them turn with your performances. Then leave clean, like Luis Figo from Barca to Real back in the day. We’ll pocket a fat transfer fee too.”
At those last words, Ruff was genuinely shocked.
“No confidence? I do. You’re a diamond in the rough. I could smell it. That’s why my nose led me here.”
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