Chapter 43
Chapter 43
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 43
Chapter Title: Hometown Team? (5)
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A few days earlier.
A sweltering afternoon under the blazing sun.
"It's a ridiculously simple training drill. But since Sensors Ruff has just joined us, I'll explain it once more to burn it into your heads. The name of this tactical plan is exactly what it says: packed formation."
On the training pitch.
Standing crookedly in the center of the players seated in a circle, Jeong-woo frowned slightly before correcting himself.
"Let's just call it 'My Name Bus.' Sounds cooler, right? Though I'll probably come up with something better by tomorrow."
It didn't sound cool at all.
Anyway, Jeong-woo explained the tactic.
"We're going with a 5-5 setup. We'll hunker down below the halfway line and not come out unless we have to. So how will the opponents respond?"
Everyone turned to look at Sensors Ruff.
Most of them seemed to already know, having drilled it in bits and pieces.
Ruff answered with an awkward expression.
"They'll try to break through somehow, right?"
"Broadly speaking, that's correct. Most teams will attack in one of two ways. They'll go wide for endless crosses. Or use a dribbler to penetrate the spaces. Either way, aiming to crack the back line and create scoring chances."
Jeong-woo continued his explanation.
They'd deploy this tactic against strong teams, focusing solely on defense unless a clear opportunity arose.
It wouldn't be any different against Wigan.
"If we can't create chances... a draw is fine. It's a derby, but that doesn't mean we have to win. We can settle things with the Latics next season—or the one after, if they get promoted to the Championship."
The defensive method was as simple as described.
Shifting positions based on the ball's movement in a 5-5 formation.
While keeping minimal movement within the box.
If an opponent charged past the halfway line with aggressive dribbling, two players would combine for a quick stop.
The nearby players would naturally form a block with slight adjustments to cut off passing lanes.
If you just listened and watched, it was the classic underdog strategy against a superior side.
But Ruff's eyes widened at what came next.
"And we'll kill their tempo."
"Their tempo, sir?"
A question mark floated over Sensors Ruff's head.
Hadn't he just said they'd sit back completely on defense?
In that case, the opponents would obviously dominate possession.
Jeong-woo provided the answer right away.
"Targeted diving. Hollywood acting to shatter their rhythm completely."
Ruff's brow furrowed slightly.
In a derby—no, a local derby—the manager was suggesting not just playing a step back, but something that could even be called dirty.
Even as a Latics fan, Ruff was wearing a Bolton kit right now.
It was hard to swallow his pride.
And hadn't the manager said it himself?
To bring their A-game against the Latics.
But now Hollywood acting to disrupt their flow?
Yet, something felt off.
"That sounds fun."
"I've secretly practiced falling a lot."
"I can teach you how to fall without it hurting."
"What? Smack! Isn't that too much? Me? Why aren't you teaching me?"
They were all getting excited, one after another.
No one seemed offended or rebellious.
'What the...'
Jeong-woo tilted his head slightly and looked straight at the confused Ruff.
"Hey, Sensors. Relax your face. This is part of the strategy too."
"But..."
"No buts. When it comes to victory, we don't care if the process is lowly or whatever. And hear me out to the end."
Sensors Ruff clamped his mouth shut.
Because Jeong-woo's sharp gaze was fixed on him with a sly grin.
And the words that followed made Ruff's tightly shut mouth drop open in an instant.
* * *
Bolton's captain, David Dignity, was directing the line as the linchpin of the first bus.
"To the left...!"
"No, right this time...!"
Despite the veins bulging on his forehead and neck from his serious expression, the instructions were simple.
And with each word, the players shifted their center of gravity leftward overall, then to the right.
This was purely on Jeong-woo's orders.
Like raising a shield to block an incoming arrowhead.
Perhaps that's why.
"Fucking hell...!"
"You just gonna defend? Huh?! You sandbags or what?!"
Cheers turned to boos and curses growing louder from the Latics fans.
Some were even yelling to stop defending and counter already.
But the biggest reason for their frustration was something else.
Thud-!
Splat!
Tweet-!
[Oh! Dignity! He goes down after getting clipped on the ankle! Calling for the medical team!]
[Disrupting Wigan's tempo like this again?]
Just colliding and falling wasn't enough—they rolled on the ground like it was a mortar or demanded medical attention.
That's when the commentators started chiming in.
[Bolton...! They're playing bed football, the trademark of Middle Eastern sides!]
It was exactly that.
Technical area.
Jeong-woo furrowed his brow and muttered.
"Fuck, can't think of any tactic names that really stick."
So he kept it simple.
"Let's call it Premier League Middle Eastern tactics."
The reason for using this tactic was straightforward.
'Just to win.'
No holds barred when it comes to victory.
Especially against opponents whose individual quality could overwhelm Bolton in a straight matchup.
And Jeong-woo had seen it clearly.
'These guys are all fanatics.'
Not as individuals, but as Latics.
They really acted like they were Manchester's kings, with egos to match.
Jeong-woo saw that as a weakness.
'That's how it always is. When a strong team gets stalled by weaklings, nothing frustrates them more.'
In the meantime, they were parking the bus with bed football and ten-men-behind-the-ball defense nonstop.
Enraged Wigan players kicked the turf or picked up yellows for reckless challenges.
Then another tactic name popped into his head.
"Hmm, operation name: Oil Money."
Only then did Jeong-woo smile contentedly to himself.
Hee-won, beside him, frowned.
It didn't match the current tactic at all.
"What's 'Oil Money' supposed to mean?"
Jeong-woo answered shamelessly.
"It just sounds badass, doesn't it? Heh heh."
* * *
Gillingham manager Steve Bruin was lounging on a plush sofa, watching the soccer broadcast.
Wigan Athletic vs. Bolton Wanderers.
He couldn't help chuckling in disbelief throughout the match.
"Their Middle Eastern bed football is needlessly high quality."
As he said, Jeong-woo's Bolton was all-in on bed football, the Middle East's specialty.
You could feel it through the broadcast.
The Latics' massive rage.
One bald guy caught on camera was clutching his nonexistent hair with both hands.
But Bruin was baffled by something else.
"It's clearly Middle Eastern bed football tactics, but they're not overdoing it."
The bed football Bruin knew turned the entire pitch into a bed.
Jeong-woo's Bolton differentiated itself.
"Every fall is positioned on the side or somewhere easy for a counter."
Naturally, Wigan players had to cluster around those spots.
Bolton hadn't launched a counter yet, but who knew when they'd strike from there.
Moreover,
"Did they even practice that?"
Bruin swallowed a hollow laugh.
The falls after contact or collisions all looked perfectly natural.
"No one stands out as flopping obviously."
In short, it was bed football so calculated even the ref struggled to spot it.
Bruin shook his head but had to admit it.
"What a sly fox. No manager in the world drills that."
* * *
Second half, 33rd minute.
Tweet-!
Thud-!
"You fucking @$%@#KL%!"
Rahim Strong, who had charged between defenders like a tank, hopped up in fury.
"Again?!"
His scowl went from the ref to Sensors Ruff on the ground.
It was absurd for Strong.
There had been a slight, very slight touch on the ribs in the challenge.
But Ruff collapsed with a death-cry scream like he'd been hammered.
"You kidding me? No acting! Asshole! Don't close your eyes!"
Strong yelled at Ruff, who now lay spread-eagled like he was sleeping.
Of course, Ruff's ears were wide open.
His brow furrowed faintly at Strong's angry shout.
Still, he diligently followed the manager's orders.
'Damn it.'
He cursed inwardly.
His pride was wrecked.
But what could he do?
He was already down, eyes shut.
And Wigan's attacks were fiercer than expected.
Everything was as the manager predicted.
'They said they'd hammer the flanks with dribbles...'
It was true.
Bolton had been getting pummeled all first half and now.
It felt prophetic.
"This guy's fucking dead or something?"
Approaching teammate and captain David Dignity shamelessly crouched beside hiMad Dog joined the act.
And...
'It's definitely provoking them, right?'
Amazingly, things were unfolding exactly as Jeong-woo planned.
At halftime, Jeong-woo had said.
'Watch closely. Without even poking, this is the one way to rile them up. Those guys? Their egos are sky-high right now. They think they're on par with City or Chelsea, kings of the league.'
'Meanwhile, we're... basically relegation fodder. Failing to score even once against that in the second half? Can't control the tempo either? It'll piss them off so bad they're pulling their hair out. Focus slips naturally.'
Spot on.
Whoosh-!
Ooooh-!
A sudden roar from the stands made Ruff crack his eyes open slightly.
Glancing over, furious Strong was protesting too aggressively to the ref and eating a yellow.
Then Ruff recalled Jeong-woo's rules.
'If pressured hard and you go down, call for medical.'
'Grazed? Roll on the ground. But don't go over the touchline.'
'Target the hotheads. Rahim Strong? Guy's got anger issues.'
'When subbed off, drag your leg. Emperor material.'
And the last one.
'When they get complacent, we hit with sequential counter—our deadliest weapon.'
* * *
Second half, 37th minute.
Wigan center-back Arthur Wood had no chance to relax his scowl.
On manager's orders, he'd stayed below the halfway line, around the center circle.
To guard against any Bolton counter.
'These bastards.'
He was seething inside.
Thwack-!
Splat!
Tweet-!
Thwack-!
Tweet-!
Thud!
The local derby was overshadowed by opponents falling constantly at the slightest pressure.
The ref didn't whistle every time, of course.
But when fooled by exaggerated acting, the game inevitably stalled.
Many Wigan players were at breaking point, getting impatient.
Desperate penetrations, long balls,
Blind shots and passes that risked counters.
'Fucking hell!'
Wood wrinkled his nose bridge.
They'd fired off countless shots already, but Bolton showed no signs of pushing up.
'They look scared shitless.'
Maybe that's why.
Wood and most players stuck close to Bolton players.
Sometimes for over five seconds.
No one complained.
Wigan had held over 80% possession for the last 20 minutes.
Wood concluded.
'These guys... don't even want to win.'
A draw.
That alone was a win for Bolton.
But not for Wigan.
Wood ground his teeth.
'A draw with fucking Bolton?'
His pride wouldn't allow it.
Hence the rash shots and passes.
Even in the 40th minute,
Whooosh-!
Left-back Adolph Layers unleashed a wild shot from the left flank with no angle.
Thump-!
Dominic Shield headed it clear.
Naturally, he assumed the deflected ball would loop back to Wigan like before.
But,
"Huh?"
Wood blurted out dumbly.
Tap, tap-!
[Gasp...! Delicate through ball...!]
Even the commentators gasped.
That's when Arthur Wood's head snapped sideways.
In a blink, a ball slicing through Bolton's defense streaked past his right-side gap.
Reflexively, his torso twisted powerfully sideways.
But by then, the ball was long gone.
Raising his eyes, he saw a player bursting fastest from the right flank.
[Quick Floyd! Surges from the right flank to advance the ball!]
Arthur Wood was stunned.
Still, he charged to stop the runner.
But,
"What are you doing?!"
Urgent shout from the bench—Lowell Gardner.
Wood's neck hairs stood on end.
Thwack-!
As Wood took a step, Sensors Ruff darted down the left flank.
A simple side pass there would gift a clear counter.
Another center-back rushed sideways to cover Ruff.
But Wood's hackles stayed up.
Ooooh, oooooh!
Cheers swelled in his ears.
From the away Wanderers fans, not Latics.
Whoosh—the prodigy Pax pierced Wood's left flank then.
"You @$%!#!"
In shock, mouth agape, the gap was already three steps.
Fast-footed Wigan midfielder Damian Jones chased the prodigy.
Just then, Floyd's low driven cross from the right went to Pax.
In a flash, Pax slowed to connect.
Glancing back warily.
About a second later,
'Now!'
Pax shifted his weight back sharply.
Unaware Jones grabbed his shoulder hard to stop him.
Grip-!
Thud-!
Tweet-!
[Foul! Deliberate foul to finally stop him!]
[Pass wasn't perfect, so they halted Pax!]
But Jones felt something off with the grab.
He'd yanked with full force, yet it felt like grabbing air—too light.
Moreover, Pax didn't flop—he back-rolled right up.
The guy who'd tumbled 3 meters on slight contact before.
"This fucker...?"
Twitch.
Even smirking.
Clearly no damage.
"See? That's what training does."
Jeong-woo grinned from the technical area.
Anyway, a free kick from 32 meters.
Jeong-woo eyed one player.
Blond hair slicked back, looking like David Beckham.
He strode confidently to the free-kick spot.
'Owen. Your turn.'
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