Chapter 62
Chapter 62
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 62
Chapter Title: The Numbers Are There to Be Read (3)
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Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 62: The Numbers Are There to Be Read (3)
He'd just sprinted at full speed and tapped the ball with his foot without slowing down even a bit.
The funny thing was, even though it looked like he'd swung his front foot through empty air, the ball actually clipped the outside of his heel and deflected.
That deflection threw Manchester United's goalkeeper, Tommy Stone, completely off balance.
The shot bent perfectly into the top corner of the far post.
Waaaaaaaaah—!
The fans packed into University Stadium erupted in a roar of astonishment as the goal went in.
"Paaak! Get over here! C'mere! Gonna give ya a big ol' smooch!"
One diehard supporter behind the goal had stripped off his shirt and looked ready to vault the fence any second.
In that instant, Pak's whole body flushed hot—stretching from head to toe.
It wasn't just any goal. It was the opener against Manchester United.
He glanced toward the technical area, and there was Jeong-woo bouncing up and down with laughter.
Jeong-woo was grinning right at him, muttering something to himself with obvious delight.
Pak couldn't make out the words from this distance.
But he didn't need to hear them to know.
*Well done! That's it! You just landed the first blow on Man United!*
Just like the Wonderers surging like waves right now, showering him with praise.
And in this moment, Pak wanted to credit this goal entirely to Jeong-woo.
The one true mentor who'd pulled him out of the swamp.
And beyond that, he'd taught him so much.
Like how to hold chopsticks right for him.
This goal had come from that, too.
Even amid the chaos, Jeong-woo was shouting with a face full of joy.
"Pak, that little shit just pulled off a cheeky heel flick! Man United's gotta be pissed now. Look at that. Check out the keeper's shell-shocked face. Heh heh!"
* * *
13 days earlier.
Bolton's first-team training ground.
Captain David Dignity swept back his sweat-soaked hair with one hand.
He furrowed his brow slightly and asked,
"That kid was doing judo drills for a while... what's this now?"
It was a scorching afternoon under the blazing sun.
In his line of sight, Pak was charging toward goal with explosive power.
Then, out of nowhere—hop! He leaped into the air.
Splitting his legs wide with all his might mid-flight.
"Ballet... maybe?"
Delicate narrowed his eyes and murmured from the side.
"Ballet, huh. Hmm, makes sense."
"Exactly."
Dignity nodded faintly in agreement.
Delicate clamped his mouth shut and nodded too.
Shearer Kane, watching the whole thing with utter bewilderment from behind, couldn't fathom why these two were so quick to accept it.
*What the hell? Doing ballet on a soccer pitch? And everyone's just nodding along?*
Looking around, no one seemed to find it weird.
Just like Delicate said, Pak would sprint full tilt across the field, then extend his legs straight out like a ballerina.
He even practiced stretching his legs while falling.
He nailed the battement in place without fail.
"Hoo! Hoo!"
He timed deep breaths with each movement.
Soon enough,
"Here it comes!"
Jeong-woo's shout rang out from beyond the touchline.
At the same moment, a ground pass rocketed from the opposite touchline straight into the penalty spot.
Pak hurled himself at the rolling ball like a madman.
"Dominic! Dennis!"
Jeong-woo yelled again.
Dominic Shield and Dennis Slip, nearby, threw themselves at the ball just like Pak.
But Pak was way faster.
Tap—!
The tip of his outstretched right foot met the ball's left side just as it reached the spot.
Not a one-touch shot, though.
He figured he'd trap it first for a cleaner strike.
To make it more precise.
That touch took a bit too long.
Thwack—!
"Urgh!"
The quick-footed center-back Dennis Slip pounced with a sliding challenge, exploiting the gap.
Thwack—!
Pak fired off the shot even as his balance crumbled, but the ball sailed harmlessly wide.
Disappointment flickered across Pak's face right then.
That's when it happened.
"Pak."
Pak—now practically his official nickname—whipped his head toward the voice.
Jeong-woo approached with both hands jammed in his pockets.
He tilted his head slightly and said,
"Hey, don't try to trap it! Just tap it! Foot to ball and that's it! Don't slow down—just graze it on the run!"
"But..."
Pak thought trapping first would let him shoot more precisely.
He'd already beaten them on speed, so he figured he had the timing.
Wrong this time, though.
Jeong-woo jabbed like an arrow straight to the heart.
"Your dribble-to-shot interval's too damn long! Better to keep the pedal down—no brakes! Slam into the goal with the keeper like it's a demolition derby!"
That "ballet" was practice for just brushing the ball at full speed.
Like a keeper diving side to side to snag the ball, but with his feet. The difference? Charging at goal or extending the leg while shoved by a defender.
He emphasized it once more.
"Don't stop. Hit it at full speed. Miss if you have to. Whenever the ball rolls in front of your foot, just touch it."
He didn't skimp on practical advice either.
"That's how you survive. And it's Bolton's sharp spear to stab Manchester United with."
* * *
He hadn't actually expected it to land that blow.
Manchester United was a big club among big clubs, after all.
Jeong-woo had just been thinking.
Ways to better harness Pak's speed.
Direct shots popped into his head.
"Finishing's his weak spot anyway."
Better to swing through with power on the run.
From the keeper or defenders' view, even attempting it was nightmare fuel.
So he wove in occasional speed-based counterattacks on top of a defensive foundation.
Minimal personnel to keep the risk low.
"Assuming their organization falls apart, we were gonna decide it with ours."
That "decision" meant grinding out a draw at best.
A draw against Man United was basically a massive win for Bolton anyway.
He'd even masked up the players during training. Ordered team-discount Man United kits and made them wear 'em.
Jeong-woo wrinkled his nose.
"Couldn't predict the exact starting XI 100%."
So he'd printed out playstyle lists for all likely starters and handed them to the Bolton squad.
Told 'em to memorize every damn one.
"Even turned an empty office into a player self-study room slash food corner. Heh."
One wrong answer during tactical drills meant instant boot to hellish fitness training.
*Real Mimic and Band of Brothers were perfect manuals.*
Glad he'd reviewed those movies.
Positions and formations were tailored to Man United's movements.
And this was the result.
Park Hee-won whistled in admiration from the side.
"Damn~ Minimizing risk alone made it work. It actually worked!"
Switching through multiple formations could've sown chaos in the team.
Like that fake Madrid in the League One finale.
So three tactics on rotation, with plays that handled counters smoothly.
"That's why the long-ball strategy widened the gap between the frontman and midfield."
No risky short passes or penetrating balls from our half.
Long counters instead.
Right now, Shearer Kane and Pak were hanging back like they were babysitting the defense.
The rest hovered low in central midfield.
"With minimal tweaks inside that setup."
Shearer Kane shifted from target man to defensive forward.
Pak roamed the flanks and center.
Only possible thanks to long-kick masters like Owen Precise and Delicate.
Jeong-woo beamed with pride at how the players followed his lead.
"These guys... they've grown. Grown up good."
The unexpected concession blew up Ole Gunnar Solskjaer's fuse.
"Why'd you let Pak slip there? Huh? Focus, damn it!"
He tore into the fullback and center-back who'd failed to stop Pak's run.
Unlike Amad Diallo hugging the wing, Pak had blasted through the half-space at terrifying speed.
At the same time, Owen Precise switched to right back.
The marker who'd been glued to Owen centrally was suddenly a lost lamb.
Owen whipped in a left-footed out-front cross.
If it was complacency, it was complacency.
With everyone but Bolton's two forwards dropped deep in a block, Man United had more feet on the ground.
Solskjaer's pupils shook wide now.
Then Mike Phelan chimed in from the side.
"We might need to send on Edinson Cavani. Paul Pogba to support from deep...!"
"What're you talking about?"
Solskjaer cut him off mid-sentence.
Both had returned from Euro and Copa America just days ago.
Beyond that, he had zero desire to sub on two starters.
Call it pride.
*Sub the starters after one fluke goal?*
Subbing them meant admitting defeat.
Anyone could see it was a cheap goal.
But Phelan was pragmatic.
"The guys on the pitch lack experience. And looking at Bolton's defensive setup, we need someone with off-the-ball runs to break the line."
That's why he pushed Cavani.
Age hadn't dulled his animalistic line-breaking—top-five in the world.
Solskjaer shook his head, face flushed red.
"We can do this. One goal, and Bolton implodes for sure."
Simple reason for the faith.
Even after that absurd concession, possession was still Manchester United's—gripped tight.
*70% to 30%, right?*
Every time Man United strung passes in their half and unleashed shots, Bolton threw bodies in the way.
Those scenes were razor-edge.
Moments that screamed *goal any second*, over and over.
"We'll watch a bit longer."
Solskjaer clenched his fist against his thigh and ground his teeth.
Bolton's technical area.
"Look at these clowns?"
Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes as Man United showed no tactical shift despite Bolton's opener.
Plain as day,
"They wanna protect that pride, huh?"
Maybe they hadn't even considered the storm coming.
Easy fix, then.
Jeong-woo smirked wickedly.
*Time for Plan E.*
* * *
Man United's volante, Ryan Wood, stomped in frustration before spinning and thrusting out a hand.
"Where ya goin'!"
In a blink, Pak streaked past on his left.
With that opener on his tally, Man United had no choice but to mark him tight now.
He'd only given a light shoulder nudge for a tactical foul...
Crash—!
"Argh! Aaagh! Aaaah!"
In that split second as Pak tumbled sideways, he spun four full rotations in mid-air.
Then he hit the turf hard, bouncing and rolling like thorns were sprouting from the field—clear up to his waist.
"Ugh! Krgh! Uh-heh-heh!"
Ryan Wood nearly rushed to Pak. Heart skipped at the sight—like he'd been hit by a car.
Modern soccer was physical, sure, but no one shrugs off injuring an opponent.
The ref didn't hesitate at his panic, whistling the foul.
Tweet—!
"Wh-what?"
Ryan Wood panicked more.
Yellow card flashed in his mind—*Did I really shove that hard?*
He'd been worried, yeah, but now it felt like yellow was overkill.
The ref coolly brandished it at Wood anyway.
As Wood reeled from the yellow, Pak had rolled a full five meters from the foul spot—still writhing in agony.
Pak's theatrics were leveling up.