Chapter 63
Chapter 63
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 63
Chapter Title: The Moves Are There to Be Read (4)
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Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 63: The Moves Are There to Be Read (4)
“That's straight-up Hollywood action!”
Ole Gunnar Solskjær hopped in fury.
He had seen it clear as day with his own two eyes.
They'd barely brushed against each other, yet the guy flew back like he'd been hit by a car.
Even as he tumbled, it was like the air itself had slapped him several times.
And it didn't stop there.
“The medical doctor too...!”
Solskjær barked before he knew it.
Over in the technical area beside him.
Ma Jeong-woo had a gravely serious look as he sent the medical doctor onto the pitch.
“Ha, unbelievable!”
Solskjær was dumbfounded.
The thought of Wigan Athletic suddenly made his eyes twitch.
Soon, he muttered through gritted teeth.
“They score one goal and now they wanna play Middle Eastern bed football? No pride at all, huh?”
“Hey, hey. He's still glaring at you. Looks like lasers are shooting from his eyes.”
Park Hee-won chimed in from the side, glancing sideways.
“About to awaken as a Cyclops or what?”
Ma Jeong-woo kept his serious, worry-filled expression fixed on Pak, the ace, and the medical doctor examining him as he continued.
“That kid's face is gonna get wrecked.”
He didn't even need to look back to feel the stinging glare.
The reason was obvious.
Right now, Bolton was up 1-0 against Manchester United.
And it had happened past the 70th minute.
For Ma Jeong-woo, he wanted to hold onto that goal no matter what.
And with Bolton's current squad, the best way to protect it was exactly this.
Lure them into a mudslinging brawl disguised as Middle Eastern bed football.
“They're probably muttering about pride and all that crap right about now.”
Ma Jeong-woo's lips twitched ever so slightly.
Park Hee-won glanced at the opposite technical area and replied.
“Looks like he's cursing? Whoa, check it out! He just called you a bastard. Or did he?”
“...”
Whatever.
To win, no means could be off-limits.
And against this Manchester United side, he figured a strategy like this would work better than against any other team.
Right now, United's lineup was all young bucks born in 2000 or 2001, except for keeper Tommy Heaton and Axel Tuanzebe.
‘Prime hot-blooded age. The kind where a spark sets 'em off easy.’
He'd seen it in glimpses.
Even during the match, several players had gotten irritable after blocks killed their shots.
It might look like Middle Eastern football on the surface, but it was totally different.
‘No, the Simons bed tactics are similar, but this is more systematic. A strategy to torment the opponent and bait their fouls.’
In other words, counter-fouls.
Plus, over those twenty minutes of the second half, Bolton Wanderers had shown everything they had.
‘Organization aside, I think we've maxed out player utilization.’
He'd slotted Bolton's players perfectly into the formation to run the team.
In the process, they moved like chess pieces, blocking United's attacks bit by bit.
Not conceding a goal yet was already a pass.
Hell, Bolton had even scored.
Ma Jeong-woo muttered to himself.
‘Take a good look.’
Aimed at Manchester City's boss, Pep Guardiola, watching from somewhere.
Or at City future stars who might soon join his team.
If time dragged on here, even mixing up tactics, those sharp United youngsters would keep exploiting gaps.
“Better to mess with their heads.”
Make it so they couldn't think straight.
Pull out individual plays over team shape.
Expose that hot-blooded flaw, even if fatal.
He didn't care if it was dirty.
In the end, Ma Jeong-woo bared his white teeth and said.
“Winning is pride.”
* * *
That was when it started.
Bolton suddenly dropped their line as low as it could go.
Even Shearer Kane parked inside the box.
Subbed out Quick Floyd for center-back Joel Viks in a bold move.
Just that had United's players grinding their teeth.
Up front, the battling striker Conor Staley muttered with a scowl.
“These guys. They're just gonna defend now!”
70th minute.
United attacker Conor Staley grabbed the ball and tried to drive forward.
That's when Sensuous Ruff rushed in quick from the left flank.
“Urgh!”
Staley spun away defensively, arm outstretched.
Right then.
‘Now...!’
Sensuous Ruff slammed his left cheek straight into Staley's thrusting hand near the shoulder.
Smack-!
Thud-!
“Aaagh!”
Ruff clutched his cheek with both hands and went down.
Tweet-!
“What?”
Conor Staley had no choice but to halt.
The ref blew for foul.
Staley couldn't protest much since he hadn't seen behind him.
His raised palm had definitely connected with the guy's face.
Still, something felt off.
Meanwhile, Sensuous Ruff squeezed his eyes shut again.
‘Fuck.’
Better to play it safe for pride's sake.
74th minute.
Thwack-!
This time, David Dignity launched into the air before rolling on the turf.
In stealing the ball, he'd given space on the left—then flung himself at the opponent's thrusting thigh during the burst.
Like hurdling with his whole body.
He skimmed over the thigh with his gut, tumbled through the air, then hit the deck clutching his stomach in agony.
“Gah, ugh!”
Tweet-!
The ref called foul without hesitation.
Not every time, though.
Sometimes the ref gave attacking advantage.
77th minute.
David Dignity went down again in a challenge.
But no whistle this time.
“Now!”
Solskjær yelled from afar.
United pounced, surging faster into Bolton's final third.
Into the left half-space,
Thwack-!
Amad Diallo unleashed a bold shot.
Thump-!
But before the keeper could react, a center-back chested it away.
“What the hell...! @#$%!”
Even Diallo was swearing now.
In the delays from fouls, Bolton had preset their positions.
Like machines, tailored to the ball-possessor's style.
That was nothing new anymore.
‘How many times have I puked from this.’
Dignity dusted off his kit as he got up, thinking.
Ma Jeong-woo's words kept flashing with certain opponent moves.
‘Left side. Left. That Diallo always fakes left from the right half. Just block that.’
Even if missed, no biggie.
He'd drilled the next steps into the squad already.
‘Let him go if he goes. But have the rest shape it so he shoots. Make the angle obvious.’
Ma Jeong-woo had said.
Diallo dribbles, sure, but he's shot-happy.
Especially mid-range blasts from outside the area.
And Ma Jeong-woo exploited it.
When Diallo got the ball in their half, he'd shift the defense to yield specific space on purpose.
‘Can't stop Diallo's dribble right now. Better to bait shots. Prep makes all the difference.’
So Bolton was ready.
From the moment Diallo wound up, their stances were set to burst into that yielded space.
The edge over Wigan? Yeah.
‘This guy's got a freckle the size of a pinky nail on his left ass cheek...’
In short, they knew everything about United.
Ma Jeong-woo was that meticulous.
No clue how he spotted the ass freckle, though.
United's play grew rougher by the minute.
Bolton didn't even need Hollywood dives anymore—flesh scraped flesh, hands flew in every scrap.
A few more minutes ticked by...
Thwack-!
Tweet-!
[Manchester United! Facundo Pellistri picks up a yellow!]
[Pushed Pak hard!]
[Oh! He's lost control of his temper, heading to the downed Pak all fired up!]
[Brief melee between the teams!]
The mudslinging was taking hold.
* * *
Pep Guardiola was watching the Bolton vs. Manchester United match from home.
And he couldn't hide his surprise.
‘Impressive.’
Past the 37th minute, Bolton held a 1-0 lead.
Pep focused less on the goal against United and more on the approach.
Then the commentators shouted.
[They're tormenting United with that Middle Eastern football Bolton showed against Wigan!]
Pep's brow twitched faintly.
“Middle Eastern bed football? Ridiculous.”
Not even close, in his view.
Surface-level, maybe, but totally different underneath.
“They're making the opponent hasty to draw fouls. Dragging them into the muck.”
And more.
“They know everything.”
Bolton's players read every United move to a tee.
They'd throw bodies in as the ball was cleared, baiting fouls.
Clashes mid-play to spark irritation too.
They knew exactly where to poke for reactions.
“Intelligent.”
In 1v1s, the talent gap made duels tough, so they'd foul—draw one or commit, whatever broke play.
Or delay.
Meanwhile, the rest reset positions.
Funny part: Amad Diallo, Facundo Pellistri, Conor Staley.
Shift the ball-holder, and Bolton's defensive spots shifted too, subtly.
Pep's keen eye caught it.
“Hmm.”
He stroked his chin.
Tactical prowess, no doubt.
‘Making great use of what he has.’
Why United hadn't scored despite dominance.
All their moves were read.
Bolton threw themselves like moths to block.
‘Fully prepared.’
And then it emerged.
‘A gap...’
Not Bolton's—United's.
While baiting simulation fouls on defense, United's line crept higher.
Occupying Bolton's half outright.
Gaps for Bolton counters flickered open.
Just then, the broadcast cam panned to Ma Jeong-woo.
Hands in pockets, chewing gum.
Lips smirking.
Right then.
Thud-!
From the left touchline, ace Pak exploded forward at insane speed.
Faster than Amad Diallo, speed-wise.
No ball either, so...
[Ooooh! Pak, Pak, Paaaak—! Is that Usain Bolt?!]
Commentators bounced in their seats.
Eternal defending, then a sudden counter raid.
Pep straightened up.
Bang-!
Dominic Shields stole it in Bolton's defensive zone, passed to Owen nearby.
Owen hammered a long ball direct.
Ace timed an underlap, slicing central.
Thwack-!
[Ugh!]
Splat!
Teden Mengi, a few steps behind Pak's sprint start, barely caught up and hacked with a deliberate foul.
But Mengi's face twisted.
[Fuck...!]
Bounce-!
The ball bounded a meter past Pak's reach, out for a throw.
No need to stop Pak at all.
Misread landing spot from the jump.
Plus, the kid had eased off from a four-step gap.
Too late.
Tweet-!
[Bolton Wanderers! Free kick just outside the box! Oh! Dangerous spot...!]
Broadcast cam whipped around.
[What! Foul just now too? Didn't you see him fall before the push? Huh? Intentional?!]
Solskjær stormed out of the technical area, face red with rage.
He laid into the ref.
[If my player pulled that cheap Hollywood shit, I'd starve him for days! Huh?!]
Cam cut to refs approaching Solskjær.
Pep's lips curled up.
Unlike Solskjær, he saw it differently.
‘Proper foul this time.’
United's pent-up center-back shoved rough.
Looked that way to Pep, at least.
Pak had smartly slowed, knowing the foul was coming.
Solskjær jabbed at his eyes with index and middle fingers, protesting nonstop.
Did you even see right?!
Ref couldn't take it, pulled a card from his breast pocket.
Snap-!
[Oh! Red card!]
[Ole Gunnar Solskjær! Couldn't hold his temper, mouths off to the ref and gets direct dismissal!]
* * *
80th minute.
Owen Fraizer took the free kick from the spot.
His left leg pulled back like a bowstring, whipped viciously through the air.
Swoosh-!
Right foot planted on turf, twisted hard.
Instep of the left nailed the ball's left side with curve.
Boom-!
Air burst sound.
United keeper Tommy Stone stamped in frustration, then froze.
Clang-!
No jump timing—the curling shot slammed the far post corner hard.