Chapter 72
Chapter 72
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 72
Chapter Title: Knocking on the Door (3)
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Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 72: Knocking on the Door (3)
Ma Jeong-woo's office.
“H-Here, it's hot, so I'll blow on it for you, fhoo fhoo.”
Park Hee-won brought over some tea.
He stole glances at the hulking man seated across from him.
Inside, he kept marveling in awe.
'Whoa, he's way bigger than he looked on TV.'
It was hard to believe Emmanuel Adebayor was sitting right there in front of him.
Every big club had chased this world-class striker, after all.
'That comeback ceremony against Arsenal gave me chills...!'
He wanted an autograph right then and there.
Even though his peak was long past, facing him in person radiated star power.
Ma Jeong-woo felt the same way.
'Definitely... even at his age, you can feel his value.'
In other words, he reeked of money.
Just signing him would boost jersey sales big time.
He'd seen an article recently.
Lionel Messi's move to PSG generated £80 million (129 billion KRW) in jersey sales in just one day.
'No, they sold out in 30 minutes... so he made £80 million in under half an hour.'
That's why star players matter.
Of course, Adebayor wasn't on Messi's level—not even close.
But in League One? In terms of career and fame, he was probably the top star.
On the other hand, Ma Jeong-woo couldn't help but chuckle inwardly.
'Am I really turning into a total merchant?'
Judging players by their marketability first.
Outwardly, though, Ma Jeong-woo kept his cool.
“Go ahead and have some first.”
He offered the tea while leaning back casually on the sofa.
“Thank you.”
The white-haired middle-aged man next to Emmanuel Adebayor smiled kindly and took a sip first.
Ma Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes.
'An agent.'
And a no-name one at that.
Adebayor, who had once roamed Europe, was now jobless, which was why he was here.
Honestly... it wouldn't be weird if he retired right now.
'37 years old.'
Past the twilight years for soccer players.
Sure, there were players in Europe's top five leagues into their mid-thirties.
Joaquín Sánchez was one, and Zlatan Ibrahimović another.
They were older than Adebayor yet still key contributors.
'Still showing they can bench most young players.'
But Adebayor was far from that case.
'His playing spark is pretty much out at this point.'
He'd always been controversial, even in his prime.
Of course, Ma Jeong-woo had already pretended to fiddle with his phone on the way over and skimmed Adebayor's recent achievements.
'Paraguay first division until last season.'
And released after just two games.
For delivering a flying kick to a defender in a key match, earning a straight red.
'A karate kick mid-game. Pfft.'
Yet Ma Jeong-woo couldn't easily look away from Adebayor.
'Hmm, check this guy out.'
He was staring straight back.
Bold, with lively eyes.
Full of that crazy glint, too.
Meanwhile, Adebayor's agent, the African-born Yomoaye, tried to hide his anxiety.
'Please, let this signing go through...'
He knew it too.
Adebayor's value as a player had plummeted.
Still, clubs had wanted him before—for his marketability.
But even that was fading now.
Teams were shying away after his stints in fringe leagues, filled with conflicts and reckless plays.
Some fans even criticized him for tarnishing club images.
After going around in circles, he ended up at Bolton Wanderers.
Why Bolton among third-tier teams? Simple.
Yomoaye had been captivated by Bolton's attractive play against Manchester United.
Adebayor felt the same.
While they waited, Richard Geers dropped by and handed Ma Jeong-woo a file.
“Scouting report on Adebayor.”
Yomoaye swallowed dryly.
He'd only glanced at their own scouting report, which Yomoaye had clutched tightly.
But his eyes sharpened more than ever on the one from Richard Geers.
Soon, Yomoaye's hopes sank further.
Ma Jeong-woo leaned back and spoke.
“Drama wherever you go, huh? Even back at Arsenal, you clashed with Arsène Wenger... and had fallouts with teammates.”
He furrowed his brow slightly while reading the scouting report.
He continued.
“Noise at every club... and salary hike demands every half-season or so.”
“Hmm. Fistfight with Kolo Touré. Ouch, even brawled with a teammate at Kayserispor. What is this, MMA?”
“And the big one... attack points: just one goal in the last two years.”
Of course, few games played factored in.
Only eight matches in two years.
At that moment, Adebayor opened his mouth as if to protest.
Thwack-!
But Yomoaye nudged his thigh with the back of his hand before he could speak.
Ma Jeong-woo saw it and smirked.
Thud-!
He closed the file.
Yomoaye had already resigned himself.
'Knew it...'
Standard script.
Previous clubs had been interested at first, then disappointed by his recent antics and backed out.
The owner here wore the same expression.
He could guess the next words.
Just confirming Adebayor's era was over once more.
Disappointment crept into Adebayor's eyes.
A flash of self-anger, too.
Meanwhile, seeing the two slump like defeated soldiers, Ma Jeong-woo delivered his verdict without hesitation.
“Alright, you're decent enough. Let's check your form on the pitch first. Oh, heads up—we can't pay big wages. Any fights with teammates, you're out immediately. But if you snap, we'll look the other way on riling up opponents—as long as it's not on the penalty line.”
“Y-Yes?”
Yomoaye blurted out in shock at the unexpected response.
Adebayor's eyes widened.
Ma Jeong-woo shrugged and grinned.
“Oh, if we sign, we'll add an option clause. Mandatory antics once a month. Agree? Of course, we'll decide what those antics are.”
Now the two stared at Ma Jeong-woo like he was the weird one.
Mandatory antics?
* * *
Charlton Athletic was located in Greenwich, London.
And this team hadn't knocked on the Premier League's door since 2007.
Instead, they'd cycled through relegations and promotions, stuck in stagnation.
“After all that, we've lingered in League One for quite a while.”
Charlton staff meeting room.
Jimmy Jones, 57 this year, was a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes.
He addressed the staff with a firm gaze.
“And always reaching the promotion playoffs, only to crumble at the end. Why? What's the problem?”
The staff couldn't answer easily.
As Jimmy said, Charlton often started strong but collapsed in the second half.
“Last season, we hit fourth place... then dropped to sixth. Lost in the playoffs. Same the season before, and the one before that.”
Current manager Jimmy Jones had taken Charlton Athletic's helm this season.
Their record: 2 wins, 1 draw.
7 points, sixth in the table.
Only three games in, but fans had high hopes for Jimmy.
Supporters adored him.
Simple reason.
As a player, he'd been key in promoting Charlton to the Premier League.
A core member of the golden era under legendary manager Alan Curbishley.
He continued.
Why always collapse at the end?
The answer was simple.
“We were middling strong. And complacent.”
No one could deny it.
Last season, they'd lost to teams they should've beaten.
The previous manager had rested key players before big games for stamina management.
Jimmy eyed the staff sharply.
“We need to treat every match like a final. Same for this Bolton game.”
Bolton Wanderers.
Charlton had beaten them twice last season.
But Jimmy didn't see current Bolton as pushovers.
“Especially that mercenary tactics and strategy against Manchester United... it could pierce Charlton's heart deep.”
Opinions on the Man Utd win were split.
Some Brits, averse to Middle Eastern-style soccer, dismissed Bolton's victory.
But with the league underway, perceptions shifted. Bolton's organization felt gangster-like to opponents.
Half still blamed Man Utd's errors; the other half saw Bolton had changed.
Staff opinions here were split too.
'Man Utd fielded reserves. They were complacent.'
'First League One team to beat an EPL side in 7 years. They earned it. And underestimate Bolton in our league? Ridiculous.'
Jimmy sided with the latter.
“Bolton's manager excels at firing up players psychologically. Used it strategically, brilliantly.”
Some called it Middle Eastern bed soccer... but not in Jimmy's eyes.
Like Hosep, he'd seen it clearly.
'He baited them on purpose... stole their rhythm entirely.'
Time passed.
After the three-hour meeting, staff emerged drained.
Then, new coach Dwayne paused in the hallway, weary.
“Totally different from the press conference?”
“What?”
Third-year staffer Hans rubbed his stiff neck.
Dwayne glanced at the closed manager's office and whispered.
“At the presser, he trashed Bolton's manager, even mocked their players.”
True.
Jimmy had said yesterday:
[The Bolton manager is a lucky guy. His wins are all thanks to the goddess of victory smiling on him.]
[No striker on Bolton. Silent for three games now. Looks like he's sunk into the turf.]
[Shearer Kane... hm. No idea why he signed a fifth-division kid.]
Dwayne narrowed his eyes and added.
“But in the meeting... he called Bolton a huge threat, no complacency. Tighten team bonds.”
Hans, massaging his neck, chuckled.
“You know what they called Jimmy when he won three Qatar league titles?”
“Huh?”
Dwayne blinked, eyes wide, then looked left.
Nothing came to mind.
Hans stared at his junior.
“Fox.”
“Fox...?”
“Jimmy's a psychological warfare master. That's why he's two-faced.”
Seeing Dwayne still puzzled, Hans patted his shoulder.
“You know, smiling to your face while hiding a dagger behind his back. Like that.”