Chapter 81
Chapter 81
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 81
Chapter Title: Solidly and Splendidly (2)
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Emmanuel Adebayor wanted to run.
But reality refused to bend to his will.
Because his form had dipped, because of all his antics, he kept getting rejected time and again.
And so, stepping back from being Europe's top striker, he had sunk all the way down to a third-division league.
Especially when he transferred to Bolton Wanderers, some media reports ignited his fury.
[Unlucky Striker, Emmanuel Adebayor...! How Did He End Up in the Third Division...?]
[Adebayor...! Only Two Appearances in the Last Two Years!]
Some even doubted if he could revive himself in League One.
So he used that anger as a springboard to train even harder.
‘The moment I signed with Bolton, I made up my mind...!’
At least for one season, or maybe two, he would burn everything he had.
He knew it too.
Facing reality head-on, he knew his football career didn’t have much time left.
But now.
“Hey, Boss! I want to play in matches. That’s why I joined this team.”
Adebayor vented his frustration at the man before him.
The target was none other than the club owner and manager, Ma Jeong-woo.
He had a height rivaling Adebayor’s own and sat slouched in the executive chair, dressed in a rumpled suit.
Ma Jeong-woo tilted his head slightly.
“I know. I signed you because I want to use you too. Honestly... from Bolton’s perspective, paying that hefty salary and not using you would be a loss, right? I hate doing business at a loss.”
“That’s why I’m asking—why haven’t you put me on for the ninth game in a row?”
That was the core issue.
Not one game, not two, but nine games straight.
The club owner and manager in front of him kept listing him on the bench but hadn’t subbed him in even once.
“Why!”
To Adebayor, it was baffling and infuriating.
He had chosen a lower league to play, trained harder than anyone during sessions just to get on the pitch.
“Is it stamina? I know about that, but I’m not demanding to start every game! Or is it just... did you sign me to mentor the players? Huh?”
Now Adebayor raised his voice.
As those words suggested, Jeong-woo had given Adebayor special instructions.
To train more closely with young players like Shearer, Kane, and star prospect Park.
To pass on his experience as a fellow striker.
Adebayor had followed those orders, in his own way.
Of course, it was more passive—he’d share knowledge only when they approached him first.
“No way... is that why?”
Adebayor made a bewildered face, wondering if Jeong-woo had taken offense to something like that.
That was when it happened.
Jeong-woo rose from his seat and spoke.
“Let me cut to the chase. Right now, I have no intention of giving you more than 15 minutes.”
“...What?”
The unexpected words drew a sharp retort from Adebayor’s mouth.
Meanwhile, Jeong-woo looked at the growling man and cracked a faint smile.
‘Look at this guy’s face. One more wrong word, and a karate kick’s coming my way.’
He’d come here to play, only to be told he wouldn’t get more than 15 minutes.
That reaction was only natural.
For a footballer, running on the pitch was a way to prove they were alive.
To a player, this was no different froMad Dogeath sentence.
Especially for Adebayor, a man who had once reached the top.
No matter how much his skills had declined, his pride hadn’t hit rock bottom.
Just as Jeong-woo thought, Adebayor gaped in shock.
He felt like unleashing a torrent of curses at the manager right then.
Wasn’t this basically saying he’d never start?
Adebayor barely contained his rage and growled.
“Hey, Boss. Let me make this clear—I didn’t come here to be some patch-up job.”
From Adebayor’s perspective, it felt like betrayal.
He knew it too.
That Bolton was gaining quite a bit from him in uniform sales and marketing.
‘Did they really sign me just as a publicity stunt...? Fuck!’
The thought made his pride plummet in an instant.
It was a situation ripe for misunderstanding.
Of course, Jeong-woo didn’t care if Adebayor skipped formalities or cursed.
Instead, he took a step, then another, shuffling forward as he opened his mouth.
“I get it. Every player dreams of that. Young ones prove it through loans or effort to start every game. It’s the same no matter your position. And the manager... rewarding that is the unspoken system in this football world.”
“Boss, I want to play. That’s why I came here. I even took a pay cut...!”
Adebayor shouted lowly.
Jeong-woo shrugged and replied shamelessly.
“Who said I’d keep you on the bench? I said I’d give you about 15 minutes.”
“That’s bullshit...! Are you messing with me right now? Huh?”
“In this third division... 15 minutes is plenty for you.”
“I played for Arsenal! Manchester City too! And now 15 minutes? Was this your plan from the start? Did you trick me?!”
“I never tricked you. I never promised a specific number of minutes from the get-go.”
Now Adebayor couldn’t even see Jeong-woo as a manager anymore—just some word-playing fool.
His eyes were bloodshot.
Adebayor’s breathing grew ragged.
Soon, he clenched his fists tighter and yelled.
“I gave up a lot to come here! Thought about it endlessly! Decided Bolton would be my final stop! And now? No more than 15 minutes? Damn it...!”
He trailed off into incredulous laughter. No matter how he thought about it, the situation made no sense.
‘When did I become such a joke? Huh?’
Adebayor felt Jeong-woo was looking down on him.
It hit him anew.
Just a few years ago, clubs had sent private jets to lure him.
Meanwhile, the man facing him showed no reaction whatsoever.
Instead, he stopped three steps away, standing stock-still and staring blankly.
Now Adebayor pleaded.
“This isn’t what I planned at all. This is an insult...!”
No other team would take him now.
That certainty made him more desperate.
Adebayor spat as he spoke.
“My stamina’s up plenty! I can give everything for at least 45 minutes...!”
“Whoa, whoa, 45 minutes won’t cut it.”
But Jeong-woo shut it down flat.
Adebayor went momentarily speechless, like he’d swallowed honey.
Jeong-woo stared at him, wrinkling his nose bridge as he added.
“We have a saying—even rotten fish is still fish. Even a rich man takes three years to go broke.”
“...What?”
“To repeat: in League One, 15 minutes is enough for you. Anything more just highlights your weaknesses.”
“...?”
Question marks filled Adebayor’s eyes.
Seizing the moment, Jeong-woo stepped closer and slyly extended a hand.
Flinch!
Adebayor shuddered slightly at the large hand on his left shoulder before he knew it.
Jeong-woo now fixed him with a piercing gaze, smile gone.
And he stated flatly.
“I’m not using you as a patch-up either. But until you become the version of you I want... you’re not quite there yet. That’s why no minutes.”
It was incomprehensible.
The version he wanted?
Adebayor shot back immediately.
“I’m plenty good enough right now...!”
But he couldn’t finish.
Crunch—!
The grip on his shoulder tightened.
Adebayor’s pupils trembled faintly.
Then Jeong-woo spoke lowly, eyes sharp like a bird of prey.
“You must never become just a third-division player. Better to be world-class for 15 minutes than a third-division hack who can last 45.”
“...”
For a moment, Adebayor was stunned.
It was the last thing he’d expected.
But Jeong-woo didn’t stop.
“You’ve got the title of Europe’s top striker... so retiring in the third division? No way. At minimum, retire in the Premier League.”
“What?”
Adebayor reflexively questioned the sudden Premier League mention. But Jeong-woo pressed on.
“So make the supporters curse me out. ‘Why isn’t Adebayor playing?’ ‘Why not start him?’ Raise your game to make fans hate me. That’s what 15 minutes proves.”
“So, 15 minutes?”
“Imagine it: you warm up, and the opponents tense up. Isn’t that something only a 15-minute world-class player—not some 45-minute third-division scrub—could pull off?”
“...”
Adebayor looked dumbfounded yet somewhat struck. Then Jeong-woo furrowed his brow and added.
“Ah, I’m only pushing you this hard because it’s you. You’re older than me, with a solid career, right? Call it the bare minimum respect I can give. But in front of the squad, act like any other player. Otherwise, I’ll put you on a plane back to individual training camp.”
“Individual... what?”
“There’s good stuff like that, man. But formal speech or casual? You’re confusing me, you punk.”
Adebayor averted his eyes, pretending not to hear Jeong-woo’s final grumble.
* * *
At the same time.
Recently, World Management’s community section was plastered with posts.
All about Mad Dog.
[Mad Dog, where the hell are you?]
[Mad Dog survival check, then poof again.]
[Hey, Mad Dog. No new tactics?]
Users had gone wild when Mad Dog briefly resurfaced.
He’d even tossed out a new tactic midway.
But after months of silence again, fans were desperate.
Amid the rumors, even absurd posts popped up—like one claiming to be Mad Dog’s older brother.
Some said Mad Dog had received a terminal diagnosis.
[Mad Dog is actually a genius tactician with a terminal illness. I’m his brother. He’s 42 this year... a product of the Kovarchiano coaching academy....]
Some posts were detailed enough to convince a few.
The search for Mad Dog wasn’t just online.
One such seeker was Liverpool’s assistant coach, Zeljko Bubac.
He still wanted to meet Mad Dog and talk, just once.
“Hey, Luis.”
“Yes?”
Luis Abami, the analyst peering at a tactics board on the guest sofa, looked up.
From the main sofa, Bubac muttered with a grave expression.
“You know about that?”
“About what...?”
“At first, it was just curiosity. Who’s the guy uploading these groundbreaking, almost living tactics online.”
It was true.
Pure curiosity at the start.
“But day after day... he drops a new tactic. I’m amazed again... it’s like the curiosity keeps growing.”
His intrigue about Mad Dog had only amplified.
Messages via DMs went ignored, turning curiosity into obsession.
Now he just wanted a meal and a chat.
“Personally... I’d pull an all-nighter debating tactics.”
Somehow, he felt they’d click perfectly on that.
Bubac chuckled.
“I’ve never met him once... but I get this feeling. Like we’d talk for hours.”
The idea of someone so similar was intriguing and comforting.
Right then.
Bzzzzt—!
A phone on the table edge buzzed.
Bubac reached for it.
Caller: Chelsea’s assistant coach, Aaron Wilkins.
He was a rising star among assistants lately.
Also a close friend of Bubac’s, and one of the few sharing his obsession with Mad Dog.
Bubac pressed the call button firmly.
After light chit-chat, he heard shocking news from Aaron Wilkins.
[A few weeks back... I was iffy, but after recent matches, I’m sure. I think I’ve found Mad Dog.]