Chapter 82
Chapter 82
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 82
Chapter Title: Firmly and Brilliantly (3)
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“Huff—!”
Tong-a let out a short breath. His planted foot came down on the left side of the stationary ball.
Thwack—!
In that instant, his right instep whipped across, striking the dead center of the ball.
Splash~! The net rippled, but Tong-a’s expression wasn’t all that bright.
“This isn’t it…”
Even after regular training had ended, Tong-a was still pouring everything into shooting practice like this.
A burning desire to overcome his weakness had taken root.
But things weren’t going his way.
He trudged over and frowned at the speed gun set up near the goal.
“Barely… 100 km/h?”
It was way too low.
If the average adult male clocked in at 70 km/h, pros had to clear a much higher bar.
And in that regard, Tong-a’s shooting power was weaker than anyone could’ve imagined.
“Dead last.”
A deflated mutter escaped his lips.
In non-competitive situations like practice, shooting speeds should’ve been even higher.
With no pressure, you could pour every ounce of power into the shot.
But in yesterday’s speed test, Tong-a had ranked dead last among the first-team squad.
Today was no different—he was still flaunting that feeble shot of his.
Thud!
Tong-a collapsed to the ground.
The scowl on his face showed no signs of easing.
“My ambitions just keep growing…”
When he’d first joined Bolton Wanderers, he hadn’t harbored grand dreams as a footballer.
He was already burned out from grinding in the K3 League.
During that brief stint as an unemployed drifter, he’d even toyed with the idea of just opening a shop.
Then Ma Jeong-woo had come calling.
And he’d made him an offer.
Come to Bolton Wanderers and go for one last big swing.
Show off everything he had, then ship off to some Middle East or Chinese league.
A chuckle slipped out unbidden.
“I bit. Yeah, I bit.”
Above all, Jeong-woo’s initial guidance had been too good to pass up.
He hadn’t just called up a second-division K3 player like him—he’d thrown him straight into the fire.
“And I scored…”
From the moment he stepped onto the pitch, it had felt right.
Like he’d finally slipped into clothes that fit.
But after Jeong-woo left, dark clouds rolled in over Tong-a’s future fast.
No one knew how to use him properly.
In the end, he’d failed to renew his contract and wound up jobless again.
So… there hadn’t been much hesitation in choosing Bolton.
“I wanted to feel it one more time.”
He’d craved stepping onto the field under Ma Jeong-woo’s guidance, wearing that perfect fit again.
And that instinct had hit the mark.
He’d dazzled from his debut, rocketing straight to Bolton’s most promising prospect.
The Wanderers hailed him as League One’s Sonic.
But before long… even that sparked new ambitions.
“I know I can do even better…”
Unlike K3, being at Bolton had made it clear to Tong-a.
He’d felt it—and lived it—in real matches.
Chances came at him in droves.
All he had to do was shake a defender.
And in a blink, the ball was at his feet.
“Then just shoot.”
Rustle.
Tong-a had half-risen by now.
Soccer balls littered the area around the goal.
Having final passes fed to him nonstop was great.
The problem was what came after.
“Of all things, my finishing sucks… I’ve blown them all.”
Two days ago, Horichi Media had ranked him the most inefficient striker—at number one.
This wasn’t just about shot conversion.
It was a composite stat: despite getting more shooting chances than anyone, he’d coughed up back passes or turnovers to kill them.
Including all those home-run balls he’d blazed past the goal.
“Embarrassing as hell…”
Just recalling the article made his face burn red.
Then he sprang back up.
A sudden surge of motivation hit him.
Tong-a gathered the balls near the goal and lined them up one by one in the area.
He poured his focus into insteps, outsteps, insides—unleashing every shooting technique.
How much time passed like that?
“Do you really need to hit it that hard?”
Flinch!
Tong-a jerked mid-shot, shanking it badly.
“Agh…!”
The ball sailed off like a no-look pass to the right corner flag.
He groaned without thinking, clutching his head.
‘Even a seven-year-old wouldn’t miss like that!’
He whipped his head toward the voice.
Eager to see who’d shattered his laser focus.
Then he jumped.
“C-Coach…!”
Tong-a’s eyes went wide.
There stood Emmanuel Adebayor, backlit by the sun, stepping onto the pitch in training gear.
Flashing a grin, white teeth gleaming.
“That’s not how you hit it.”
* * *
Thwack—!
Splash!
The net rippled.
Emmanuel Adebayor shook his head.
“You hit it with the front?”
“Yeah, I definitely aimed for the front…”
“Felt more like the left side to me.”
“R-Really?”
“Yeah. Your shot’s dogshit.”
“…”
“Try again.”
“Got it.”
Tong-a reset his shooting stance.
Left foot planted left of the stationary ball, he twisted and swung his raised right foot.
Aiming square for the front of the ball.
But again, it curved slightly right.
“See? Bang. You twisted left again. You gotta fool the keeper—why fool yourself?”
“…”
Adebayor dropped facts without a care, more bluntly than expected.
Then, with a deeply concerned look, he asked:
“Even your piss doesn’t go where you aim?”
“No! That’s ridiculous! I’m still in my early twenties!”
Tong-a bristled.
What did soccer have to do with piss?
Luckily, Adebayor let it drop.
Instead, he stepped forward a few paces and planted himself in front of the ball.
No plant foot—he just whipped his right leg through.
Whoosh—!
“Whoa—!”
Tong-a couldn’t hold back an exclamation.
The stance, and that explosive air-crack from his right foot in the swing.
Thwboom—!
When instep met ball front, it boomed like thunder.
Splash—!
The net thrashed wildly, less than 0.1 seconds later by feel.
Adebayor chin-nodded at the slack-jawed Tong-a and grinned.
“See? Like that.”
“…”
Tong-a wailed internally.
‘If only it were that easy.’
Right now, Adebayor looked like some smug uncle to him.
‘Piece of cake, right?’
The one-on-one tutoring dragged on for a while.
All the while, Tong-a wondered in his head.
‘Why’s he helping?’
At Bolton, the only one who could approach Adebayor easily was probably Ma Jeong-woo.
The aura he gave off was just too intimidating.
To the players, he was a guy who’d graced EPL and La Liga—big clubs at that. An invisible wall loomed.
And Adebayor wasn’t the type to approach first.
Even in mandated tutoring sessions under the coach, he’d half-assed it.
That had only widened the gap.
But now? Different story.
“Should record your shooting form too. Watch it yourself, spot the flaws, tweak every detail. If I had to say, your stance is straight-up dogshit right now.”
“…”
“You’re not dogshit, but your shots? Total dogshit—like a leaky piss stream. That’s why the speed halves. Dogshit, really. Oh, saying it again: you’re not dogshit. Your shooting is.”
“…”
“So just drill instep. That’s plenty. Even with dogshit shots like yours, you can manage it.”
Adebayor beamed innocently, advice flowing freely. No malice in sight.
“You’re not dogshit…”
Listening quietly, it felt like some twisted roast.
Hearing “dogshit” nonstop was starting to make him feel like one for real.
* * *
After extra training wrapped, Emmanuel Adebayor showered and headed to the parking lot.
He climbed into the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine right away.
Instead, he sank into thought for a moment.
His mind replayed his recent chat with Jeong-woo.
‘Shearer Kane, Sensuous Ruff, Slow Bulky, and Pak. Be their mentor. Pace-setter again.’
Lead them, plain and simple.
Adebayor had been baffled at first.
Out of nowhere, this League One starter was talking World Class, saying he couldn’t play over 15 minutes.
But the more he heard, the less he could hide his shock.
‘This place can’t sustain a one-man team right now—it’s barren ground. We move as one. Organization’s everything; no one can stick out. That’s where you… your work rate’s too low. If we sub you in, others have to sacrifice more.’
Jeong-woo had laid it out.
He was already using Owen Precise and Dominic Shield, forcing sacrifices in their work rates.
But Owen and Dominic pushed their strengths to the limit in return.
‘Add you, though… and the team balance we’ve built crumbles. Like a sandcastle. Fucking sucks, right?’
On that note, Jeong-woo continued.
‘We grow together. You build stamina, pass experience to Bolton’s young future. Lead them up.’
‘The real kicker? No matter how hard you grind now, you won’t hit peak form fully. So raise theMad Dog use ’em. Let them run what you can’t, and more. Dominate the attack line. Your revival? Totally doable. Get it?’
Rustle.
Adebayor glanced at his left shoulder, right hand drifting there.
Jeong-woo’s grip from earlier still weighed heavy.
And those eyes—he couldn’t shake them.
Fierce, electric, he’d kept going.
‘You might think this is enough. Not me. From the jump, I saw you higher.’
‘So crank that fitness. No league minutes till I’m satisfied. Cup games, though—you’ll play. Gotta keep match sharpness. Full 45 in the first half. That’s me being nice.’
‘Deep down, I wanna grind you even harder.’
Recalling it, Adebayor cracked a wry smile. The concrete plans to work him felt reassuring instead.
He’d even spelled out the cups ahead.
League Cup with teams from tiers one to four, Northwest Champions Cup against top youth sides.
And he’d cut straight to it.
He’d ditched those early.
‘We pour everything into league. Cups spread us too thin. So everything but FA Cup.’
Jeong-woo held up two fingers, grinning sharply, adding:
‘You demolish there. Rebuild your value. Lead the young talents. Won’t dump it all on you—I’ll back you every way.’
At the end, he’d tapped Adebayor’s chest lightly with his fist.
‘Emmanuel Adebayor. Don’t undervalue your name. You’re not done. You being at this Bolton proves it.’