Chapter 98
Chapter 98
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: uly
Chapter: 98
Chapter Title: Bolton Wanderers Here (8)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Black-Haired Tactical Genius
Chapter 98: Bolton Wanderers Here (8)
The self-proclaimed Black Cats watching the match via a Naver streamer had now completely taken over the chat.
That was how one-sided Sunderland's onslaught had become.
- <DieForSunderland>: We're down a goal, but look. Equalizer and turnaround any minute!
- <GirlShot>: 15 years betting on Toto! My gut says it's a sure comeback. Not just tying it—reversing by at least two goals!
- <PatriotismOut>: Bolton's idiots. Leading by two and they go defensive, now getting smashed. LOLOLOL
- <DongwonZip>: Shots are 23 to 10 right now. And we've fired 13 in the second half alone.
- <RussianOwnerBest>: McGeady’s about to explode. Look at him shredding through!
Of course, the Wanderers fans fired back immediately.
- <Cheongnyangni>: Not even tied yet—we're still up by one. Jumping the gun much? LOLOLOL
- <NewbieYear1>: Yep. This game's done. Self-proclaimed Black Cats, get some early sleep. Gotta work tomorrow.
It inevitably devolved into another keyboard warrior war.
* * *
Possession was currently 64% to 36%.
Not only did Sunderland hold the edge, but they'd now opened the floodgates on shots too.
Bolton Wanderers were still playing their mudslinging game, but the accumulating cards had forced some of the rough fouls to ease up.
Sunderland's players—each worth over £5 million (80 billion won) on average—didn't miss the opening, pressing forward relentlessly.
Naturally, Bolton's shape began to unravel bit by bit.
Pwoong-!
[Will Griiig-!]
Sunderland's other striker, Will Grigg, spotted space at the penalty arc and unleashed a cannon shot.
Thwuk-!
Dominic Shields threw himself at it, barely blocking.
But the deflected ball dropped right in front of Jack Diamond, who'd re-entered Bolton territory.
Taaang-!
Diamond connected without hesitation, ripping a long-range screamer.
It just shaved past the crossbar, and the Black Cats erupted in cheers, their earlier gloom forgotten.
“Well done!”
“Yeah, keep it up like that! Just like now, and we’ll tie it—then take the lead!”
There were still 15 minutes left in regular time.
Plus, with all the stoppages from players rolling on the pitch, stoppage time would be at least four minutes.
The commentary booth kept shouting.
[Sunderland! They've racked up 14 shots already past the 30-minute mark in the second half!]
[Safe to say they've seized complete control, right?]
Meanwhile, Sunderland manager Corey Johnson stared at the opposing bench, face still etched with confusion.
He couldn't fathom why Bolton's manager wore that twisted expression.
By his judgment, Bolton's mudball tactics were a clear failure.
“Looks like we're the ones pressing from the outside. They're the ones who'll collapse if we poke 'em.”
Jeong-woo muttered, eyes scanning the pitch.
Those eyes now gleamed like a bird of prey.
His pupils pierced through player after player.
Each time, the corner of his mouth twitched.
Simple reason.
Sunderland was pushing hard, but...
“They got no teeth.”
This stemmed from Bolton dragging them into the mud from early in the first half.
To Jeong-woo's eyes, Sunderland's players were slowing down more and more as time wore on.
“They're just squeezing out every last drop now that they've got momentum on attack.”
Beside him, Hee-won could only gaze at Jeong-woo in admiration.
‘This guy.’
Even he had been on edge through the tense flow.
Sunderland had switched up their play since entering the second half.
But Jeong-woo was calmer than ever.
A quick glance showed a smile, but it was ice cold.
What impressed most was his plan.
Then it happened.
“Hey, isn't this just perfect—ripe for the cooking?”
Jeong-woo said, tilting his head slightly.
Hee-won knew it wasn't aimed at him.
Just then, a massive shadow fell over Jeong-woo's head.
“Boss, you don't have to tenderize the meat this much in advance.”
A thick, gravelly voice replied.
Jeong-woo turned his head slightly toward the sound.
Adebayor had changed into his kit and sidled up beside him.
Jeong-woo narrowed his eyes faintly. The smile lingered on his lips.
“What's wrong? I've softened up the meat just right for you. Go out there and enjoy the feast.”
“True. No reason to turn down a gourmet spread.”
Jeong-woo stared up at Adebayor.
‘Look at this guy.’
He was itching to charge out, face screaming it.
Practically salivating.
Like a starved beast spotting fresh prey up close.
“Body good?”
“Perfect. At least for the time left, enough to prove I'm world-class.”
Jeong-woo chuckled at the overflowing confidence.
Adebayor's form had indeed risen sharply in his eyes.
But it wasn't quite at the level Jeong-woo demanded.
Still, right now, no player excited him more.
Jeong-woo's sharp gaze returned to the pitch.
“Huff, huff-!”
“Pant, pant!”
After the back-and-forth chaos, Sunderland players' ragged breaths poured out between gritted teeth.
Bolton players were tired too, but not as wrecked.
Jeong-woo smirked smugly.
‘Well, duh—after all that hellish training.’
Some guys were still fertilizing the practice pitch from not adapting.
‘So, stamina edge is ours.’
Thus, Jeong-woo played his next card boldly.
The so-called fake sub.
“Alright, Adebayor. Show 'em the Championship's real food. Next time they see you, smash their skulls so bad they start a brawl.”
That was directive enough.
* * *
75th minute.
Preeeee-!
The moment the ball went out for a throw-in, the ref blew his whistle and pointed to the fourth official.
The announcers were stunned.
A towering figure over 190cm stood by the sideline.
[Emmanuel Adebayor!]
[He finally enters in the FA Cup third round! League Cup and Northwest Conference were all he'd played till now!]
The Wanderers in the stands were just as shocked.
“Adebayor!”
“Oooooh...!”
Fans had buzzed about his inclusion pre-match.
First time named as a Cup sub.
The booth felt it too.
Adebayor's prime was long past, but his name value topped both squads.
But soon, the announcers voiced some concern.
[Bringing him on to boost the attack, looks like.]
[Hmm, not sure. Hasn't the momentum fully swung to Sunderland already?]
“Adebayor, huh.”
Corey Johnson's face drained of color.
His unease proven: Bolton's final card was the washed-up Adebayor.
“No league minutes. Scored a hat-trick in the League Cup recently, but... against the weakest fourth-tier side.”
His assistant coach chimed in.
Corey Johnson's doubts vanished.
Even McGeady had soloed seven against that fourth-tier bottom-feeder.
They'd spread eleven goals for an 11-2 massacre.
The pro-semipro gap was vast.
Those two concessions? Pure complacency.
‘No way we lose.’
Adebayor's lack of mobility would kill Bolton's tempo even more, he figured.
Adebayor finally stepped onto the pitch.
That instant, Ace and the other forwards he'd tutored swapped knowing glances, like scripted.
Ace recalled Adebayor's practice match advice.
‘You ain't shitless, but your feet are. Though lately, you're faking it well. And your shit instep with that sweet sprint... perfect match for me.’
Still unclear if shit or not, but Ace tensed his ankles.
Just then, from the technical area, Jeong-woo flashed three fingers.
Switch to Plan D.
* * *
Fan opinions on Adebayor's sub split down the middle.
Great to see him back in the FA Cup after years, but like Corey Johnson, many questioned his mobility.
Prime Adebayor was a speed monster too, but now 37.
Press box reporters debated with hope and worry.
“Gotta say... doesn't fit the Championship tempo.”
“Nah, I disagree. He's got that one-touch killer. Finishing's still alive.”
“Name value doesn't mean form.”
“Judgment error, IMO. With Sunderland hammering, subbing Adebayor just shackles Bolton's feet.”
“True, expecting instant chemistry with him jumping in—huh?”
One reporter trailed off, eyes bulging.
“What?”
Sudden shift in Bolton's setup.
Pwoong-!
Owen lofted a long diagonal from the center circle.
Adebayor, lurking at Sunderland's arc bottom, bolted for goal.
That moment, Ace, Pak, Sensuous Rough—Bolton's forwards—sprang wing sprints like wings unfurled.
Sunderland's back four panicked, scattering.
Center-back Bailey Wright charged bull-like at Adebayor, stamping in check, then backpedaled frantically.
Not even two seconds: Owen's pinpoint lob dropped into the box.
“Crazy...!”
But Bailey Wright swore, jumping to clear—then deflated utterly.
Mid-leap, Adebayor had dove past him, body flopping forward.
Thwoong-!
Clang-!
[Goooooooaaaal-!]
[Emmanuel Adebayooooor!]
[Clean diving header off Owen's lob!]
[3-1! Instant two-goal cushion from Emmanuel Adebayooooor-!]
Adebayor stuck out his tongue and galloped horse-like to the corner flag.
At its base, he shoved his flushed face at the broadcast caMad Dog roared.
“Sunderland's fuck-all!”
Debating reporters shot up, stunned.
Waaaaaaah-!
Nervous Wanderers, on edge from the one-goal gap, rose as one in thunderous roar.
Amid it, one reporter muttered blankly.
“That was... rehearsed, right?”
“Not a day's work...”
His neighbor nodded, cheeks flushed, hand to face.
Adebayor scored, but the buildup screamed scripted attack.
Above all, Bolton flipped the game the instant he entered.