Let's Play, Dummy~ (3)
The whistle finally pierced the air from the referee's side, and the match kicked off with Manchester United's opening kick.
“This time it’s 4-2-3-1.”
Raul Cruz, the manager famous for his unique tactical setups, muttered under his breath.
Unlike coaches who always stuck to one formation with small variations, he treated every opponent to an entirely different system.
That was where his genius truly shone. In just this season he had already deployed five completely different formations.
What was even more astonishing was how smoothly his players adapted every single time the tactic changed, as if they had trained exclusively for that exact setup.
“It’s no wonder ManU can pull off an unbeaten title run,” Yoo Hee-sung thought, arms crossed.
If the team could always counter whatever formation the opponent threw at them, the win rate would be sky-high.
And the players were already perfect at it.
Even writing that in a novel would get you laughed out of the chat.
Coaches keep changing tactics for a simple reason: mastering even one system takes an absurd amount of time.
Then trying to read the opponent’s plan, switch mid-season, and drill every role in ten minutes of pre-match warm-ups is basically impossible.
“A team like this with our protagonist as the GK? How could they lose?”
Even now it was obvious.
Raul Cruz had chosen 4-2-3-1 specifically to counter our relentless passing game.
The clear goal was to shut down City’s constant build-up.
One of 4-2-3-1’s biggest strengths was the five central midfielders packed into the middle.
It turned the entire pitch into a wall that blocked attacks before they could even start.
Especially the two defensive mids, who kept the back line solid while making central breakthroughs almost impossible.
“But our manager is pretty sharp too.”
He had clearly anticipated every possible counter.
If ManU clogged the center, we would just switch to wide attacks.
We had spent endless pre-match hours drilling wingers’ speed, side bursts, and crosses for exactly that reason.
The more ManU reinforced the center mids, the more vulnerable their flanks became.
Football is ultimately a game of numbers.
And for the first half we were still running exactly to plan.
But as the game dragged on, something felt off.
“What the heck? Why are their lines so high?”
Manchester United’s entire defensive line had pushed way upfield.
We had expected them to use the 4-2-3-1 weakness—fast counters when so many attackers pushed forward.
Instead they had gone the opposite direction: extreme high line, exaggerating the weakness instead of fixing it, and going all-out on attack.
“Don’t you think a counter would be scary?”
As the goalkeeper with the best save percentage in the league, I knew exactly what that meant.
I just hadn’t expected them to throw something so extreme right at me.
“This is gonna be fun,” I smirked.
Extreme High Line Confirmed
“He’s really something…”
As a goalkeeper I could read the whole pitch. I knew this wasn’t mindless attacking.
It was a perfectly coordinated plan.
Honestly, when they pushed the line so high I had been sure we would win.
But they had shut me down completely.
I couldn’t see exactly how many situational instructions each defender was getting, but their constant movement was breathtaking.
Sometimes they would all sprint forward, then suddenly form a new midfield line like a living organism.
“Hah… that’s why they call football ‘the coach’s playground.’ What sorcery is this?”
Of course Raul Cruz would be furious if he heard me say that.
“After all that, why isn’t the ball going in?!”
Fortunately someone was already yelling it for him from the couch.
***
“Ugh… ugh… shit, what the hell?!”
Gamst’s sharp scream shook the stream.
“No way! That’s so dumb! How did you even miss?!”
He slammed his mouse so hard the whole stream shook.
Logically he knew the players weren’t at fault—there was just an absolute wall in front of him.
But after seeing it dozens of times in one match, his sanity as a BJ had already evaporated long ago.
He had no choice but to direct his frustration at the ManU players.
“I can’t call out Tae-woo, though…”
“Gah! Real shit! Even if a striker misses, it’s fine! Just one goal and I’ll sing your praises!”
He shot up and started doing ridiculous juggling tricks on stream.
“Hey! Alex Turner just smacked it hard and I couldn’t react! Or…”
His chubby body started shaking side to side.
“Or Garzo! Come on! Dribble right past the keeper and score! Why can’t you do that today?!”
“Hah…”
Gamst slumped back into his chair with a defeated sigh.
“Alright. Okay. I get it. I got it now.”
“Ah, that bastard…”
Gamst’s eyes bulged.
“Now what’s going to—”
The screen started playing a video.
“Ugh… ugh…”
Gamst’s face turned bright red.
It was his own face in the ManU uniform, doing a ridiculous ManKka routine while deliberately provoking the camera.
“Are you enjoying this?”
This was a video he had filmed himself to mock toxic fans, but now it had come back to bite him.
“I’m a professional broadcaster… I’m a broadcaster…”
He kept repeating it in his head.
After holding it in with massive patience, he finally spoke.
“Hah… everyone, sorry, but this is Manchester United’s plan.”
“Think about it. You keep working hard at something incredibly difficult, never giving up, and the moment you finally succeed… that rush of joy. That’s exactly why they’re doing it.”
There was forced hope in Gamst’s voice.
“So if they keep shooting…”
Before he finished, another roar exploded from Old Trafford.
Alex Turner’s spectacular long-range shot grazed Tae-woo’s fingertips and flew wide.
“Ah…”
Gamst dropped his head, then slowly lifted it again.
On screen, Tae-woo was high-fiving his teammates.
“Hah… Tae-woo really played amazingly today…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence and bit his lip.
If this match had been against a different team instead of City, he would have showered Tae-woo with endless praise.
But right now the feeling wasn’t there at all.
As the last second of the first half arrived, ManU’s attack started again.
Garro raced forward after Alex Turner’s pass.
It looked like a clear goal-scoring chance.
Old Trafford held its breath and Gamst froze in front of the monitor.
But Tae-woo again read the moment perfectly and cleared the ball away.
Ping—
“AAAAAHHHH!”
The first half ended and Gamst exploded with all the anger he had been holding back, leaning right into the camera.
“Tae-woo, you really play soccer well… shit~!”
His voice dripped with frustration at the cruel reality he could no longer deny.
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