A League Debut Only I Know (1)
Two days before our Round 3 clash against Sheffield United.
I sat across from Gordon Morton in his office, quietly sipping the tea the manager had personally brewed for me.
“Well then. What brings our star striker in for a private audience?”
“Boss, you know how deeply I respect you, right?”
“...I have no idea what you’re about to ask, but lay off the flattery.”
Even so, he seemed in good spirits, chuckling heartily and gesturing with a flick of his hand for me to spit it out.
“I’ve been thinking about the Sheffield match, and I honestly believe the 4-2-3-1 we drilled earlier would work far better than our usual 4-4-2.”
“Why? What makes you think so?”
Coming from an active player, such a remark could easily be taken as an infringement on managerial authority. Fortunately, between the groundwork I had laid during pre-season and Gordon's own managerial style—being a veteran coach who genuinely listened to and valued his players' tactical perspectives—he asked for my reasoning rather than tossing me out on my ear.
I launched smoothly into my prepared pitch.
“I’m sure you’ve scrutinized the match tape far more thoroughly than I have, boss, so you already know Sheffield’s midfield and center-back lines are poorly synchronized. The distance between their lines breaks down constantly—they’re either strung out far too wide or crowded right on top of each other.”
“Indeed. Spot on. Should I give you a pat on the back for staying awake during video analysis?”
“Thank you, boss. Anyway, that’s precisely why I’m suggesting the 4-2-3-1. It would let us exploit those seams and pockets far more efficiently.”
Of course, my argument carried one glaring, undeniable flaw.
“Then we wouldn't be able to utilize your greatest strengths, would we?”
Just as Gordon pointed out, operating that way meant I would see plenty of the ball in the half-spaces, but the number of crossing opportunities into the box would plummet.
Which meant my real objective right now was to project quiet, unshakeable confidence.
“I know. If I play the way I usually do, it defeats the purpose.”
“The way you usually do?”
“You watched me throughout pre-season, boss. You know how much progress I’ve made.”
“Hmm.”
And he truly did. Gordon hadn't just watched Lee Han during training; he had closely observed me as well.
While my heading and physical duels couldn't hold a candle to Lee Han's, my touch and footwork were sharper and more delicate than even Dominic's.
“So what you’re saying is, you want to use this match as a proving ground to unleash this new weapon of yours?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
It was practically an audacious demand to restructure the entire team's tactical setup around a single player, yet Gordon didn't scold me. He simply studied me with a measured, penetrating gaze before coming to a decision.
“Well, testing it for a single fixture shouldn't hurt. I’m well aware we can't survive an entire Championship campaign leaning on a rigid 4-4-2 anyway, so experimenting a little ahead of schedule isn't the worst idea.”
“Thank you, boss.”
“Besides, when my first-choice striker asks so earnestly—and we aren't choking under immediate table pressure—why on earth would I refuse?”
In truth, Luton Town's sole ambition this season was avoiding relegation. It was a grounded, realistic target; demanding anything more after offering next to no transfer backing would have been pure extortion.
“So don't overthink it, just go out there and have a crack. Don't worry about failing.”
With less than forty-eight hours until kickoff, the boss was already taking the psychological weight off my shoulders.
“Off you go, then. I’ll have the revised tactical sheets drawn up by this afternoon, so get back out on the pitch and train.”
“...This afternoon, boss?”
“We already laid the groundwork and finished the opponent analysis. It’s hardly difficult. Besides, match day is practically on top of us.”
“Right. Understood, boss.”
I gave a crisp nod, quietly closed the office door behind me, and walked out toward the training ground. Moments later, an agonized groan of pure despair from tactical coach Oleg echoed through the manager's door, but that was none of my concern.
Time raced by, and match day arrived.
Having absorbed the tactical blueprint squeezed straight out of their coaching staff's life force just in time to field a cohesive shape, the Luton Town squad stood ready in the center of Bramall Lane, the fortress of Sheffield United.
“Round 3 of the EFL Championship, Sheffield United versus Luton Town is about to get underway! Luton Town lined up on the right, Sheffield United on the left.”
“There is a rather fascinating tactical development to keep an eye on in today's fixture, isn't there?”
“Indeed there is. Just three rounds into the new campaign, manager Gordon Morton has rolled out a brand-new formation. Moving away from his customary 4-4-2, Luton has deployed in a 4-2-3-1.”
“A tailored approach specifically designed to crack Sheffield's setup?”
“Partly, yes, though looking back at Luton Town’s pre-season work, this appears to serve as their long-term Plan B. Sheffield’s backline has looked disjointed under an influx of new signings and declining form among their veterans, making this system theoretically ideal for picking them apart. The glaring question, however, is that this setup hardly seems tailored to Lee Han’s profile.”
The commentator's tone carried genuine bewilderment.
“With aerial dominance being Lee Han's lethal trademark, whether he can effectively receive and exploit grounded through balls will be the primary storyline of this contest.”
“Quite right. Managers occasionally conjure up tactical gambits ordinary minds fail to fathom. Gordon Morton has made a career out of turning skepticism into standing ovations—we’ll have to see whether he commands that same reverence once again today.”
“Spot on. Ah, and the broadcast camera cuts right to Lee Han now.”
Gone was the stone-faced, steely glare Lee Han typically wore ahead of kickoff; instead, a broad, radiant smile illuminated the screen.
“Judging by his expression alone, Luton supporters have nothing to fret over. He looks thoroughly relaxed.”
“Which suggests supreme confidence in their preparation.”
“Yes! And as we speak, Lee Han takes the kickoff, and the match is underway!”
Sheffield United manager Randall felt an immediate prickle of unease.
Lee took the kickoff?
Luton Town had always avoided having Lee Han do anything with his feet if they could help it, yet from the very first second of the match, they fed the ball straight into his boots.
Under normal circumstances, Dominic Moss would have kicked off and shuttled possession out to Emir on the right wing. Not today.
It was a subtle detail, but managerial instinct set off blaring warning bells in Randall's head.
Seeing them trot out in an unfamiliar tactical shape had been disorienting enough, but now he was beginning to dread whatever madness Gordon Morton had prepared in secret.
Why on earth did that old bastard have to descend to this league in the first place...?
Across European managerial circles, the name Gordon Morton commanded immense respect.
His decorated tenure as an assistant coach at Bayern Munich spoke for itself, and his stature had not diminished one bit since taking the reins at Luton Town. If anything, his mythos had only grown sturdier.
Far beyond simply organizing a disciplined squad, his ability to drag impending defeats into draws and turn deadlocked stalemates into victories through ruthless tactical adjustments was something every opposing manager dreaded.
Having tasted that bitter pill firsthand last season when Luton did the double over Sheffield both home and away, Randall could not shake the gnawing anxiety eating at his gut.
Still, the opening whistle had only just sounded. There was nothing he could alter on the fly.
Whatever Luton had brought to the table would have to reveal itself on the pitch first.
In the end, all he could do was stalk the touchline, bellowing instructions to keep his players aggressive and faithful to their game plan.
Around the ten-minute mark, I glanced between Teddy and Dominic before cushioning the pass into my stride.
Assuming Luton was executing their standard direct long-ball routine, Sheffield's center-backs dropped their line deep, bracing to contest Lee Han's aerial flick-on while keeping a wary eye on Dominic's prospective runs in behind.
They naturally anticipated that I would cushion a header back to Teddy and then surge into the penalty box alongside Dominic to plant myself like a telephone pole.
It was only natural that they reacted that way on instinct. Modern clubs had taken to preparing via virtual reality simulations, and every scrap of video data feeding their systems belonged entirely to Lee Han.
Unfortunately for them, the man leading the line today was not Lee Han.
It was me.
And slicing open the yawning half-space between their back four and midfield was child’s play.
“Lee Han! He glides straight through the fractured half-space!”
“Midfielder Collin charges in desperately to recover, but he’s far too late! Lee Han with a razor-sharp, incisive pass!”
“The ball threads cleanly between the legs of Alley, the left center-back! Dominic! He’s through clean on goal against the keeper! He shoots—!”
Except Dominic chose not to pull the trigger.
Just when everyone braced for a thunderous strike, Dominic snapped his ankle at the final microsecond of his backlift, slipping a square pass across the goalkeeper toward me as I stormed into the six-yard box.
Naturally, the net was gaping and utterly vacant.
Tap.
With an effortless side-foot touch, I guided the ball as smoothly as laying off a simple pass. It trundled gently over the goal line. A Sheffield center-back threw himself into a frantic, sprawling slide, but it was nothing more than an empty gesture.
And to the agony of the home crowd, the assistant referee on the far touchline kept his flag pinned resolutely at his side.
A goal. Pristine and undisputed.
“Waaaaah! You absolute beauty!”
“If you could do that all along, why the hell haven't you been dribbling like that?!”
“Tear those Sheffield bastards to pieces!”
Standing before the traveling Luton supporters, I gathered the club crest emblazoned over my chest and pressed it to my lips.
Electrified by the opening goal and my badge-kissing celebration, the away end erupted into deafening, near-hysterical roars.
Not satisfied with kissing the crest alone, I sprinted directly toward the barrier and threw myself into their embrace.
The supporters matched my passion with sheer pandemonium, surging forward with such force they looked ready to spill straight onto the pitch—and indeed, a couple of them actually tumbled past the stewards.
Of all the goals scored in the Championship so far, this was the very first struck under a tactical system designed explicitly for me.
I had earned every right to relish this ecstasy.
“Dominic, brilliant ball.”
“Course it was! My delivery is always world-class!”
I smoothly sidestepped Dominic as he came bounding in for a flying leap the moment the ball hit the net. Several fans had already broken past security to clamp me in bear hugs; having Dominic pile on top would have turned the celebration into a hazard.
Dominic ended up belly-flopping awkwardly onto the turf, but having notched the assist, he looked thoroughly delighted nonetheless. It looked like it stung, but landing on the fringe of the grass meant he’d survive.
Soon the rest of our teammates swarmed in, laughing at Dominic’s ridiculous tumble and piling on their congratulations.
“Brilliant finish!”
“After looking completely out of sorts in pre-season, you finally pull this out!”
“So all that inconsistency was just saving it for today?!”
“Perfection!”
“Tremendous work, lads, but let's get back,” Teddy called out, stepping in with the steady composure expected of our captain. “If we keep winding them up like this, nobody can complain when the referee reaches for a card.”
Teddy's reminder pulled us back to our senses.
Looking to our flank, we realized the Sheffield supporters directly adjacent to the away end were glaring daggers at us, spewing a barrage of vile abuse.
“Stop wasting time and piss off!”
“Drag those arrogant bastards out of here!”
“Break their fucking legs!”
Having absorbed every drop of their fans' venomous fury, the Sheffield players seemed ready to push aside the shock of conceding early and tackle us straight into the turf instead.
Cards are going to rain today.
I couldn't speak for our side, but Sheffield deserved at least two red cards before the final whistle. Handing out plenty of cheese wouldn't hurt either.
Just as Lee Han possessed his own physical methods for neutralizing cynical fouls, I knew precisely how to cook aggressive defenders on the pitch.
“Teddy, let's keep running the patterns we prepared.”
The tactical schemes our coaches had ground their marrow to piece together over the last two days still had plenty of tricks left to show.
And to firmly shut the mouths of the Sheffield supporters trying to spoil my joy, I fully intended to put at least one or two more past them.
A hat-trick would be even sweeter.