The Wizards of Luton Town (Part 1)
In front of the Luton Town FC Training Ground.
"Your dribble goal last match was incredible! And the jumping one, too!"
"Thanks, kid. Glad you enjoyed it."
"Mom and Dad complain sometimes that you can't control the ball with your head or your feet, but everybody still loves you!"
Faced with the boy's innocent bluntness, I wasn't quite sure whether to smile or grimace. Still, I flashed a practiced grin, grabbed a notebook from my car, signed it, and handed it over without missing a beat.
...You couldn't even call this having form slumps.
Between me and Lee Yeon, we had developed some degree of control over who took the wheel, but switching required sleep. Swapping on the fly mid-match was completely out of the question, and even after waking up, getting the switch we wanted was never guaranteed.
Because of that, there were days when whoever was in control clashed terribly with the day's tactical demands. Every time that happened, my highlight reels grew longer.
The blooper reels, that is.
Just wait till I get back to Korea. I'm suing every single bastard who clipped my terrible touches...
Nursing those bitter thoughts, I finished signing autographs for the rest of the fans and pulled my car into the parking lot.
"It's good to see you arriving early and taking the time to sign for the fans."
"Ah, Vice Chairwoman."
The moment I stepped out of the car, I straightened up into a respectful bow.
Adelia Myers, the club's vice chairwoman, whom I ran into occasionally during facility inspections, was stepping out of a sports car. At first, I had wondered how someone so young could drive a supercar like that and hold the title of vice chairwoman, but that mystery had evaporated the second I learned her last name was Myers. Considering the chairman of our club's parent company also bore the surname Myers, the puzzle practically solved itself.
"Isn't it exhausting, signing autographs all the time like that?"
"Well, getting paid as a pro means dealing with things like this too. Besides, the fans are everything. Of course I should."
"Leaning out of your car window to sign looks terribly uncomfortable. Should we set up a proper autograph station outside the training ground?"
"Uh... no, really, that won't be necessary."
If she did that, our training sessions would be delayed by an hour or two on a regular basis. I shuddered to imagine what would happen if we ever won promotion to the Premier League. The entire squad's commute would be backed up for hours.
"By the way, Miss Myers, you're awfully hands-on for a vice chairwoman."
"Even when I'm busy, I like to see things for myself at least once or twice. Someone always tells me that hearing about something isn't the same as seeing it with your own eyes."
Even factoring that in, I felt like I'd been running into her quite often lately. I chalked it up to a meticulous work ethic. While I stood there daydreaming over pointless thoughts, she glanced at her wristwatch before speaking up again.
"Train hard! I'll be looking forward to the FA Cup match against Leicester City. I have another appointment, so I must take my leave."
"We'll definitely win."
"Oh, there's no need to put so much pressure on yourself!"
She said that, but the tone of her voice made it pretty clear she planned on attending the match in person. Losing in front of Miss Myers—who was, for all intents and purposes, the club owner—would hardly be a flattering look. That gave me one more reason to run myself into the ground out there.
Unaware of what was churning in my head, she gave a polite nod and hurried off toward the main facility building. Just as I suspected, she seemed to be here on another inspection tour.
Come to think of it, I should've asked her to fix that broken shower head while I had the chance.
Well, she'd probably spot it herself.
Hoisting my training bag over one shoulder, I trudged toward the pitch.
Training had to be a matter of routine. Consistency was paramount, both for bodily recovery and tactical cohesion.
Naturally, there were always exceptions.
"I'm... gonna... die..."
Dominic shuffled over like a zombie from across the pitch before collapsing right in front of me. That was what happened when you showed up late and got sentenced to a full hour of shuttle runs as punishment.
Still, seeing him catch his breath after running like that showed just how far he'd come compared to the abysmal stamina he'd possessed when I first met him. If you counted the players whose fitness had improved most drastically since Manager Gordon took charge—spanning both new signings and holdovers—Dominic would easily be in the top five.
Of course, I was on that list too.
In the beginning, I had been an idiot who couldn't even utilize his own physical frame properly. I couldn't be grateful enough that I'd at least learned to use my head.
After chatting back and forth, we worked through our remaining individual drills, set-piece routines, and tactical sessions until dinner time crept up on us.
Delmar, one of our fitness coaches who treated training schedules with religious precision, whistled to gather the squad.
"Alright, listen up. We have a match tomorrow, so we won't push things to excess. That's all for today. I won't stop anyone from doing extra work, but I don't recommend it."
"Yes!"
"Dominic, of course, you still have one-on-one training with me."
A wave of laughter rippled through the squad, myself included.
Except for Dominic, that is.
That's what you get for being late.
Still, even though Delmar called it a punishment, it was essentially a tailored conditioning session designed for Dominic, so it wouldn't hinder him for tomorrow's match. The coaches on our staff were sensible professionals, after all.
"Anyway, let's hear from the gaffer to wrap things up, then head straight home and rest."
"You heard the coach," our captain, Teddy, piped up. "No messing about tonight. Go straight home and get to sleep early. Especially with Leicester City tomorrow."
Judging by how nobody looked guilty, our squad's professionalism was certainly commendable.
Manager Gordon, who had stepped away for a moment, returned and stood before the lined-up squad to address us.
"First of all, I trust your preparations for tomorrow's match are in order."
As we'd been reminded constantly, tomorrow was FA Cup day.
Due to a restructuring of the FA Cup format a few years ago, we had the misfortune of running into a Premier League side in the earlier rounds. Even if Leicester City were going through a rough patch in the league lately, that didn't change the fact that they were top-flight opposition. Throwing away the FA Cup would be foolish, however, so we had spent the past few days drilling specific tactics designed to counter them.
"I trust everyone has memorized the tactical plan?"
The players answered in unison. It was essentially a slight variation on our base system anyway, and any player incapable of grasping at least that much had long since been ruthlessly shipped out or transferred. There was never going to be any answer other than "Yes, boss."
"Dominic, what is tomorrow's objective?"
"To beat Leicester!"
"And what is your job tomorrow?"
"Winning that match, too!"
"I'll give that a sixty-five out of a hundred. I hope you enjoy your one-on-one session with Delmar."
Manager Gordon shook his head wryly before continuing.
"Our objective is to execute our brand of football on that pitch."
His tone dropped, growing deeper and solemn.
"If you do that, I will not criticize a single one of you. If we play our absolute best football as a collective unit and still fall short, that is simply an unavoidable outcome."
"..."
"However, a defeat where we fail to do so deserves every ounce of criticism it receives. Do you all agree?"
"Yes, boss!"
Gordon pointed to each player in turn, reciting their individual assignments. We listened intently to every specific instruction, and I was no exception.
"Now, is there anyone here who cannot do what I just asked?"
"We can do it!"
This meeting was meant to cement conviction into what we had already drilled tirelessly. Backed by faith in our preparation, our collective roar rattled the air.
"Good. Then let me ask a few more questions. Last season, we survived by finishing ninth. Is there anyone here who is satisfied merely with having survived?"
Naturally, not a single hand went up.
"And unlike last season, we have opened this campaign with six consecutive victories. Some critics dismiss it as luck, but there are no flukes when you defeat strong clubs. Do any of you still think you're inferior to them?"
"No, boss!"
"Then how will you approach tomorrow's match against Leicester? Objectively speaking, they are stronger than Swansea City. Are you going to freeze up and tremble the moment you face pressure in the first half like you did against Swansea?"
"No, boss!"
"So you'll walk onto that pitch tomorrow without fear and play proper football?"
"YES, BOSS!!"
"Good! Show me those words on the pitch tomorrow. Dismissed!"
Our thunderous shout echoed across the training ground, filling the sky beneath the slowly dipping evening sun.
King Power Stadium.
Home to Leicester City, and where we were set to do battle today.
"The away dressing room is this nice?"
"Looking at this makes me want to cry thinking about our ground..."
"Quit making a fuss, will you? We played at Old Trafford last season."
"We need to win promotion fast and tell them to build us a brand-new stadium."
Arriving ahead of kick-off, the lads and I couldn't tear our eyes away from the sheer scale of the ground, the pristine facilities we'd passed along the corridor, and the spacious locker room.
Luton Town FC had never been promoted to the Premier League since its inception, and aside from a brief spell over a decade ago, the club had spent years languishing in League One, the English third tier. With no money to speak of, building a new ground was out of the question—let alone expanding Kenilworth Road—and lacking major investment, very little had changed even after earning promotion to the Championship.
Wait... is that why Miss Myers has been obsessively checking the facilities lately?
Was she planning to tear everything down and rebuild from scratch once we got promoted?
God, I hoped so.
If we made it to the Premier League, there would be even less reason for me to ever leave, and world-class facilities certainly wouldn't hurt.
"Just gave us one more reason to win the league this year," Dominic declared, fire burning in his eyes.
Emir, pulling his kit on beside him, nodded in agreement. "You're not wrong."
Once we secured promotion to the Premier League, the club would be required to renovate or rebuild the ground to meet safety regulations and league standards, whether the players asked for it or not. Wanting the title was the most natural thing in the world. Of course, since our stadium was wedged right in the middle of a dense residential neighborhood, buying up the surrounding land would cost a fortune—but that was the board's problem, not ours.
"Hey, Han. If you bag a hat-trick today, reckon Leicester will buy you on the spot?"
"I'd be thrilled just to score one, let alone three," I answered with a grin.
It was Allen, our backup striker, who had chimed in with the teasing question. At thirty-nine, he was at the tail end of his playing career and served as a player-coach. Despite his age and casual demeanor, he had spent twenty years with Luton Town—a true club legend and pure-blooded Hatter. He was always brilliant at calming the nerves of younger lads like me.
"You won't leave even if you get a hat-trick, right?"
"Why state the obvious? By next season, we'll be promoted and playing in the Premier League anyway."
"Oho! Look at that confidence. I like it."
"Speaking of which, you look pretty fired up yourself today, old man."
Usually, he wore coaches' training gear over his kit, but today he wore only his clean match jersey with number 17 printed across the back.
"I'm retiring at the end of the season anyway, so the gaffer said I should get a taste of Premier League tempo out there."
His weathered face held a cocktail of emotions too complex to put into words, though the dominant feeling was unmistakably fond and bright. Then again, what player alive would ever turn down the chance to step onto the pitch?
"Guess we'll have to wrap the match up before you get subbed on, Allen."
"Please, by all means! Nothing terrifies me more than being singled out as the scapegoat for a defeat."
I swallowed the urge to point out that, knowing Manager Gordon's personality, he wouldn't bring him on if we were losing anyway.
No point crushing a veteran's dream, after all.