The Wizards of Luton Town (2)
“We are coming to you live from King Power Stadium for the FA Cup Round of 128, the second round of proper competition!”
“That’s right. Starting the season before last, the FA Cup schedule was moved forward. To promote fairer competition, the English FA revamped the tournament structure so that Premier League sides enter not in the Round of 64, but right from the Round of 128—drawn completely at random, with no seeded pots.”
“Naturally, there was considerable pushback from top-flight clubs, but thanks to the change, supporters get to witness these classic David-versus-Goliath clashes so early in the campaign.”
“Indeed. What makes this fixture particularly electrifying for Korean fans is the presence of Lee Han, the second division’s unstoppable aerial bomber, who is having the season of his life.”
“Unstoppable is the word. In league play alone, he has already racked up ten goals and three assists in just six appearances—numbers that border on the unbelievable.”
“So, what do you see as the key tactical battleground today?”
“All eyes will be on whether Luton Town’s attack, spearheaded by Lee Han, can puncture Leicester City’s backline. Luton have maximized their firepower this season with an aggressive, high defensive line, so how well they manage Leicester’s lethal counterattacks out of their classic 4-4-2 will decide the match.”
“And with that, the referee blows his whistle—the FA Cup second-round clash between Leicester City and Luton Town is underway!”
Once today’s match was over, our next fixture was against the bottom club in the Championship. Because of that, the gaffer had told me that I was in the starting eleven for the full ninety minutes and that I shouldn't bother pacing myself. In plain English: I’ll rest you next match, so run yourself into the ground against Leicester.
Which explained why I was currently sprinting around the pitch like a mad dog.
“More than midway through the first half, and Luton Town’s pressing has not let up for a second!”
“They may play a division below, but you cannot underestimate a side riding a massive winning streak.”
“Very true. Leicester dominate nearly every statistical metric, yet Luton have stubbornly preserved the deadlock.”
For thirty grueling minutes, my primary duties were harassing Leicester’s center-backs to disrupt their buildup play and, whenever a counterattacking chance arose, leaping into the air to knock long balls down into the paths of our pacey wingers.
“Goal kick!” the referee barked, pointing toward the six-yard box.
“Wait, ref, that’s clearly a corner!” I protested, jogging over. “Everyone saw it brush off their defender!”
“Goal kick. Move along.”
Naturally, most of our attacking sequences ended in failure just like that one. Leicester City’s defenders hadn't earned their Premier League wages in a raffle; their tackling and positioning were textbook. Moreover, no matter how aggressively we approached the contest, the sheer volume of their attacking phases dwarfed ours.
The only silver lining was that the score remained nil-nil. The problem was that there wasn't a single other positive to point to.
“If we keep playing like this, we’re dead in the water,” Dominic muttered as he drifted near me.
“I know that,” I replied, wiping sweat from my brow. “Did you really need to say it out loud?”
As Leicester’s keeper set the ball down for a long goal kick, I decided it was time to test something I had been quietly working on.
“Which means we just need to change the game.”
“...What?” Dominic asked, blinking at me.
“Next time, feed it to me along the deck.”
Over the years, quite a few coaches had attempted to teach me how to use my feet, but none of their lessons compared to what I had learned recently. The muscle memory etched into my limbs whenever Lee Yeon took control—the sheer array of footwork, shooting mechanics, and micro-adjustments required to manipulate a football—had provided an unprecedented trove of data.
Analyzing video footage of Yeon using my own frame, combined with the physical feedback and the handwritten cheat-sheets he left behind, had proven remarkably effective. I still had an enormous mountain to climb, of course. But my goal wasn't to turn into a Brazilian maestro overnight; I simply needed to shatter the perception that I was nothing more than a header-only one-trick pony. If I could plant even a sliver of doubt into the defenders' minds, it would be more than enough.
And if a clean strike happened to find the back of the net, all the better.
“Teddy! A yard to your left!”
Pinpointing the flight and trajectory of a ball was second nature to me. The second Leicester’s keeper struck his goal kick, I bellowed toward the spot where it would dip, and Teddy did not let me down. He rose, met the aerial ball, and nudged a somewhat unpolished header toward our center-back, Sears. Sears immediately knocked it wide to Mick, our right fullback.
Leicester, who had pushed their line high to contest the second ball, scurried backward in a hurry. Mick seized on the vacated turf, driving forward with blistering intent. As he approached the halfway line, he slid a crisp, no-nonsense pass inside to Dominic, who was darting in to receive.
With a deft first touch, Dominic left a retreating midfielder completely off-balance.
“Han! Take it!” Dominic roared.
Every delivery aimed at me throughout the first half had been a lofted ball, so Leicester’s center-backs braced their legs, readying themselves for an aerial duel. But contrary to their expectations, Dominic carried out my instructions to perfection.
“Dammit...!” a defender cursed.
Putting vicious spin on the ball, Dominic threaded a sublime through-ball that sliced diagonally across the open grass. Caught entirely on the wrong foot, the center-backs scrambled to turn, helplessly trailing behind as I burst along the shoulder of their defensive line.
I blew past them on pure pace, bearing down on the penalty box in a clean one-on-one against the goalkeeper.
Time to put the practice to work.
Taking the weighted pass on the half-turn, I used the outside of my left boot to cushion it forward into my running stride. Two measured steps. My planting foot dug into the turf with unwavering stability. I whipped my right leg through the ball, unleashing the strike at the exact split second I had rehearsed hundreds of times in my mind.
BOOM!
Oh.
Even in training, I had rarely struck a ball that cleanly. It ripped off my laces like a clothesline—not sailing toward the clouds, but laser-straight, screaming toward the corner of the net.
“Lee Han! Lee Han!! An absolute rocket of a strike leaves the keeper rooted to the spot, and Luton Town take the lead!!”
“A completely different side to his game! You would hardly believe it’s the same player! Struck with pinpoint precision, the ball flies like a guided missile straight into the top corner!!”
“The Leicester City goalkeeper can only shake his head in disbelief! He never expected a shot of that venom from that distance—he had no chance!”
I dropped to my knees, sliding across the wet grass toward the corner flag where our travelling supporters erupted into delirium. Within seconds, my teammates swarmed over me like a pack of wolves.
“You absolute lunatic!”
“What were you thinking, shooting from there?!”
“Every time you shoot in training, it ends up in the car park! How did you catch that so clean?!”
Keep praising me, you bastards. A wide grin spread across my face. For the first time, I felt like I truly understood why strikers were so obsessed with shooting.
When we filed into the dressing room at halftime, Gordon Morton was sporting an ear-to-ear smile.
“Outstanding work! Seeing you carry out our match plan to the letter warms my heart.”
Basking in rare praise, the squad looked thoroughly invigorated. Even during our six-game winning streak in the league, the manager had never hesitated to harshly chew out anyone who underperformed, making this jovial mood feel almost surreal.
“I expect the exact same intensity in the second half,” Gordon said before granting us a few minutes of quiet rest.
Leicester’s manager was notorious for disliking drastic in-game tactical overhauls, so Gordon saw no reason to alter our structure either. That didn't mean he planned to let us cruise through the next forty-five minutes, however.
“Catch your breath and listen closely,” Gordon commanded, his tone sharpening. “As I mentioned yesterday, by the seventieth minute at the latest, I am bringing off Teddy, Hughes, and Luke. All three of you. You understand what that means, don't you?”
“We run until our lungs burst, Boss!”
With all three operating in the engine room, Gordon was making his intentions crystal clear: he refused to concede midfield control to Leicester under any circumstances.
“And is anyone here patting themselves on the back just because we’re one goal up?”
Not a single hand went up.
“Good. Let me remind you: there is no room in this squad for complacency. The moment I catch someone taking it easy, I’ll pack your bags and send you home myself.”
“We’ll give everything we have!”
With our minds fully steel-plated, we prepared to step back onto the pitch. All that remained was finishing off Leicester City.
The intensity in the second half was downright savage.
“Foul!”
After chopping down a Leicester counterattack, Luke gave a perfunctory nod to the referee’s stern warning before sprinting straight back to help defend our penalty area. Our midfielders were running themselves ragged. The second half hadn't even reached the ten-minute mark, yet between both teams, the referee must have blown for fouls at least a dozen times. Both sides were growing increasingly aggressive.
“They’re like a completely different team from the first half,” Luke panted, falling into line.
“Well, obviously,” Dominic replied. “We’ve got nothing to lose, but if they lose to a lower-league side, their fans and the press will tear them to shreds.”
“Fair point.”
Having brought on several first-team regulars at the break to replace their younger prospects, Leicester played with a desperate, feverish urgency.
A whistle blew, and a Leicester central midfielder looked up, shaping his body to whip an early cross toward our box.
“Watch out!”
“Mick! Close him down!” Jackson screamed from the center of defense, his voice cracking under pressure.
His frantic shout came too late. The delivery curved cleanly through the air, picking out a Leicester player lurking wide on the right edge of our penalty box. Because Leicester fielded so many towering aerial threats, we had packed the penalty area with bodies—a tactic that proved to be our undoing in this instance.
Mick closed down the winger at full throttle, but Leicester’s number seven took a single touch and immediately dinked a cross back across the box on a diagonal. Two rapid switches of play threw our defensive line into momentary disarray, and the ball dropped unopposed right onto the boot of their arriving forward.
The only obstacles remaining between him and our net were Mathias in goal and me—having sprinted the length of the pitch to provide cover after hearing Gordon’s frantic touchline roaring.
Fortunately, Mathias and I converged quickly, cutting down the shooting angle until there was virtually nowhere for the striker to aim.
Thwack—CLANG!
By some miracle, the ball rattled off the outside of the post and rebounded wide. Out of play.
“Han! Are you alright?!”
“His nose is bleeding!”
“Physio! Get out here, now!”
“Han, look at me! How many fingers am I holding up?!”
Wait... did that hit me before clipping the post? No wonder the entire world had suddenly gone pitch-black for a second.
Through hazy vision, I saw our medical staff sprinting frantically from the dugout toward our goalmouth. I held up a hand, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“...I’m not... entirely fine, to be honest, but plug the nosebleed and I can keep playing.”
“Are you out of your mind? You took that shot flush in the face!” Mr. Anderson said, kneeling beside me with a medical kit.
“Come on, doc. Do you know how many headers I contest every week? This is nothing.”
The truth was, my entire face felt like it was on fire. But the last thing I wanted was to be substituted. Unless my skull was cracked, I was staying on that pitch.
Anderson led me behind the goal line to conduct a rapid concussion assessment. Once he was satisfied, I got to my feet and walked alongside him to test my balance and motor coordination.
“Am I good to go?” I asked.
“For now,” Anderson said cautiously, shining a small light into my pupils. “If you feel even slightly dizzy or nauseous, signal to the bench immediately. The season is long.”
“Understood.”
Having cleared the checks without issue, I waited at the touchline until the referee signaled permission for me to re-enter the pitch.
“Brilliant block, Han,” Mathias said, beaming as I jogged past him. “I thought for sure that was going in.”
“If you’re that grateful, buy me a steak sometime.”
“I’ll buy you the whole damn restaurant!”
Mathias was grinning ear-to-ear after that miraculous escape. A second later, however, he turned around and transformed into a shrieking demon, ripping into our defenders with colorful profanities. I left him to his tirade and made my way back into Leicester’s half.
The match restarted with a Luton throw-in.
If we wanted to give Allen his sentimental farewell appearance today, we needed at least one more goal.