The First Step Toward the Title (1)
Round 8 of the league campaign—the day of our clash against Middlesbrough.
“Today’s match is a six-pointer. But I’m sure you all know that already.”
“Yes, Boss!”
Instead of his usual warm, smiling countenance, Manager Gordon wore a stern expression, set tight to sharpen our focus and stoke our fire.
Even though we were riding a seven-match winning streak and sitting at the top of the table, our hold on first place was far from invincible. Breathing right down our necks in second place was Middlesbrough, who, while not having won every single game, remained unbeaten themselves with six wins and a draw.
“Win today, and we cement our place at the summit. If the match against Leicester City was a test of your limits, then today is a test of your entitlement.”
Did we truly have what it takes to stay at the top of the league?
It felt as if Manager Gordon were posing that very question to every one of us.
Head-to-head from last season, the record stood firmly against us with one draw and one loss. On top of that, Middlesbrough had only narrowly missed out on promotion the previous year. They were out for blood this season, knives sharpened for promotion, and it was no exaggeration to say they were stronger than us, a team that had finished ninth. No amount of caution would be unwarranted. And being an away fixture, it was bound to be twice as grueling as any other game.
“That doesn’t mean there’s any reason to shrink back. Am I right?”
“You’re right, Boss!”
“Of course! We’re going to win this no matter what and crush them into the dirt!”
“Good. Your heads are in the right place.”
Satisfied that our mentality was primed, Manager Gordon didn’t waste any more words and directed our attention straight to the tactics board.
“As we discussed yesterday, today’s key is to radically compress the space between the lines.”
Middlesbrough employed a rather freakish tactical setup for a team sitting second in the league. It wasn’t that their individual players lacked quality, nor was their attack toothless. Yet they insisted on parking the bus with an extreme, low-block flat 4-4-2.
Granted, whatever anyone thought about how dull it was to watch, they were undefeated in the league, so results spoke for themselves. Still, it was hardly normal. Personally, I considered such a setup an insult to the fans who paid good money to watch. Squeezing out one-nil victories through sheer defensive suffocation didn't just drain the life out of the supporters; it left behind virtually zero highlights worth talking about, killing the spectacle.
So, I intended to provide the entertainment they so sorely lacked.
“If they’re going to sit back and drop deep, we only have one job: push forward just as we always do.”
With those words, the manager pushed every outfield player up the board, leaving only our two center-backs, Jackson and Andre, behind.
Because our defense had to cover massive swathes of open turf, our starting lineup favored pace over physical bulk. With the majority of their side being relatively short anyway, aerial threats were a negligible concern compared to the danger of counterattacks.
In essence, it was an ultra-aggressive attacking structure tailored specifically for Middlesbrough, with me virtually glued to their goalkeeper while our midfield pushed all the way into the final third. Granted, this increased our offside risk, but the manager instructed our attackers to charge forward without hesitation, assuring us that our rapid fullbacks would push up to the corner flag to deliver cutbacks and crosses.
“And the focal point in all of this is you, Lee Han.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“How’s your touch today? Ball sticking to your boots?”
“Couldn’t be better, Boss!”
Since it was me out there today instead of Han, I was the ideal fit for the manager’s tactical demands. It meant I was more than ready to bring the hammer down on their dreary brand of football.
“Your job is to dictate the tempo and create options for the fullbacks. And, of course, to score. I trust you can handle that.”
In a way, asking a single player to handle the absolute core of the match sounded like an exorbitant demand. But looked at from another angle, it showed just how much faith the manager had in me. I possessed the ability to repay that trust, and I fully intended to do so.
“Right then. That covers everything. Let’s head out.”
Seeing my resolve, Manager Gordon clapped his hands to rally the squad. The players adjusted their kits and lined up outside the dressing room one by one. From beyond the tunnel, the roar of the crowd came washing in.
I could hardly wait for the moment when those cheering Middlesbrough supporters would be struck dumb with silence.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Riverside Stadium, the venue for this clash between Middlesbrough and visiting Luton Town in Round 8 of the Championship!”
“With this being a showdown between first and second place, we’re anticipating a fiercely contested battle today.”
“Absolutely. The home supporters know just what’s at stake—the atmosphere in the ground is electric.”
“And once again, Lee Han gets the start. Expectations are sky-high for what kind of performance he’ll deliver.”
“Eight consecutive matches with a goal across all competitions, and seven straight in the league alone. He’s been nothing short of extraordinary.”
“His scoring pace is astonishing. Ever since the Championship adopted the forty-six-game format, the record for most goals in a single season has belonged to Aleksandar Mitrović with forty-three in the 2020–21 campaign. At this rate, mathematically speaking, that record is well within reach.”
“Of course, there’s no need to heap unnecessary pressure on the lad. He’s already doing more than enough.”
“Quite right. And there’s the referee’s whistle! We are underway! Luton Town attacking from left to right, Middlesbrough from right to left! Luton start with possession!”
The moment the whistle blew, every Luton Town player except our two center-backs surged forward as planned. Before anyone knew it, I was planted squarely in front of their goalkeeper.
What was this guy’s name again?
“What the hell are you doing hovering around here?”
“Who knows? Wonder why I’m here.”
“Piss off.”
“Don’t feel like it.”
Oblivious to the fact that Han and I had swapped, he clearly found it infuriating that a guy of my imposing size was lingering brazenly inside the penalty box.
Meanwhile, despite our little spat, our team’s attack was progressing smoothly.
Having slipped free of defensive pressure, Wright, our left-back, delivered a cross exactly as rehearsed. I jumped out of mere formality, and with two defenders draped over me, my head didn't get anywhere near the ball. The ball ricocheted off a center-back’s head, looping high into the air before the keeper caught it comfortably.
“Stand there all day for all I care!”
He seemed to be mocking me for coming up empty in the duel, but unfortunately for him, it didn’t faze me in the slightest. I hadn't expected to win it in the first place, so why would I give a damn?
“Don’t worry, that’s the plan.”
My initial job was to disrupt the counterattacks launched from his goal kicks. It was never about heading in a goal. When a giant like me was standing right in his face, even if I couldn’t touch the ball, it inevitably put psychological pressure on him. Bantering and lunging at him like this was more than enough.
Sure enough, his rushed goal kick sliced diagonally across the pitch and drifted straight out for our throw-in.
“...Damn it.”
“What’s the matter? Things not going your way?”
Han had no taste for trash talk and tended to be polite on the pitch, save for the occasional discreet tactical foul, but I was different. I was always ready to get under an opponent's skin if it meant tipping the scales in our favor even by an inch.
A few more crosses were whipped in after that, and the keeper kept collecting them without much trouble.
Regardless of that, his nerves were thoroughly frayed from my constant prodding, and not once had any of his goal kicks sparked a counterattack—though that was largely thanks to our defenders rather than me. His face looked ready to burst at any second.
A poke or two more ought to do it.
It would be the cherry on top if I scored and gave him one final nudge.
Just as that thought crossed my mind, the moment arrived for the tactical adjustment Manager Gordon had spoken of.
Wright, who had been mindlessly pumping crosses into the box until just a moment ago, feinted a cross and rolled the ball back to Luke, who was hugging the touchline. At that exact instant, Dominic and I swapped positions, with me dropping a bit deeper. Spotting the movement, Luke wasted no time, shifting the ball to me with just two touches.
“Block him!”
Because my first touch had set the ball up perfectly for a strike from distance, three defenders formed a human wall in front of me, fully aware that I was well within shooting range—leaving only a single center-back behind to mark Dominic.
But shooting was not my plan.
With the center-back pinned back to watch Dominic, a gap opened up in the final third, and I drove my body straight into the seam.
“Lee Han! Lee Han is driving into the space!”
“The ball is glued to his feet! The defense needs to get their act together!”
Normally, this would be where I’d lay it off to Dominic before making my run, but seeing the center-back completely walling him off, I altered the plan.
A sliding tackle came flying in from the diagonal; I dragged the ball back with the sole of my boot, spun my body full circle, and breezed past. I absorbed the challenge coming in from the flank with my shoulder, gave the ball a deft poke, and slipped it cleanly through the defender's legs. And with a slick shift of direction, I shook off the trailing center-back who had scrambled back to close me down.
“A one-on-one! The keeper’s caught in two minds!”
Having spent the entire match catching routine crosses, the keeper had unconsciously drifted off his line. He was the only obstacle left.
Faced with such a golden opportunity, there was only one thing to do.
Tap.
No power was needed.
Drawing a delicate, graceful arc through the air, the ball settled softly into the back of the net.
“A chip shot! A chip shot! Lee Han has made a complete fool of the keeper!!”
“There is simply no stopping this young man! With an absurd dribble that turned one of the league’s stingiest defenses into statues, he slots home his eleventh goal of the season!”
The fatal flaw of a two-line defense is that an attacker doesn’t have to beat all ten outfielders at once.
Overjoyed, I sprinted straight to the corner flag and started strumming it like an electric guitar.
“Uh... Lee Han is certainly expressing his delight with great vigor.”
“Debris is being thrown from the stands. The officials need to step in—that’s dangerous.”
The home supporters showered me with boos and jeers, but I couldn't care less. If you’re that pissed, tell your team to score.
Reluctantly releasing the corner flag at the assistant referee's urging, I immediately trotted over to the opposing goalkeeper, who was busy unleashing a stream of expletives at his defenders.
“Hey, thanks to you, I scored.”
“......”
“I took your advice and figured there was no point sticking to you, so I dropped deep—and boom, instant goal.”
“You little son of a...”
Between the constant harassment from earlier, the humiliation of being beaten by a delicate chip shot, and his youth—which made him even younger than me, despite people already calling me young—he had zero resistance to trash talk and took the bait hook, line, and sinker.
Tweet! Tweeeet!
“Oh, we’ve got a flare-up between goalkeeper Bryn Convey and Lee Han!”
“Looking at the replay, it was Lee Han who walked right over to start something.”
“...He certainly is an eccentric character, isn’t he?”
“Enough! One more word and both of you are going in the book!”
Perhaps mindful of the fact that this match could dictate the outcome of the entire promotion race, the referee let us off with only a verbal warning.
Regardless, the goalkeeper’s shattered composure wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
At least, not in this match.