Rome Wasn't Built in a Day (1)
“Dominic! Dominic surges forward!”
“The defensive line is completely shattered! Lee Han bursts through the gap! They're tugging desperately at his shirt, but there's no stopping him!”
“Dominic lays it off—Alto Randelos hits a sublime first-time through ball, cutting right back toward Lee Han!”
“Rotherham United's defenders can only watch in dismay! And Lee Han is onside!”
“He breezes past center-back Wayne! One-on-one with the keeper—he shoots!”
“GOAAAL!! A brace for Lee Han! In the eighty-seventh minute, a crushing blow to Rotherham's hopes of a comeback makes it 3–1!”
“Rotherham had just sparked a glimmer of hope with their goal, but this douses cold water right over the entire stadium!”
The Rotherham United faithful hurled a torrent of curses at the joint celebration where Dominic crowned me with an imaginary laurel wreath, but what did I care? I had scored, and we were taking the three points.
Having lost all momentum in the blink of an eye, Rotherham failed to find another goal in the remaining minutes, ultimately conceding defeat and gifting three precious points to Luton Town.
“Smile. You're in front of the fans.”
“...You do realize I'll get slaughtered if I just grin like an idiot here, right?”
“So what? You didn't celebrate when you scored the opening goal earlier. That's plenty.”
“......”
Starting today's match and delivering a stellar performance of one goal and one assist—about as good as it gets for a fullback—Alto had shown utmost respect to his former club, Rotherham United. Even after finding the net, he had merely clasped his hands together in an apologetic gesture of thanks toward the supporters.
From my perspective, he had shown all the courtesy required. In truth, he still held deep affection for his boyhood club, having spent not only the first half of this campaign here, but two and a half professional seasons, on top of growing up in their youth academy from the moment he could kick a ball.
Naturally, as someone who respects every player's personal circumstances, I had no intention of forcing my mindset on him. If by some strange twist of fate I ever transferred and walked onto Luton Town's pitch in an opposing shirt, I would probably do the exact same thing.
Still, that was that, and a win was a win. For our traveling fans as much as for ourselves, we had to savor the victory. No matter how often it happens, winning never gets old.
“Why are you creeping up on me like that?”
“Hey now. Hold still.”
“Piss off.”
“Come on. You're probably getting Man of the Match. The least you can do is give the fans a proper lap.”
“Stay away from me, you lunatics!”
I stood at 188 centimeters and packed plenty of muscle, whereas Alto, even for a fullback, was quite lean and small, standing roughly shoulder-to-shoulder with Dominic, our squad's shortest player. That meant hoisted up with a little help from Dominic and Emir, carrying an unwilling Alto around the pitch on my back was hardly a challenge, even with him thrashing around and my legs heavy from the full ninety minutes.
When I finally set him down, Alto looked ready to explode after being paraded before the home crowd against his will. Yet the Rotherham supporters didn't seem to hold any grudge; despite the loss, some laughed warmly and applauded in encouragement.
A remarkably gracious reaction from supporters whose team had just lost. Alto must have racked up an incredible amount of goodwill during his time here. It was a relief to know Luton Town's scouts had picked someone of genuine character.
“Don't... ever... do that again.”
“Aw, don't worry, I won't. We'll be playing in the Premier League next season anyway. We won't be running into Rotherham.”
“......”
My offhand remark seemed to plunge him straight into contemplation.
“Just look over there. Do those people look like they hate you?”
“No.”
“Then that's all that matters. If you really can't let it go, you can always come back and finish your career here before you hang up your boots.”
Unlike a certain retiree living in Madeira, Alto hadn't left on bad terms, nor was he the type to ruin team chemistry if he returned. Any sensible club would welcome back an academy graduate with open arms.
“Having a club that'll take you back no matter what is a luxury, you know.”
“You really have a way with words...”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Alto trudged off toward the dressing room, tossing his shirt to a young fan on the way. A good kid through and through.
I wondered how long I would stay at Luton Town myself.
What was my buyout clause again...?
If some ultra-wealthy club went mad and triggered it, who knew what might happen.
Whether it was cleanly bowing out of the League Cup, the winter transfer signings paying immediate dividends, or a bit of both, Luton dropped only two points throughout January—a single draw—firmly retaining top spot in the Championship.
The only reason we hadn't widened the gap was that Middlesbrough had swept January with straight victories, trimming our lead from eight points to six.
Yet aside from us and Middlesbrough, every other club trailed by a double-digit deficit in points. Since first and second place in the Championship earned automatic promotion to the Premier League, chatter of going up was steadily creeping through the squad as well as the fanbase.
Manager Gordon Morton made no effort to tamp down the excitement, however.
Because something arrived that instantly sobered everyone up.
“The team facing Luton Town FC in the FA Cup quarter-finals is...”
“Newcastle United!”
As usual, the players without partners or families gathered in small groups at Captain Teddy's house to watch the broadcast on his big-screen television. Total despair settled over the room.
Dominic raised an arm to fling his popcorn, but caught Teddy's steely glare and thought better of it. He had no desire to double his morning ration of the captain's homemade "health food"—stuff that could barely be classified as edible.
Heavy sighs filled Teddy's living room for a good while.
It wasn't merely because Newcastle was a Premier League side.
Having reached the quarter-finals, we already knew every other remaining team in the FA Cup was from the top flight. After all, the club we had barely edged out in the round of 16 was Brighton.
Newcastle, however, carried extra baggage. In the previous FA Cup campaign, we had been demolished 4–1 in the round of 128. Even accounting for the raucous atmosphere of an away ground packed to the brim, the dread was visceral.
“Still, unlike last season, we're playing at home this time. What's with all the moping?”
Back then, Newcastle's owner had attended, and perhaps because it was a home match, their starters played nearly seventy full minutes regardless of the manager's original rotation plans.
This time, the draw made Luton Town the home side.
Moreover, Newcastle was locked in a cutthroat battle for Champions League qualification in the latter half of the league season. Even for a quarter-final, fielding their full starting eleven without good reason would be an enormous burden.
Their next league match followed immediately after facing us, leaving them zero breathing room.
Furthermore, compared to last season, Newcastle hadn't produced any standout signings or explosive breakout prospects, whereas several Luton players had blossomed and the winter window had been a resounding success. It wasn't an impossible match.
Of course, Newcastle remained the clear favorite on paper, but right now, hard truths weren't what the squad needed—a bit of rousing spin and bravado was.
“We've already played Leicester City. It's not like Premier League teams play football with their hands. At the end of the day, it's all the same.”
Naturally, I left out the fact that Leicester City was currently hovering just above the relegation zone in the lower-mid table.
“Han is right,” Teddy chimed in. “All we need to do is trust Manager Gordon and train thoroughly. Even if you think our quality is lacking, have faith in all the conditioning we've done and run until you drop.”
True to his reputation as a football fanatic, the moment the FA Cup draw concluded, Teddy herded us down to the relatively small gym on his ground floor—"small" compared to the club's training ground facilities.
“Since everyone skipped evening training today, I'll let you go after just one hour of lifting.”
“...Wait, Captain—”
“No negotiations. Get to it.”
“Okay, fine, but please tell me you aren't planning to feed us your homemade health slop for dinner after we work out...”
The captain's stony expression was answer enough.
“I'm getting out of here.”
“...Me too.”
Everyone scrambled toward the exit. Dominic was already slipping into his jacket.
The only problem was that Captain Teddy had firmly planted his massive frame right in front of the doorway.
And so, we were forced to test the limits of human endurance.
In more ways than one.
As the saying went, there was no such thing as an "absolute" in football.
An unknown fourth-tier club could topple a Premier League giant, and an inspired individual performance on the day could produce unthinkable results.
In that sense, a thirty-eight-game league campaign tested consistency and reflected true quality fairly well, but knockout tournaments were entirely different beasts.
Looking at this season's FA Cup, Premier League clubs had occupied almost every spot in the round of 16—except for Luton Town—yet that didn't mean all the favorites had survived.
Having experienced the volatile nature of the sport firsthand since being injected with oil money, Newcastle United had all the more reason to prepare meticulously for this quarter-final clash.
Newcastle United's current manager, Pasten, diligently carried out that duty, dissecting Luton Town piece by piece.
His tactical analysis staff presented a Luton Town side that was undeniably well-drilled.
If they were dropped into the Premier League right now to restart the season, they would likely manage to survive in the lower-mid table.
Yet that was entirely within expectations.
Holding top spot in the Championship since the first half of the season with overwhelming dominance made such an assessment easy enough to predict.
The data profiles of Luton's players generally indicated they were simply playing very well, with nothing defying conventional logic.
Except for one single player, whose data made Pasten question his own eyes.
“...Is this even possible?”
“My thoughts exactly, boss.”
It wasn't merely a question of playing well or poorly.
Every detailed metric fluctuated wildly from one match to the next.
What made it chilling was that if it were simple inconsistency, it could be dismissed as erratic form—yet every single variation somehow yielded a decisive contribution to the team.
One match, it was his head; the next, his feet.
This parade of wildly shifting data every game or two caused even Pasten—a manager who prided himself on trusting advanced data and modern technology—to wonder if there was a software malfunction or an analytical glitch.
“Does this lad have two brains or something?”
“I can't say, but he's certainly going to be a nightmare to contain.”
“Good grief...”
It was as if he were two completely different players.
In his entire career as a football manager, Pasten had never witnessed a data profile like this.
188 centimeters.
A stature by no means small for a footballer. Leaving aside the thunderous, merciless headers he delivered using that height, it defied belief that someone of that build could dribble through defenses and finish without picking up a single injury, exactly as seen in the match footage.
“What's the best approach here?”
Newcastle was not immune to the dilemma facing every opponent that locked horns with Lee Han's Luton Town.
When Gordon Morton's tactical acumen combined with the burgeoning talents of his young squad and Lee Han's elusive, phenomenal abilities, opponents inevitably spiraled into confusion.
Yet Andre Pasten possessed an advantage: the team under his command was neither a Championship nor a League One outfit. While perhaps not the absolute best in the world, Newcastle United boasted top-tier talent across the pitch.
Moreover, they had crushed Luton Town the previous season without needing any deep tactical breakdown. Even if critics scoffed that beating a lower-league team was nothing to boast about, Newcastle had won with ease. There was no need to panic over a single player.
No matter how much Lee Han had developed since their last meeting, he couldn't cover the entire pitch on his own.
“Then how about preparing two separate tactical schemes tailored to each of his styles?”
“Do we have enough time for that?”
“We can manage it. We still have about a week.”
When a squad possessed the quality and the manager had the tactical pedigree, a bespoke game plan was always the ideal solution.
While sticking to their primary league system had its merits, Gordon Morton's notoriety was well known; trotting out a predictable Plan A against him would be asking for trouble.
Besides, with an important league fixture arriving immediately after the FA Cup, Newcastle needed to prioritize their Champions League qualification pursuit.
If they deployed their rotational squad for the FA Cup while running tactical drills through mini-games against the first team, instilling the two tactical variations into the reserves wouldn't be difficult at all.
Pasten was, after all, a manager fully capable of pulling it off.