Proof (1)
Matchday 45 of the league season.
Just as everyone had anticipated, our clash against lower-mid-table Hull City ended in an emphatic, sweeping victory for Luton Town.
"Lee Han! Deep into stoppage time! An emphatic, thunderous strike from distance to put the match beyond any shadow of a doubt!"
"With that, it's his fifty-second goal of the campaign! Capping off a brilliant hat-trick, he becomes the very first player in Championship history to shatter the fifty-goal milestone in a single season!"
Having been thoroughly and mercilessly disciplined during our promotion party, Dominic had whipped in crosses with razor-sharp precision all match—if only to save his own skin. I made sure to meet them cleanly with my head, capping off the hat-trick.
"Man, the club's going to go bankrupt paying out your goal bonuses."
"When someone scores this many, they have to pay up even if it breaks the bank."
"True enough."
The scoreline had already widened to a four-goal cushion. With the table positions practically settled, the visiting Hull City players simply stood watching in resignation as our lengthy stoppage-time celebrations unfolded. By the time the extra minutes finally ticked away, the referee blew the final whistle the moment Hull kicked off.
"Is there really only one match left now?"
"Two. We've got Arsenal after Middlesbrough."
"...Now I'm suddenly in a foul mood."
Our opponents in the FA Cup final were none other than Arsenal, a club steeped in history and tradition, who had brushed aside West Ham in the semi-finals. Setting aside the league and other competitions, Arsenal had lifted the FA Cup more times than any other club in England. In many ways, that made them a far more daunting prospect than anyone else.
"Why worry about that now? It's the final fixture of our season anyway, so brooding over it does us no good."
Captain Teddy chided us, saying we should just savor today's win instead of overthinking things, and guided Dominic and me toward the dressing room.
In the days leading up to the league finale, we maintained our regular training routine without deviating. Rather than crafting a bespoke tactical plan specifically for Middlesbrough, the gaffer wanted us to play to our own strengths.
"There's no chance Middlesbrough will deploy the same tactics they've relied on until now."
"...Right."
"Any manager with half a brain would know better."
Middlesbrough, whose foundation rested on an ultra-defensive 4-4-2 setup, had been ruthlessly dismantled by Lee Yeon during the first half of the season. No matter how they tweaked their defensive shape, their backline simply couldn't cope with Lee Yeon's dazzling dribbling. Even with their winter transfer reinforcements, Middlesbrough's manager had to know that stopping a dribbler whose skills had already proven lethal against Premier League opposition was well beyond their defenders' capabilities.
"So they're bound to bring a bespoke tactical plan tailored specifically to counter us."
"Doesn't that actually work in our favor, then?"
Remembering the Newcastle match, where our superior familiarity with our own system gave us the upper hand, Dominic asked the question.
"No, this situation is slightly different."
The gaffer shook his head.
Opting not to draft a bespoke tactic didn't mean the manager and his coaching staff had neglected their analysis of Middlesbrough. On the contrary, precisely because this was the league decider, they had been dissecting every single match the moment the title race began taking shape. And their findings pointed to a singular conclusion.
"Middlesbrough has been preparing for us well in advance."
Dozens of clips from Middlesbrough's fixtures against other opponents flickered onto the screen.
"Here's Blackpool, who mimicked our 4-2-3-1 setup, and Rotherham United, who fielded a 4-4-2 with a double pivot."
Pointing out similarities between several other clubs and our own playstyle, Gordon continued.
"Middlesbrough used their matches against those teams as rehearsals to prepare for us."
"..."
"It seems what Lee Han said back then stung their pride quite deeply."
Come to think of it, it felt like only yesterday that Lee Yeon had run his mouth, mocking their parked-bus, two-line defense and causing me no small amount of embarrassment. And yet here we were at the final match of the season. Time truly flew.
In any case, despite Middlesbrough's strong results, their manager was already under fire from his own supporters over his negative brand of football. Lee Yeon's provocation had caused him to snap, and his subsequent public jabs at me had become infamous. Of course, hurling barbs at a striker averaging more than a goal a game carried little weight, so the mainstream media had largely dismissed his rants as petty hysterics.
So he wasn't just throwing insults...
The Middlesbrough manager's claims that he had been constantly watching and preparing for Luton Town hadn't felt entirely real before, but seeing that he had spent a dozen matches experimenting tactically just to counter us, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of tension. Even Newcastle, the strongest side in the division this season, hadn't prepared for us with such obsessive thoroughness.
In all likelihood, our usual tactical trickery—swapping positions at will and mimicking each other's styles—would have little effect. In fact, the very fact that the gaffer hadn't even brought it up was proof enough that it wouldn't work.
"However, there is no need to worry."
Noticing our subdued expressions, the gaffer eased the tension in the room with an assuring smile.
"The fact that they firmly occupy second place in the table is proof enough that their tactics work; stating it is merely stating the obvious."
After all, that contrast was precisely what had captivated everyone about this matchup: Luton Town, who always seized the initiative to dictate the tempo, versus Middlesbrough, who banked everything on waiting for that single, clinical counterattack. With two teams of polar-opposite footballing philosophies clashing in the title decider, it was only natural that the press kept dredging up Lee Yeon's scathing remarks even as the season drew to a close.
"Yet there is one undeniable truth."
The greatest, most insurmountable difference between Middlesbrough and our Luton Town.
"They have not played a single match this entire season where they controlled the game for ninety minutes."
And that very limitation would become their greatest weakness, tightening around their throats like a noose.
Matchday 46. The final fixture of the league.
Kenilworth Road and the surrounding streets were completely closed to vehicular traffic by police for safety, transformed into a sea of walking bodies. Supporters flocked to the ground, desperate to witness the culmination of our season-long pursuit of the title and roar their team on. Those unable to secure tickets packed into nearby pubs or claimed spots on the pavement in front of the giant screens the club had set up across the stadium plaza.
"And right now, the EFL Championship trophy has arrived here at Luton Town's home ground, Kenilworth Road! The silver silverware glistens brilliantly under the lights!"
"With both sides claiming victory in Round 45 to keep the point gap intact, this final league fixture has officially become the winner-takes-all showdown between Luton Town and Middlesbrough!"
"Rather than the conclusion of a long league campaign, the atmosphere feels remarkably like a knockout cup final!"
"An entire season's labor hanging on ninety minutes—it's certainly no exaggeration. Naturally, holding a two-point cushion means a mere draw is enough to crown Luton Town champions, but the electric fervor inside this stadium suggests neither side is playing for a stalemate!"
"In less than two hours, the true rightful owner of the championship silverware will finally be decided!"
"And just as we speak—the players are walking out onto the pitch!"
Emerging through the tunnel connecting the dressing rooms to the pitch, the Championship trophy stood on its pedestal, gleaming with majestic allure. We had lifted the play-off trophy during our promotion from League One, but strictly speaking, that was the extent of our silverware. None of us could pull our eyes away from it.
"...Captain. We need to keep walking."
"R-Right. Of course."
Even Captain Teddy, who rarely lost his composed demeanor, had been staring spellbound at the silver cup from the front of the line. It took Emir's gentle whisper to finally prompt him forward onto the pitch.
This tension felt fundamentally different from the pressure of promotion. A championship trophy, regardless of its division or pedigree, possessed an irresistible pull over every footballer. Perhaps that was why athletes dedicated their entire lives to the sport—just for a single chance to lay their hands upon it.
"You're going to win it, right?"
"Without a doubt."
"How many goals are you going to score? My mum and dad are really happy whenever you score lots."
"A lot. I'll score so many that I can bring that trophy right over to you."
"Score this many!"
"I promise."
Evidently thrilled with my response, the young Luton mascot beamed with innocent delight, entrusting the championship into our hands. Clasping the mascots' hands tightly, we walked past the glittering trophy and lined up along the touchline.
"Luton! Luton! Luton!"
"Fuck the FA!"
"We're going up to the Premier League!"
The chants crafted by supporters who still harbored deep resentment toward the English FA following the club's past insolvency echoed across Kenilworth Road. Though the stadium was compact and weathered by age, that very compactness amplified the stands into an acoustic cauldron, magnifying every voice into an overwhelming roar.
The Luton faithful belted out their anthems with enough ferocity to drown out the traveling Middlesbrough supporters entirely, and hats were already sailing into the air from every corner of the stands. The straw hat emblazoned on Luton Town's crest had earned the club its enduring moniker—the Hatters. Today, the fans wore orange hats in numbers many times greater than usual to spur us on, sprinkled here and there with the traditional straw boaters accented by black ribbons.
"If we lose after all this cheering..."
"We'd have to hang ourselves."
"Conveniently, there are ribbons right over there. We could untie one and use it."
"..."
Realizing that this wasn't the time for banter after we each chimed in with dry retorts, Dominic tucked his tail between his legs and quietly watched the coin toss.
Having called heads, Captain Teddy smiled as he looked down at the coin on the turf. Heads it was.
"Yeeeeeesss!"
"Fweeeet!"
It was a trivial thing, yet the supporters roared in celebration even at this minor triumph. Leaving the cheers in his wake, our captain, having won the toss, opted for the ball. As Ms. Myers had mentioned, the away allocation for today's match had been capped at the absolute statutory minimum, rendering the choice of ends largely irrelevant anyway.
Stepping onto the grass as we moved into our half, we huddled into a tight circle.
"Why are you all looking at me? I have nothing to say."
The gaffer's deadpan quip drew a brief round of chuckles from the squad.
"I'm joking, of course. Naturally, I have something to say."
Gordon looked into the eyes of each and every player before speaking.
"The championship."
The word every single one of us desperately yearned for.
"We must win it. That trophy out there has traveled all the way inside our stadium; shouldn't we claim what's right in front of us?"
"Yes, Boss!"
"Then run yourselves ragged and take it."
With those words, the manager handed the baton over to the captain.
"You all know I'm rubbish at speeches."
Teddy offered an awkward grin, then continued.
"So the gist of what I have to say isn't any different from the gaffer. Run until you drop. Run until you feel like you're going to die, so you leave this pitch with zero regrets. Got it?"
"Yeah!"
"That's all that matters. Now get ready, one last time!"
Spurred by the captain's rallying cry, we pulled in even tighter, shoulders locked together. And moments later, a booming voice thundered from the center of the pitch, refusing to be outdone by the roar of the crowd.
"Take your positions, everyone!"
Our minds were steeled. Each of us took up the stations we had occupied before every kickoff all season long. Middlesbrough appeared ready as well, their faces grim and resolute as they stared across the halfway line.
That stifling tension, which had lasted barely a minute—
TWEEEEEET!
—was shattered by the sharp, piercing trill of the opening whistle.