The FA Cup Final (Part 2)
“You call this a team?!”
The Arsenal manager screamed at his players, his eyes blazing as though ready to swallow someone whole.
“Do you think this is some youth pitch from back when you were still pissing your pants?!”
“……”
“This is Wembley Stadium! The FA Cup Final! Do you think throwing your hands in the air and whining that those Luton bastards fouled you is going to solve a damn thing?!”
The players stood in suffocating silence, unable to offer a single excuse.
Barton Panides had drilled those exact danger areas into their heads before kickoff, yet they had committed nearly every reckless error he had warned against. They had walked straight into Luton Town’s trap. Deluded into believing they were dominating the pitch, they had repeatedly forced ill-advised take-ons, squandering attacking opportunities while practically rolling out the red carpet for the opposition's lethal counterattacks.
“Do you think anyone besides the FA gives a damn if you bitch about the referee after the match?! Once that final whistle blows, it’s over! You’ll have plenty of time to whine after you’ve lost!”
The word loss struck a raw nerve. Every stinging syllable carved into the players' pride, brewing venom in their chests.
“Cautran! You’re the fullback! What the hell are you doing standing there with your arms crossed beside your winger?! In the second half, shut your mouth and move!”
Magnets clacked across the tactical whiteboard, methodically reinforcing the intricate game plan they had prepared for weeks.
“And Andries! When the hell does a center-back let a man slip that easily?! Stick to him like your life depends on it! Everyone knows those wet-behind-the-ears brats, Lee Han and Dominic, are talented, but are they invincible?! Are Championship defenders somehow better than you?!”
Andries kept his mouth firmly shut.
If those two were truly invincible, they wouldn't have had matches where they were held scoreless. As long as those clean sheets existed on record, it meant he, too, was capable of shutting Lee Han down.
“Stop them rough, just like Luton did to you! The first place you confront Lee Han isn't inside our penalty box—it’s in the midfield! Don’t hesitate. Cut him down right there!”
That was the greatest strategic advantage Arsenal gained by pushing their defensive line high. No matter how dominant Luton Town was in the air, and no matter how lethal Lee Han was as the tip of their spear, it was meaningless unless they earned set pieces in dangerous territory. If Arsenal snuffed them out near the center circle, the threat of any subsequent free kick plummeted, and their backline had ample time to organize.
“And Mart!”
Mart Bartstram, who had been completely shackled on the left by Dominic and Luke throughout the first half, looked up with an indignant scowl, already anticipating the manager’s wrath.
“Cool your head first! And purge that arrogant notion that you can breeze past them just because they came from the second division!”
“……Yes, boss.”
“Do you think those bastards won the Championship and set foot on Wembley through dumb luck?! I’ve told you a hundred times—you’re not the best in the world yet! Even Messi gets stopped. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking you can beat every defender on your own!”
Mart could find no rebuttal against the cold, unyielding truth.
“We didn’t come here for a dribbling exhibition! We came to win! What is the one thing I always tell you?!”
“…Cooperate, and exploit.”
“Right! The players who master that reach the very pinnacle—not show ponies flailing their boots like you just did!”
Barton understood Mart. The first half had undoubtedly been marred by the boy's complacency. No matter how well-drilled Luton Town’s defense was, for Mart—one of the Premier League’s most electric wingers—to produce nothing more than a solitary dribble and a wild strike into the stands was unacceptable.
He had taken Luton Town lightly. A manager could never completely peer into a player's mind, and the youthful Mart had subconsciously assumed that Arsenal's victory was a foregone conclusion.
That’s why he stubbornly clung to methods that clearly weren’t working.
It was a classic brand of youthful arrogance, and breaking that stubbornness was precisely the manager’s job.
“Look at the scoreboard! Forty-five minutes are gone, we’re trailing, and those Luton bastards are probably grinning in their dressing room right now! Do you enjoy getting chewed out by me?!”
“No, boss!”
“Then do what you just said—exploit them in the second half! Stop trying to create space entirely on your own, and remember you don’t have to beat everyone by yourself!”
He slid the magnet assigned to Mart across the board.
“Cautran will overlap in a direct line behind you at all times. For the first ten minutes, drag their defenders out of position like you do in the league, keep circulating the ball, and cool your head.”
“…Understood.”
Mart was neither foolish nor undisciplined. All he needed was a moment to clear his head and a pitch where he could execute his talents with composure. Neither had existed in the first half, but with Mart and the rest of the squad awakened, the second half would be an entirely different story.
“And from then on… I leave it to your discretion.”
Granting him a free role did not mean abandoning tactical structure. Placing a player in a free role inevitably imposed heavier demands on everyone around him. Fluid, unpredictable movement—that was the very essence of the role. If his teammates couldn't read his intentions and adjust their runs accordingly, the entire machine would grind to a halt.
Instilling the patterns required to complement Mart's flair was the manager’s responsibility, which was why Barton had spent the entire fifteen minutes drilling their movements into them.
Mart’s tense grimace relaxed into an expression of calm, dependable resolve. He shouted his response with vigor.
“Good. Then I take it you’re ready to turn this match around and bring that trophy home.”
“Yes, boss!”
“Then get out there and prepare for the second half! Tear Luton Town apart and bring that trophy back to Emirates Stadium!”
Fueled by their hunger for silverware, the players roared, ready to stoke the fires of the stadium once more.
“Lee Han, you’re on defense.”
Wondering if my ears were playing tricks on me, I blinked and asked for clarification.
Yet the manager’s answer remained unchanged.
“Wait… was that why you kept having me practice defending lately…?”
“You know the answer, so why ask?”
No wonder. Whenever the team practiced defending crosses during training, the boss had specifically ordered me to defend one-on-one against Dominic’s dribbling.
“You will be man-marking Mart Bartstram.”
Tactically, it wasn’t a terrible idea. Whatever adjustments Arsenal made in the second half, their rising star Mart was certain to be at the heart of them. Dropping me deep to neutralize that primary variable was a sensible countermove.
Besides, I had already spent half of the first half hovering near midfield, disrupting their buildup play. Our solitary shot on target had miraculously found the back of the net, but in truth, our attack had been virtually nonexistent. When defending a lead—no matter the margin—and struggling to generate forward momentum, prioritizing defensive stability was a reasonable choice.
“Still… wouldn’t it be better to just sub on another defensive midfielder?”
“Who? And for whom?”
“……Ah.”
Right. Aside from Captain Teddy, practically our entire midfield engine room was running on fumes. When Arsenal unleashed their furious onslaught after conceding, our clean sheet hadn’t held by sheer luck. Our midfielders had run themselves ragged—closing down long-range shots, launching occasional breaks, and throwing their bodies into desperate tackles.
They had fought until they were completely spent.
Looking at them slumped on their benches, jerseys drenched in sweat and devoid of energy, it was impossible to ask for more. Even if they stayed out there, their depleted stamina would inevitably lead to conceding.
In short, we had no defensive midfielders left on the bench to reinforce the lines. It was the harsh reality of our thin squad depth.
Without another word, I focused entirely on the manager’s instructions.
“Once he enters the penalty box, hand him off to the center-backs. But outside the box, feel free to stop his footwork roughly.”
It was an order made possible solely by our overwhelming dominance in the air. Even Arsenal’s center-backs barely edged out Giovanni, who was average height by Luton’s standards. And compared to our towering center-backs—who stood half a head taller than my own substantial frame—conceding a distant free kick and inviting a cross was practically an invitation to clear the ball and reclaim possession.
Besides, while my technical dribbling was nothing to boast about, relentless practice over the past few months had at least taught me to knock the ball into open space and chase it down. Starting from a deeper position wouldn't completely castrate our counterattacking threat.
In fact, if Arsenal pushed their backline aggressively high in their desperation to equalize, seeing me drop back might tempt them to step up even further—making them far easier to exploit on the break than in the first half.
“Alright. There’s less than an hour left in our season.”
Having outlined my positioning and duties, the manager addressed the entire locker room, his voice steady and solemn.
“In two days, we will hold our open-top bus parade through the town. The number of trophies you hold above your heads on that bus will be decided today.”
“……”
“Is there anyone here who thinks they could enjoy that parade if we lose this match?”
Naturally, not a single voice replied.
“If you want to celebrate that day with your heads held high—and above all, to make the Luton Town supporters who traveled all the way here proud—give every ounce of strength you have left.”
“Yes, boss!”
Now, it was time to decide the true owner of the cup.
Dominic took the kickoff, signaling the start of the second half.
Seconds into the restart, a crunching challenge clattered into Dominic as he attempted to turn out of pressure, sending him crashing to the grass.
“Ref! Where’s the card?!”
“Not enough for a booking. Play on, and stop complaining,” the referee gestured firmly.
Because the attack had been halted near the halfway line, Arsenal’s defensive unit rapidly retreated into position. We had no choice but to slow down our tempo.
After a cautious sequence of passes, Arsenal’s fullback stepped up with a crisp tackle, stripping the ball from Emir whose touch had run slightly heavy, and instantly launched a sweeping diagonal pass across the pitch.
The pinpoint delivery found Mart, who had drifted over to the right flank.
“Mart! He was completely suffocated by Luton’s fullback, Mick, in the first half, but this time it’s entirely different! A slick one-two with Arsenal’s midfielder, Anton, and he glides right past Luton Town’s flank!”
“He’s driving forward! Still accelerating!”
Even though our team had just been transitioning into an attack, I had held my position near the center line under the manager’s orders. The instant Mart surged forward with the ball, I sprinted after him with everything I had.
“Lee Han sprints back to provide defensive cover! Luton desperately need him to stall the breakthrough until the rest of the squad can recover!”
“Wait—look at Mart! He feigns a pass and skips right past Luton’s fullback, Wright! The space has opened up!”
Wright, still subconsciously wary of the passing combination Mart had executed earlier, hesitated for a split second—and Mart blew past him in a flash.
Fortunately, Andre threw his body into the lane with desperate tenacity, buying me the crucial seconds I needed to close the distance. Just as Andre was beaten, I caught up.
Of course, I was far from a seasoned defender. All I could really do was plant my body in front of him to obstruct his path, and inside the penalty box, a reckless tackle was out of the question.
As I held my awkward stance, Mart spotted an opening I hadn’t even anticipated and prepared to slip past me.
Then—
“Through the legs! Shut your damn legs, now!”
The familiar voice roared inside my skull. Instinctively, I clamped my knees together and dropped my weight.
Thwack.
The ball ricocheted off my shins and came to a dead halt right before my boots.
‘Wait. That actually worked?’
Maybe I had an unexpected talent for defending after all.
“Cut the crap and get on the attack.”
I can’t hear a single thing.