On a Stormy Day (1)
Even though they had contested a grueling league fixture just yesterday, the lights inside the tactical analysis room at Newcastle United's home ground, St James' Park, showed no sign of going out.
Facing Luton Town in the upcoming fifth round of the Premier League, Newcastle manager Pasten was pouring every ounce of his passion into preparation.
"Have you finished analyzing Luton's match against Liverpool?"
"Yes, thoroughly."
"Good. Collate it with the data we compiled on them last season."
Last season in the FA Cup, Newcastle had suffered a bitter defeat at Luton Town's hands. Bamboozled by Luton's tactical deception, they had scrambled in vain, shifting helplessly between two different systems until the final whistle blew. Now that Luton had earned promotion to the top flight, this rematch presented the perfect stage for retribution.
"So, what does the report say?"
"Fundamentally, they employ a relatively conservative, defensive setup—befitting a newly promoted side."
Because Luton Town had scored prolifically in every league fixture this season barring their opener, observers routinely overlooked that reality. In truth, they were not reckless attackers at all. Even during their frantic three-goal showdown with Liverpool, their core focus had remained anchored firmly on defense.
"The only match where they somewhat neglected their defensive duties was in the Europa League group stage, where the difference in class was obvious. Whatever formation they roll out, they consistently line up midfielders deep to shield their backline."
"...A trend we never saw from them in the Championship."
"Precisely. Last season, their central midfielders were defensive only in name, practically living on the edge of the box to join the attack. This current Luton side is markedly different."
Carson, Newcastle's head coach, chimed in to elaborate.
"Nevertheless, the reason the media and general public still brand Luton's brand of football as attacking comes down entirely to their counterattacks."
A graphic displaying Luton Town's forward line flashed across the projector screen.
"While their formation appears fixed on paper, these attackers shift and rotate with fluid, organic freedom. They are the true heartbeat of Luton Town's threat."
"And as you well know, the absolute focal point of that attack is Lee Han."
"...Of course he is."
Pasten stared at the projected image of Lee Han dead center, letting out a heavy sigh.
"I told the board we should have signed him this summer."
He had not merely pressed Newcastle's recruitment department; he had even dialed the club's owner directly—a man he rarely ever called—pleading his case. In the end, their pursuit of Lee Han had hit a stone wall.
"The player showed little interest, and Luton Town adamantly refused to sell. Our hands were tied."
"I know, I know. I'm just venting."
Money was never the issue. The sheer scale of the oil wealth backing Newcastle's ownership far exceeded anything Pasten, having dedicated his entire life to football, could fathom. They had proposed a transfer fee up to £110 million—roughly 180 billion won—and offered to double the player's personal wages. Not his old terms, either, but double the newly elevated contract he had signed with Luton upon promotion. Yet both Luton Town and Lee Han had flatly turned down the fortune.
"It's just so frustrating. Utterly frustrating."
Newcastle possessed exceptional squad balance, free of any glaring tactical weaknesses. Yet lacking obvious flaws also meant they lacked anyone truly extraordinary. While the club certainly commanded the financial power to execute marquee signings, the global market for elite strikers had dried up so drastically in recent years that viable targets simply did not exist. Although Pasten had utilized a false nine to great effect last season to secure a Champions League berth, every manager deep down craved a lethal number nine capable of relentlessly bombarding the opposition net.
Neutralizing such a striker with the collective team he had built was a deeply satisfying challenge in its own right, and he had no intention of backing down. Luton was, after all, only a newly promoted side. Suffering back-to-back defeats against a team like that was something his managerial pride would never allow.
Shaking off the heavy mood, Pasten steered the room back toward constructive planning.
"You've finished profiling each individual player. What's the verdict?"
"Apart from Lee Han, there are no unusual variables."
"And that variable would be his head and his feet, I presume?"
"Yes, sir. Precisely."
It was Lee Han's distinctive style of play, which had drawn even greater spotlight since Luton's ascension to the Premier League. Any manager ignorant of it had no business managing in the English top flight—it was that widely known.
"However, his match-to-match variance has noticeably flattened compared to last season."
The line graph displayed on the screen mapped the ratio between Lee Han's headers and ground shots across every appearance.
"While the ratio of headers to shots on goal remains fairly constant per match, the proportion of those attempts converting into goals has risen."
In fixtures where aerial dominance served as his main weapon, the occasional ground strikes he unleashed were hitting the back of the net with greater frequency than last season. The reverse held true as well; whenever his shooting took center stage, his aerial efficiency rose alongside it.
"Is the increase statistically significant?"
"We cannot say with certainty just yet. We are only five matches into the campaign."
"...Hmm."
Pasten knew firsthand how bitter a bespoke tactical defeat tasted, and throughout his career he had witnessed how explosively players at that developmental age could evolve. Furthermore, debating custom countermeasures against a striker who had already hammered in nine goals across three league matches felt like an exercise in futility.
Scoring in three consecutive matches was impressive form, but three consecutive hat-tricks meant the man possessed the terrifying knack of turning any touch, off any part of his body, into a goal. This was no longer a matter of a youngster's gradual growth or inconsistency. All Newcastle could do was prepare the soundest possible structure to contain him, and leave the rest in the hands of fate.
With that realization, Pasten's hesitation vanished.
"Scrap the tailored system we drew up last season. We're sticking to our standard 4-1-2-3 formation."
Pasten delivered his verdict. There was no need to take unnecessary gambles chasing marginal theoretical gains. Just as Luton had done throughout their rise, Newcastle simply had to execute what they did best.
"First, instruct the midfield to tightly mark Luton's central pivots, Teddy Bennett and Dominic Moss..."
Operating on the left of Luton's typical double pivot, Teddy Bennett was the crucial link binding defense to attack. While direct passes frequently flew forward from the opposite holding midfielder, their precision was far from flawless. It was usually Lee Han's sheer individual brilliance that transformed those awkward aerial balls into dangerous attacking sequences.
Yet there was only one Lee Han. Once he won the aerial duel, the follow-up had to be carried out by his supporting cast. And stripped of Lee Han's personal intervention, Luton's frontline—while lethal in the Championship—could not so easily dominate Premier League opposition. Newcastle's defensive unit was more than capable of handling them.
"Lastly, instruct Ragman to drop deep into the midfield and assist with our pressing."
Ragman was Newcastle's attacking linchpin and false nine. Gifted with high football intelligence, his presence dropping into deeper pockets would lend vital weight to their press, choking off service before it could ever reach Luton's dangerous forward line.
"Does anyone have anything to add?"
"No, sir."
"Then we will finalize the tactical drills by tomorrow and begin working with the squad."
Unlike that FA Cup clash, this upcoming league match would be fought on their home turf. For the sake of the supporters packing St James' Park, this second showdown against Luton Town had to be a decisive victory of revenge.
Heathrow Airport.
I never thought I would be stepping foot back in this terminal so soon after the Olympics. It wasn't that Luton lacked an airport, but the owner's private jet was hangared at Heathrow. Since a quick gathering and team bus ride brought us to far cleaner, vastly more comfortable private facilities, we rarely bothered with Luton Airport for domestic travel.
"Why did you pack so much luggage?"
"Just threw in a few essentials."
"Learn some organization, will you..."
Stepping off the team bus, the players gathered in small clusters, hauling their bags toward the private jet tarmac. Naturally, I followed in line and boarded the plane.
"So this is... a private jet?"
"Man, we rode the bus all the way to Middlesbrough just a while back."
"Getting promoted to the Premier League really was the greatest thing ever."
After a lightning-fast boarding process, the squad stepped into the cabin, letting out quiet murmurs of admiration. The spacious seats and generous legroom were completely incomparable to standard airliners. Gourmet snacks and a minibar stood ready, and while absent from the plane's exterior, the Luton Town crest was proudly emblazoned across the cabin bulkhead.
The modern upgrades at our home ground were already proof enough of how far Luton Town had traveled from our struggling days in League One, but seeing that transformation reflected in our travel accommodations left several players visibly moved.
Captain Teddy, who had made his professional debut back when the club was scraping by in League Two, looked especially overwhelmed. Rumor had it the club had once been forced to sell off its own team bus to survive. Watching him tear up now that we were boarding a private jet for an away match was entirely understandable.
Then again, understanding his feelings didn't mean we would pass up the chance to tease him.
"The skipper's a total crybaby."
"Seconded."
"Now, now. Let's call it 'deeply sentimental.'"
"I can hear every word, you little bastards..."
Teddy yanked a tissue from the table to blow his nose, glancing around the cabin in wonder. Truth be told, none of the rest of us looked any different. After taking in every detail of our luxurious ride, everyone picked a seat and settled back in comfort.
"So are we flying private for every distant fixture from now on?"
"Probably. Didn't the owner say this was chartered exclusively for our use? He told us to take it for Middlesbrough too, didn't he?"
"I wish we could fly out like this for every single match."
"It'll probably only be for the long hauls like Middlesbrough or Newcastle."
"Even that is bloody incredible."
Newcastle upon Tyne—shortened simply to Newcastle—was situated slightly north of Middlesbrough, serving as the home fortress of Newcastle United. Traveling up by car or team bus took upwards of seven grueling hours, but a direct flight clocks in at under two. Furthermore, bypassing commercial terminals via a private domestic flight meant the squad accumulated virtually none of the taxing travel fatigue that usually plagued long journeys.
Unless an injury made someone particularly sensitive to cabin pressure, virtually every footballer preferred a quick flight over sitting cramped in a bus for three or four hours.
Once the players had settled in, the coaching staff filed into the cabin. Finally, Manager Gordon and our head physician, Dr. Anderson, stepped aboard, and the heavy doors sealed shut.
"Right then, is anyone missing?"
"All accounted for!"
"Splendid. The doors are already locked anyway, so nobody else could get on even if they tried. Ha-ha!"
"......"
Gordon chuckled heartily at his own joke before clearing his throat with an awkward grin. German humor remained an utter enigma—you never quite knew where the punchline was supposed to land. If anything, the fact that he considered that an actual joke was the funniest part.
Regardless, with everyone buckled in, the heavy fuselage smoothly taxied forward. Captain Teddy had already slipped on his noise-canceling headphones, while Dominic and Emir were eyeing the compact minibar—no doubt scouting for sodas, since touching alcohol under the manager's watchful eye was completely out of the question. The rest of the lads simply gazed out the windows as the jet climbed steadily into the sky.
It was a remarkably clear, sunny day.
"I hope the weather's like this for the match."
"It's not London, so of course it'll be fine."
Considering London's notorious reputation for gloom, if the capital was bathed in sunshine, Newcastle would surely be just as bright. Exchanging easy banter, we soared smoothly northward across the English sky.