Assist Vending Machine (2)
The moment the whistle blew for kickoff, Swansea City recycled the ball backward.
The fatal flaw of an aggressive, high-pressing system was laid bare. Swansea's midfielders and forwards had emptied their tanks, and their mobility was steadily degrading. In contrast, our side had spent the half sitting in a compact two-line defense—a classic 4-4-2 zonal block—and because Swansea's lateral shifts had been ponderously slow, we had conserved plenty of energy. Add to that the fact that our squad was considerably younger and fitter than theirs, and the balance of power had shifted completely.
Now, it was our turn to press.
Just as the gaffer had drilled into us, we initiated a ferocious, coordinated high press with five minutes left in the first half. I stepped up to shadow their defensive midfielder, who had dropped deep between the center-backs, suffocating every primary passing angle. Meanwhile, our two wide midfielders surged forward to clamp down on their fullbacks.
Cornered and desperate for an outlet, Swansea's goalkeeper looked toward his center-backs, who had fanned out wide to cover for the advanced fullbacks. Everything unfolded exactly as we had mapped out. Dominic, already primed, read the lateral pass before the keeper even struck it, sprinting toward the left channel to cut off their newly signed veteran center-back.
When a keeper has his options stripped away in an instant, the sensible choice is to hoof the ball into the stands. Unfortunately for Swansea, their shot-stopper made a far worse gamble.
He elected to play the ball to the right—straight toward their recently called-up youth prospect.
Our press had successfully forced an unnatural play.
Now, being brought up from the reserves didn't make the lad incompetent, but the left-sided center-back had one glaring flaw: he was right-footed. Facing his own net to receive a pass from the keeper, a left-footed defender could have swung his body and recycled the ball forward in a single touch. A right-footer, unless blessed with sublime technique, inevitably required one or two extra touches to get his hips aligned.
And in the ruthless theater of professional football, the fraction of a second bought by those extra touches was an eternity.
"Hughes, press him!"
Before the gaffer's shout had even finished ringing across the pitch, Hughes surged forward like a missile. Having spent the match rooted in the center circle with minimal movement, he had been virtually ignored by his markers. Rattled by the sudden ambush and lacking senior experience, the young defender panicked. Desperate to avoid a catastrophic giveaway in his own defensive third, he twisted awkwardly and launched a hurried, off-balance clearance upfield.
A blind hoof out of defense under heavy pressure meant one thing: the ball was almost certainly coming right back to us.
"Wilson! Push up!"
True to form, Teddy had already tracked the flight of the ball. He rose above the chasing midfielder, won the aerial duel cleanly, and cushioned a header into the stride of our left winger, Wilson.
Though two years older than our captain and squarely in veteran territory, the old boy's footwork was as sharp as ever. Smelling blood on the counter, Wilson effortlessly dropped his shoulder, left the frantic, backpedaling fullback clutching at shadows with a crisp stepover, and accelerated into acres of open green.
With Dominic and me having thoroughly dismantled their backline, Wilson didn't even need to worry about the offside trap. He whipped a high, vicious cross straight into the danger zone.
The ball curved viciously back toward Swansea's six-yard box.
It was nowhere near the keeper's gloves.
Failing to bury a delivery served on a silver platter like that would make me the laughingstock of the training ground for weeks. More importantly, Wilson—a man fighting tooth and nail for a contract extension—would never let me hear the end of it.
Gotta put this away.
I launched myself between the two center-backs, climbing higher than anyone on the pitch. Meeting the ball at the absolute apex of my leap—at an elevation no other human could reach—I met it squarely with my forehead.
The sheer velocity of the header sent the ball careening off on an entirely new trajectory, completely freezing the keeper where he stood.
Rrrrip!
The net billowed with a deeply satisfying snap, and my boots planted firmly back onto the turf.
"YEEEEAAAH! Luton Town forever!"
"Lee Han is a god!"
"Give 'em more! Put five past them!"
The roar from our modest traveling section pierced the silence of the home stadium, swelling until it echoed around the entire ground. I slid on my knees toward the away end, soaking in the euphoric praise.
"That was bloody insane!"
"How high did he even jump?!"
"The cross was way overhit, and he still hammered it home!"
"Oi, watch your mouths! That cross was dialed in specifically for Han's aerial range!" Wilson shouted defensively.
"Come off it, old man," Dominic teased, grinning ear to ear. "I saw your face the second it left your boot—you looked like you'd kicked it out of the ground!"
"...We scored, didn't we? Then shut it!"
Dominic, trying to wind up Wilson, ended up getting a taste of his own medicine. Seeing Dominic's pout, Emir—who had taken his fair share of flak earlier—burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.
Well, whatever the story was, I had my goal, Wilson had his assist, and our club carried a two-goal cushion into the break.
That was all that mattered.
Nothing else needed to be said.
When the second half got underway, Swansea City emerged in a distinctly more aggressive shape.
To be fair, from an objective standpoint, a side harboring promotion ambitions had to claw points back against a club like ours. True to their pedigree, once they flipped the switch and committed men forward with reckless abandon, we were forced to batten down the hatches and weather the storm.
Whatever their manager had said during the interval must have rewired their brains, because they were chasing down every loose ball like a pack of rabid wild dogs. Thanks to their unrelenting siege, Swansea racked up corner after corner. I ended up planted like a telephone pole right in front of our six-yard box, heading clear what felt like at least a dozen consecutive set pieces.
"Dominic, get the hell out of the box..."
"Why?"
"What aerial duel are you going to contest at your height? You couldn't touch the ball even if I held you on my shoulders. Go wait outside."
Muttering curses under his breath, Dominic sulked and drifted well away from the penalty area.
"Wait, what if one of these pinballs off someone into our own net?" Dominic called back.
"If that happens, Mathias or Jackson will murder you before the referee even blows his whistle."
"Come on, I bagged two goals! They wouldn't actually kill me, would they?"
"...Quit yapping and defend the corner!"
Before our center-back Jackson could finish chewing him out, Swansea's corner came curling into the box. The ball swung outward before knifing dangerously toward the near post. Sneaking a quick glance toward the halfway line to confirm Dominic's position, I launched myself upward and met the delivery head-on.
Thwack!
The ball arced cleanly out of danger, dropping perfectly into the path of Dominic, who had been lingering near the center circle precisely to scavenge for second balls.
"...Wait, what?" Dominic blinked.
"Dominic, RUN!"
Because Swansea had thrown virtually their entire outfield roster forward after a succession of corners, the only defenders left back were their two fullbacks. Unfortunate as it was for them, there was nobody on that pitch capable of catching Dominic once he hit his stride—his raw pace ranked among the elite of the entire Championship.
[Lee Han clears the ball with a thunderous header—wait, no, that was a pass! Dominic! Dominic brings it down on the half-turn!]
[Two defenders tracking back! He burns past Jensen with blistering acceleration!]
[Dominic keeps driving! The lone remaining defender can't lay a glove on his dribble!]
[He's one-on-one with the keeper!]
[Dominic! A delicate dink over the sprawling shot-stopper! A sensational, cheeky finish!]
From the opposite end of the pitch, the finish was difficult to see in detail, but the moment Dominic lifted his boot, the entire ground—barring the ecstatic pocket of away supporters—fell deathly silent.
Even after that lung-bursting seventy-yard dash, Dominic looked like he still had energy to burn, wheeling away across the pitch in pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
"WOOOOOO-HOOOOO!"
"...The madman actually sprinted the whole pitch and buried it."
"Hey! By my count, at least ninety percent of that goal belongs to me!" I shouted as he raced back toward us.
"Rubbish! That was pure individual brilliance, mate!"
Dominic slid across the grass, screaming at the top of his lungs until he finally crashed into our embrace. What an ungrateful little brat. If I hadn't ordered him to push out of the box in the first place, he wouldn't have been anywhere near that ball.
...Wait a second. That counted as an assist for me, right?
Swansea: 3 goals, 1 assist.