Do You Know Håkon? Meeting the Youth Players

July 2, 2026.

Han Shin ordered coffee at Costa Coffee.

The British took their coffee surprisingly seriously, so unlike other shops the place opened at seven in the morning. In one corner hung a framed jersey signed by Han Shin himself.

"Here you go, Manager! Americano, Massimo size, as always. And this is a little gift!"

The barista, Emily, handed over the coffee together with a box wrapped in a cute ribbon.

"Thanks, Emily. Oh, by the way—our club's marketing officer is also named Emily, isn't she?"

"Is that so? What a coincidence. Though it's a pretty common name!"

"What's the gift for?"

"Because I probably won't be seeing you as often from now on."

"Why? Are you leaving somewhere?"

"No, Manager. You'll be busy with work, and the club will provide free coffee anyway. You won't bother coming all the way here."

She's right... once the league starts I won't have the time.

"Come on, don't make it sound so sad. Your coffee's the best I've had."

"Tch. Even if it's just flattery, thanks."

"And I saw the morning news too. Please don't take it to heart... hang in there!"

"Hahaha, I don't care. Mind if I open this now?"

"No, no! Open it later. It's nothing expensive or burdensome, I promise."

"Alright. I'll open it later."

Han Shin took a sip through the straw. Emily smirked as something occurred to her.

"Did you know? James used to call it dishwater, but now that it's what Manager Han drinks, he's suddenly looking for it!"

"Hahaha, Uncle James is something else. I'm off! Thanks for the gift!"

"Have a good day~! And don't mind those fake news stories, okay?!"

"Yeah. See you around!"

A good day, huh...

From the dawn after the press conference the media had launched a full-scale assault. Of course the major dailies had offered some positive coverage.

But the tabloids that had been barred from the press conference, led by The Sun, plastered Han Shin across their front pages and subjected him to a carpet-bombing of scorn.

Who the hell is this mysterious Psychiatrist A? Let me see his face.

Still, that was mild compared to the rest.

The real firestorm was the “dog-meat controversy.”

Sigh... when did I ever say that, you hacks? And vegans, feminists—trouble-making groups are the same everywhere.

Even his remarks about Klinsmann had been dragged onto the chopping block.

They had even twisted “World Cup winner” and “German hero” into sly, underhanded wordplay just to tear him down.

Klinsmann is a legend as a player, sure. But did he ever win anything as a manager...? And the Korea FA... ha... I'm biting my tongue.

No further comment.

After the Klinsmann fiasco of 2024 the association had been hammered over the appointment of Coach Hong, yet the position of that man—still a nobody even among the chaebol groups—remained rock-solid.

When did I ever say that? The fabrication has gone beyond the pale.

They were beating him with words he had never even spoken.

This one left me speechless. The club decided that entirely on its own—why pin it on the manager?

But the purest fabrication award went to this one.

How do you twist “I’d go to Alaska if there’s a good player there” into that...? Even for fabrication, how do you manage this?

Naturally the FA had sent no such message.

One hundred percent fabrication.

This wasn’t journalism—it was YouTube clickbait and nationalistic trash TV.

"You can write articles with nothing but lies and fabrications? Unbelievable..."

If we lose even one match after the league starts, I can’t even imagine the media’s mockery.

Han Shin climbed into the Nissan Altima with his coffee and gift.

Still, it’s a relief every article is focused on me. As long as I take the heat, I can shield the players from these hacks.

Vrrrrooom—!

He turned the key.

"Still, free car for the contract period plus fuel covered—absolute win. Though any other brand would’ve been nicer."

A city of 150,000 whose once-famous shipyards, coal mines, and glassworks had all closed their doors. In 2026 Nissan had declared the end of the internal-combustion era; more than half the models it sold were electric. The local plant, into which Nissan had poured trillions of won, was the livelihood of countless residents. Even the Sunderland Three Uncles worked there as factory hands. According to the officials it was the single largest-output plant in the world—believe it or not.

So I can live with this much. The citizens have to earn money if they’re going to buy tickets.

"I’ll repay them with results on the pitch," Han Shin vowed to himself.

Out of 150,000 people, thirty to forty thousand came to watch football every week. It was literally the joy of their lives.

Vrrrrooom—!

He started the engine, rolled down the window, and drove with the salt-tinged wind on his face.

Being electric, the zero-to-sixty is one thing it does well.

Battery charging stations were usually a problem, but with a local factory the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠city had far more chargers than its population would suggest—convenient.

Han Shin headed for the Academy of Light on Sunderland Road in northern Cleadon, about three kilometres from the stadium.

As he drove along the A1019 his eyes drifted to an Audi dealership by the roadside.

An Audi dealer all the way out here? Blow the prize money and just buy one?

He’d be riding the team bus often enough. Pure luxury. Pure waste.

A middle-aged man with a kindly face came out to greet him.

"Welcome. I’m Chaplin, head of youth development."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Chaplin."

"Then allow me to show you around the training grounds."

The Academy of Light sprawled across a vast estate.

"Our training complex covers a full 220 acres and holds UEFA five-star academy status."

"Acres..."

"One of the finest football training facilities in Europe."

Sunderland’s training ground held Category 1 status under the Elite Player Performance Plan—the highest tier. One acre equalled 43,560 square feet under the imperial system. A foot was a third of a yard; a yard roughly thirty centimetres. Converted to the metric system familiar to most, that was about four thousand square metres—1,224 pyeong.

Why do they insist on yards, feet, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and miles...?

"How many acres is a football pitch usually?"

"International standard—110 yards long by 64 yards wide—comes to about 1.6 acres."

So 220 acres could hold roughly 150 pitches. Enormous.

"The U18 and U23 sides train here as well, and it’s also home to Sunderland Ladies."

The Ladies team. They drew less attention than the men, but these days every club ran a women’s side.

"Any plans to visit the women’s team...?"

"Not for the moment."

Inside the building, childhood photos of former players lined the corridors.

"Jordan Pickford, and over there—Jordan Henderson."

"You recognised them right away?"

"Their faces are still the same."

"Hahaha!"

Jordan Pickford, England’s number-one goalkeeper who had moved to Everton for £30 million, had come through here. He held the third-highest transfer fee ever for a goalkeeper, the highest for an English one, and Sunderland’s own record sale. Liverpool’s former captain Jordan Henderson was another graduate.

"Any particularly high-potential players?"

"Hahaha, why don’t you meet them yourself?"

Han Shin and Chaplin stepped onto the U-18 pitch.

Under-18—boys still chasing dreams. Five lads who looked about twelve or thirteen formed a large circle, knocking a ball around. Two more darted inside, trying to win it back.

"Come on, give me the ball!"

"No way~ no way~"

At a glance it looked like bullying. In reality the game was a staple warm-up from primary-school teams all the way up to the pros. The players inside learned how to tackle or block passing lanes to regain possession; those on the outside practised staying calm under pressure and finding a teammate.

Do they bet here too? Back home the rule was ten points for marbles.

Competition and wagers—everything boys lived for—so they played it every day.

"Youth-league matches are held here as well."

"I’ll have to come cheer them on sometime."

Chaplin called across the grass.

"Boys~ look who’s here! Our new first-team manager!"

"Don’t interrupt their fun. Hahaha."

"If you catch this man’s eye today, you might even get a league game! Got it?!"

"Waaaaaaaaah~!"

A swarm of primary-schoolers came charging over.

"Hello, everyone~ nice to meet you!"

Red-faced white boys panted their replies.

"Goo’ mornin’, Manager! Haa... haa..."

Kids whose permanent teeth had only recently come in.

Adorable.

"Who’s the best player here? Who’s the Messi of this group?!"

"Me!"

"No, me, Manager!"

They bounced up and down claiming the title.

"What are you good at? Manager, if you put me on I’ll score fifty goals easy!"

"With this many Messis our team’s got nothing to worry about."

"Yeah!!!!"

"Then who’s Ronaldo?!"

"Siiiiuuuuu~"

Hands shot up as they shouted their own superiority.

"If you’re all Messi and Ronaldo, who’s going to defend? Where’s Maldini? Hands up!"

"Who’s Maldini?"

Ah—kids these days don’t know Paolo Maldini.

"You know Kim, right? Ruben Dias or someone like that."

"We know Kim~! He played for Munich!"

"Who among you can defend like Kim?!"

The boys protested.

"Manager! Defending’s no fun at all! We don’t want to defend!"

"Don’t you know even strikers have to defend well these days? You need to work hard on defending and passing. Fundamentals first, understand?"

"Yes~~! *chew chew*"

"And most important of all..."

Bright, curious eyes locked onto him, wondering what the first-team manager would declare most vital.

"Don’t skip meals—eat properly so you grow tall and strong~ Stay healthy, don’t overdo it and get injured~ And study hard at school!"

"Yes, Manager! You sound just like our mum nagging!"

"That’s because it really is important, so every adult says the same thing."

They won’t understand until much later.

"Alright, back to what you were doing! I’ll come again!"

"Bye-bye, Manager~"

"Bye-bye? Anyway, see you~"

Thump thump thump.

"The kids are really cute."

"Aren’t they? But did you come today to join the senior training?"

"No—before that I wanted to take a quiet look at the U23 players."

"May I show you the way?"

"Of course."

On another pitch, players a good ten years older—now adults—were running a similar drill. The atmosphere, however, was entirely different.

Burly white players shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Pass! Fucking pass it faster!!"

"You’re the one who’s slow as shit!!"

"You bastard! Sliding tackle like that—trying to break someone’s ankle?!"

Brutal.

A few of them spotted Han Shin.

"Oi, isn’t that our famous ‘dog-meat manager’?"

"Where? Yeah, looks like him."

"Let’s run over and say hello!"

"Then you’re buying today?"

"No way! Doesn’t count!"

The players sprinted over, heat rising from them like steam locomotives. They lined up, bent at the waist in perfect unison, and barked a greeting.

"One-two! Good morning, Manager! An honour to meet you!"

"Ahem... I’m Han Shin, newly appointed head coach of the first team. Sorry to interrupt training."

"Not at all, Manager! Welcome!!!"

A thunderous roar.

I haven’t even received this kind of reception from the first-team players yet...

Of course not. The situation for the reserves was completely different. Not only the youth players but the second-team squad played their league matches not at the Stadium of Light but at places like Eppleton Colliery Welfare Ground—facilities that were frankly poor. Promotion to the first team was everyone’s goal. And for a reserve player to get that chance, the manager’s call-up was essential. So they were desperate to catch his eye.

About 190 centimetres... found him.

"You’re Håkon, right? Håkon Hjelde, back from loan?"

The tall man with orange-tinged long hair answered.

"That’s correct."

A descendant of Vikings. From the land of stars like Haaland and Ødegaard. Norway, home to names football fans recognised—Alexander Sørloth, Ajer. A handsome striker nearly 190 cm tall from the Scandinavian peninsula.

Håkon Hjelde corrected him politely.

"Um... Manager? It’s Håkon, not Hakon—the H is silent—and Hjelde."

"Right. I’ll call you that then. Håkon Hjelde."

"Actually Hjelde is fine, or Hildegard—whatever’s easiest for you, Manager."

"Hildegard has a nice ring to it. How about Håkon Hildegard?"

"That works. But what brings you to me?"

"I have a few questions for you, Håkon."

"Yes! Ask me anything!"

"You spent last season on loan at Rotherham, correct?"

"Yes."

"How was the loan spell?"

"It was good. The club helped me adapt to England and I improved my form a lot. But I would have been happier if I could have played for Sunderland!"

In truth Håkon’s loan had been miserable. Fresh from abroad, he had barely settled at Sunderland before the manager who signed him was sacked, and he was shuttled from loan to loan. His English still imperfect, he had been ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cast out to other clubs and until recently had been preparing to return home.

"Håkon, the records show eleven goals and ten assists in League One. Correct?"

Suddenly the atmosphere felt like a job interview; tension coiled around Håkon. The warm, easy smile Han Shin had worn vanished into a blank expression, and the second-team players felt an inexplicable pressure from this slight East Asian man.

"Yes! Exactly! Plus two more goals in the FA Cup."

"Your scoring rate dropped sharply in the second half. Why?"

"Well..."

"Once you hit ten-ten, did you decide that was enough and coast?"

"No! I gave everything! The only reason was bad luck!"

"You gave everything... So that’s the best Håkon can do?"

"I can do better!"

"Despite your efforts the team finished eighteenth. What’s your diagnosis?"

"We went on a losing streak. The whole squad lost energy and motivation. The manager who took responsibility was replaced, and the chaotic atmosphere led to eighteenth place, I believe."

"If Sunderland goes on a losing streak, will you make the same excuse? The team atmosphere dropped. Are you sure none of it was your fault?"

"To be honest, in the second half of the season I was just counting the days until I returned from loan. I regret that I couldn’t fully focus on the matches..."

Han Shin cut him off.

"In short: you resented the club’s loan decision, scored a few goals early in League One to prove yourself, then in the second half you protected your body because you were coming back soon anyway. Is that it?"

"No! Absolutely not! That’s too much, Manager! I’m not that kind of cowardly bastard! Just give me the chance and I’ll show everyone how much I’ve grown!"

Han Shin’s lips curved into a faint smile. He spoke softly.

"Håkon, you’ve worked hard. Are you ready to prove yourself this year?"

"Sorry? Could you repeat that?"

"I asked if you’re ready to prove your worth at Sunderland. Can you pour that resentment out on the opposition?"

"Manager, does that mean... *choke*..."

Håkon’s eyes reddened.

"I’m calling Hildegard up to the first team for pre-season testing."

"Thank you! Thank you!! *sob*..."

After years of being signed from Norway only to bounce from loan to loan without ever settling in England, the dam finally broke. The other players clapped and cheered.

"Congrats, Håkon! Don’t cry, you idiot!"

"You bastard, you’ve earned it."

"You’ve been through a lot. You’re buying tonight, right?"

Håkon laughed through the tears.

"Beers on me. Thanks, lads."

Han Shin patted his back.

"What’s this? A Viking crying?"

"*sniff*... Sorry, Manager! I’ll work hard!"

"Good. Don’t just work hard—do it properly. And you can play a match at ten, right?"

Håkon wiped his eyes with his arm.

"A match at ten a.m.? Of course, Boss!"

"Stop crying and pack your things."

"Yes! I’ll get ready... *hic*...!"

Now... is there anyone else missing...

8:55 a.m. Han Shin’s private office.

Three knocks, then Maxwell entered carrying a heavy stack of reports in both arms.

"Ahem! Good morning, Manager. Here are the player reports you requested."

Thud—!

He set them on the clean white desk that held only a laptop and monitor.

"Thanks, Mr. Maxwell. Five minutes early?"

"Ah! I thought delivering them earlier would be more helpful."

"I see. By the way, does our club still deliver information on paper? Not that I mind the waste, but a clean PDF would have been more convenient."

Han Shin showed him the tablet screen.

"My apologies. From now on I’ll prepare PDFs as well."

"Anyway, what do you think, Assistant Coach? Can you guarantee a 100 percent win in today’s practice match?"

"Yes. If I may be so bold, Manager—our team will win."

"Looking forward to it. See you on the pitch shortly. Could you have the players assembled in five minutes?"

"Of course. See you in a moment."

Han Shin leafed through the stack.

"Håkon... wait a second. A player seems to be missing—there’s no evaluation for Håkon?"

Maxwell looked blank.

"Excuse me, who is Håkon?"

Who’s Håkon? I know Falcon, but...

"Ah, never mind if you don’t know. Thanks for putting this together."

He doesn’t know Håkon? Looks like this guy’s getting the axe.