I'll Score Before the Wine Cools: First Team vs. Reserves Evaluation Match (3)
Maxwell stood there blankly, pointing first at the towering North European Viking shaking hands with his teammates, then at the dreadlocked Black player warmly greeting the first-team regulars with easy handshakes.
"Um... Boss? Those players... are they new transfers?"
"They're part of our squad. Håkon Hildegard and Romain Mings."
Who the hell is Håkon? And who's Romain?
"The U-23 youth players the club sent out on loan have come back as men."
"But if that's the case..."
Isn't this cheating?
"Even if they're reserves, they're still our players, so fielding them shouldn't be a problem at all, right?"
"Yes, yes, of course, Boss. They're second team, after all."
Han Shin looked down at Maxwell.
"Thing is, it seems those loans went out before you arrived as assistant coach. Nothing about them in the reports. Did you leave something out?"
"Ah! Look at me—I printed the papers and completely forgot to include them. Of course I know Håkon and Mings perfectly well~~ Yes, yes."
"What positions do they play?"
"Pardon?"
"I asked where those two usually play."
That beanpole of a player—looking at his face, he's clearly a striker.
"Håkon's a forward."
"Correct."
Yes!!! In that case...
"A striker??"
"What, you already knew?"
Phew... I've been good at reading people since school days.
Wrong, Mr. Maxwell.
"And Mings?"
Maxwell decided to trust his gut.
"Also a forward, right? Mings is a winger, isn't he~?"
I pulled three attackers, so of course he brought attackers in, right?
"I knew I could count on you, Assistant Coach."
Maxwell patted him on the back and let out a sigh of relief.
"But which foot? Left or right?"
Why does he keep asking? Fucking hell, right foot, obviously.
"Right foot, yeah?"
"Unfortunately, wrong again. Though it's an easy mix-up. He's left-footed."
Romain was a two-footed multi-tool who could cover both wings and even wing-back thanks to that natural advantage.
Maxwell, drawing on years of polished skill, tried a quick bit of verbal jujitsu to wriggle free of the pressure.
"Whoa~~~ As expected of the Boss! I thought you'd get every single one right, so I deliberately gave wrong answers—but you've already figured it all out."
"Were you testing me, by any chance?"
"No, no, that's not what I meant at all."
"Don't worry about it. Koreans love tests, you know."
"Hahaha! Boss, you're something else..."
"But really—if you'd actually known, you wouldn't have asked if they were 'new transfers,' would you?"
Han Shin smiled with his eyes.
"Hup... So you're putting them straight into the match?"
"Yes. I can't exactly tell Liam to take off his goalkeeper gloves, after all."
Goddamn it...
Maxwell felt an unconscious pressure from the young upstart he'd dismissed. Yesterday, and again now—this soft-spoken, methodical way of dismantling him was no ordinary thing. The man reminded him of someone.
As a former top-flight pro himself, Maxwell suddenly recalled a figure he'd rather forget: the white-haired old fox who, back in his Norwich City days, had once spat venom at him—calling him "a lazy bastard who only ever scrambles to get out of the moment."
Bernard Shankly.
The retired old man he'd buried in the back of his mind flashed through Maxwell's head, and his insides began to boil without him realizing it.
You fox-faced bastard! I'll thrash you so hard you won't make a peep.
You can't beat me.
In the early hours of that morning, Maxwell had dug into the man called Han Shin, reading through Wikipedia. One link led to another until he landed on a Mourinho interview that mentioned a Chinese general. He even translated and researched Chinese history—the Chu-Han Contention—something that had never been in his stars.
There was no disagreement that the general Han Xin was a "god of tactics." But lacking political skill, he had brought disaster on himself and been executed despite the credit for unifying China. Most verdicts boiled down to "he got what he deserved."
So if you expressed Han Xin in a four-character idiom, it was Guksa-mussang—and then...
Tossagu-paeng
Use them when you need them; discard them without mercy the moment you don't.
Maxwell was certain Chairman Kirill harbored the same intention deep down. Squeeze out the sweet juice and toss him aside.
But this man.
Han Shin shared only a name with the general Han Xin. His path was utterly different.
He'd looked like a rabbit—but he was a fox.
That was exactly how Maxwell saw it.
Han Shin offered his hand.
"The players look ready. Shall we get started?"
"Let's... crack."
Not everyone loves football.
Those who do are the ones inside the club.
The entire board, including owner Kirill, the coaches, and even Emily had gathered to watch the practice match. Even Tom the groundsman, with his salt-and-pepper hair, was there.
Kirill, the French tycoon so addicted to football that he'd bought the club, sat in the VIP suite overlooking the pitch, sipping Bordeaux wine as he watched.
He took a sip of the deep crimson wine and opened the conversation.
"What do you all think? Who's going to win?"
Director Speakman removed his cap.
"My opinion hasn't changed since before the appointment. Don't expect too much from a rookie manager who knows nothing about professional football."
Emily ate a neatly sliced piece of melon.
"I still believe the manager will win."
"Belief is a kind of prayer. So even Emily isn't certain?"
"I don't know football as well as the rest of you. But a woman's intuition, maybe?"
"Emily's intuition is reliable. That press conference became the spark for natural noise marketing, and the photo of him on horseback is drawing explosive attention."
"Honestly, the website traffic was so high the servers crashed!"
Kirill asked,
"I signed off on the final payment, but whose idea was the photo?"
"The hanbok was the manager's idea; the horseback article was mine. He's so good-looking that we've even gained a lot of female fans. Followers have skyrocketed."
Sunderland's official SNS accounts had more than doubled their following in just two days since the manager's appointment.
The calm, cool handling of the viral press conference, plus the young manager's unusual career and K-pop idol looks, had drawn cult-like interest. Some fans already treated him like a celebrity.
Orders for the manager's kit were outpacing player shirts, forcing them to rush production and print around the clock.
Maybe I'll get a nice bonus this time? The new Gucci just dropped.
"You've all seen the club marketing revenue report I submitted, right?"
"Yes, we have."
"Season tickets are sold out! Sold out!"
Emily chattered excitedly.
"And sponsorship inquiries are lining up from Korea, Japan, even China. I'm going to play them against each other a bit in the meetings and pick the highest bidder!"
"Truly excellent news."
The reasons sponsors were flooding in from each country were simple. Korea because he was Korean; Japan because of the local Nissan factory; China because he shared the name of their ancient general. Simple, yet powerful.
Kirill was a man of grand gestures. He fired straight.
"Emily has done tremendous work this time. Expect a bonus. And this is a small token of my appreciation."
He handed over an envelope from his pocket.
"If you don't mind, may I open it now?"
"Comme vous voulez~ (As you wish.)"
"Merci beaucoup (Thank you so much)."
Wait for me, new white bag! Emily's heading to Newcastle tonight!
Speakman, who didn't speak French, popped a green grape into his mouth and chewed.
Of course they switch to French whenever it's just them.
Ever since taking over the club, Kirill had filled it with his countrymen—players, chefs, even the manager.
"Speakman, shall we make a light wager?"
"A wager sounds good. What's the stake?"
Emily recalled yesterday's bet with Han Shin and adjusted her clothes.
Men really can't resist a bet, can they? We agreed on a restaurant if I won—he hasn't forgotten, right?
"I know full well the director isn't keen on Manager Han."
"There's absolutely no personal feeling involved. He's simply completely unproven."
"So here's what I'd like to propose."
"Go ahead."
Kirill set his wine glass on the table.
"If Han Shin wins, I'd like the director to actively review and throw full support behind signing 'that player' he sent to the scouting team yesterday."
"What? Handing that kind of transfer fee to a manager who might only last a year—if it fails, the risk is enormous. We could end up spending the money and looking like fools."
"No one knows that. We hung plenty of extension clauses on him."
"He'll be sacked within ten matches."
Speakman was blunt even with the money man. He was a man who never backed down. If you collected every criticism he'd ever leveled, he'd have been fired a hundred times over—yet his ability was so outstanding that even as a free agent, top clubs would come calling. He had no fear of the future.
Kirill highly valued his razor-sharp numerical sense, rational judgment in building the wage structure, and superb negotiation and sales skills, keeping him as a closest confidant.
"Besides, even if we promise massive wages, 'that player' won't bother coming to the second division. Please reconsider, Chairman!"
And we're already paying a fine every match because of the missing license.
"That's exactly why I'm asking our capable director."
He pointed at Emily, who was spearing melon with her fork.
She flinched.
"And as Emily's report shows, the club's books have improved, haven't they? So I'm looking to provide a substantial transfer budget this season."
"Chairman!"
"It's simply reinvesting the money Manager Han himself has generated."
"Hmm..."
The sponsors who'd flocked to Han Shin alone were already enough to cover a full year's worth of fines.
Kirill declared his ambition.
"With the world's eyes on our club like this, I want to make a much larger investment. We're about to appear in a documentary—I refuse to hand the new manager a rat's tail of money while wandering around the Eiffel Tower and earn the reputation of a stingy owner or Scrooge."
Kirill swirled his wine glass; the well-aged red clung to the glass in elegant layers, showing off its expensive character.
"Five years since the takeover, ten years since relegation. Promotion is the entire club's dream, isn't it? I'll be honest. I like Manager Han. His true intentions are still veiled, but my eyes can't be fooled. I want to support him fully."
What... business needs a calculator, not just eyes?
Intuition versus reason.
"Urgh... Understood. I'll follow the Chairman's wishes. But my wager is on Maxwell. If he wins, please actively re-examine the 'manager list' I submitted."
Speakman took a step back.
"D'accord. (Agreed.)"
At that moment, Abdullah passed to Adil from the center circle.
Without Han Shin knowing, a great deal had suddenly been staked on this match.
"Kickoff's underway."
"Santé!"
The French toast Speakman knew from drinking so much wine.
"Santé!"
Clink—!
The glasses touched.
"Kyaaaaah!"
Emily suddenly shrieked and shot to her feet.
"Oh, sorry! The wine hasn't even cooled yet!!! Already?!!! Look over there!!"
Temperature is everything with wine—what does she mean the wine's gone cold...!
"Waaaaah!"
Kirill and Speakman had no choice but to leap up at the sight outside the window.
A little before kickoff.
Empty red seats. No stadium announcer, no fans—just the Stadium of Light. Flocks of white seagulls filled the gaps in the sky while two black filming drones drifted leisurely overhead.
One for the documentary, the other for match-analysis data.
So that's why Ashley Young ate bird shit... Han Shin thought, looking up.
Standing outside the touchline, arms crossed in a deliberate pose for the broadcast camera, he felt his chest swell with grandeur.
They're actually moving exactly as I instructed!
But he immediately hit a major problem he hadn't anticipated.
What do I do? From here the pitch doesn't fit in one glance. It's frustrating.
In the game the pitch was always visible at a glance from above in quarter-view. He'd sat on the bench as a player countless times, but he'd never managed a real match giving tactical instructions.
From the touchline, distant players were hard to see, instant tactical orders were difficult, and there was no way the formation would look the way it did from the sky.
Yet a professional manager couldn't show panic. He struck a pose for the camera without a flicker of distress.
V!
I'm not the only one. That's why Guardiola divides the pitch into twenty-seven zones—easier to give instructions. I'll copy it—no, STEAL it—and put my own color on it.
He planned to analyze the drone footage later and waited for the whistle.
The ball sat on the white center-circle mark painted in the middle of the pitch.
Abdullah, the French-Mauritanian dual national in the green bib, was deep in thought.
Why did he tell only me not to shoot? Am I that untrustworthy? Am I on the release list? If so, I'll just go back home to Normandy and rest for a while.
"Huu..."
Adil, with his permed hair, saw the always-smiling Abdullah let out a heavy sigh and grew worried.
"Tout va bien, Abdullah? (You okay, Abdullah?)"
"Oui, bien sûr! (Yeah, of course!)"
Abdullah slapped his own cheeks with his palms to pull himself together. Pushing the turmoil aside, he prepared for kickoff.
Jobe watched the French conversation and spat.
Just don't get injured. Take it easy, cruise through it. We'll win anyway.
It wasn't just Jobe—every first-team regular shared the same mindset.
Clear gap in ability against the substitutes, plus familiar formation and chemistry built over many matches. You could scrub your eyes raw and still find no reason to lose.
When you think about it, only the head coach has changed...
The "iron rice bowl" players whose places were secure under "Team Maxwell"—men who had never even heard Han Shin's tactical instructions firsthand—were full of complacency.
We'll win even if we half-ass it.
Just don't make any ridiculous mistakes that catch the manager's eye. That'll be enough.
What if we win 3-0? The manager's already got cracks in his mentality from the press conference—should we go easy?
The first-team players in the red-striped kits approached the practice match on pure inertia, same as always.
On the other side, the "Team Han Shin" players wearing green nylon bibs over their kits were burning with zeal.
This isn't even a substitute list the manager chose himself. If I perform here, I might snatch a first-team spot right away.
I don't want to go back to Rotherham again. This year I'm definitely playing for Sunderland!
MVP is mine! And I'm starting the opening match! He said move left and right, right?
Yo~! Yo~ Heroes always appear at the end~~!
He gave me the number 10—I'll pour out everything I have for ninety minutes and prove myself.
Meanwhile, Maxwell on the opposite side watched six players line up in a straight row across the halfway line and looked thoroughly unimpressed.
What is this? He's not Spalletti. Putting on a show, putting on a show.
Beeeeep—!
The whistle of Robert Jennings, the fitness coach serving as referee for the day, cut the air.
The moment Abdullah passed to Adil, Team Han Shin's warriors exploded forward exactly as planned.
"This is the Stadium of Light! The match has just kicked off—which team will claim victory?"
"I'm boldly predicting a win for Team Han Shin~"
"Adil plays a through ball to Timothy on the right!"
"Ah, Timothy is fast, so fast~~"
The backup members were doing mock commentary.
"What are you two doing?"
"We're bored 'cause we can't play. Heh heh."
"That's right, Boss! Building the atmosphere too."
"Go sit over there and play."
"Yes, sir!"
They scrambled back to their seats.
Just as Han Shin expected, Maxwell rolled out the familiar 4-2-3-1.
"Pass to Timothy! Pass!!"
Woom—! Woom—!
Han Shin's shout slammed into the empty stands and echoed back.
In the silent stadium where only the sound of the ball being kicked could be heard, you could also catch the players' ragged breathing and curses—things you never notice watching on TV.
"Fuck!!! What the hell are these guys!!!"
Five—no, six—of Han Shin's players poured into the attack at once.
In just thirty seconds "Team Maxwell" was already creaking, scrambling around the pitch like drowned rats.
Why? Anyone could gauge the clear gap in quality when only second-team players had been taken. And with three center-backs, Maxwell had expected a defensive 5-back setup.
5-2-3 is a counter to 4-2-3-1 anyway.
But contrary to every expectation, they launched a full-scale assault within a minute and threw everyone into chaos.
On top of that, the return of the Norwegian giant Håkon was a complete surprise.
Before kickoff, Bellingham and Ballard on the pitch had shared their guesses with the team—expecting a "big and small" two-striker partnership with the short Nazari, just like the legendary Sunderland duo of Kevin Phillips and Niall Quinn that the Three Musketeers never stopped talking about.
They realized their mistake in under thirty seconds.
Instead of the center, Nazari and Håkon were sprinting full tilt down the flanks.
Naturally, confusion reigned.
"Fuck! Fuck!"
"What is this!!! It's completely different!"
"Hey, chase them!!!"
With six men flooding forward, there was no time to set a shape; they were shoved backward like the ebbing tide of the sea.
In the middle of the panic, Adil's through ball found Timothy, who set himself exactly as instructed and whipped a cross toward Håkon!
Håkon's direct opponent, right-back Trai Hume, yelled,
"Hey! Somebody get tight on Håkon, now!"
Ballard charged out and jumped with Hume to contest the ball!
Håkon watched the two of them and grinned.
What?
"Chris!! Take it!!"
The jump of a man who has already anticipated the cross is completely different in height and accuracy from the jump of a man who has just scrambled over.
Håkon won the aerial duel by a crushing margin, then unselfishly headed it into the half-space that had opened up for Chris to attack!
We're fucked.
By the time Ballard realized he'd been lured and it was already over, it was too late.
Chris trapped the ball lightly with his front foot, completely unchallenged, and drove into the empty space.
All of this in one minute and twenty-seven seconds.
In roughly a minute, a decisive one-on-one chance between Chris and the goalkeeper had been created.
"That's it~ Fuck!! This is it! Shoot! Chris, shoot!!!"
Han Shin was instantly immersed, jumping up and down in front of the monitor exactly as he did when gaming—so deep in the moment he didn't even notice he was shouting in Korean.
"Waaaaaah! One minute after kickoff!! A decisive chance for our youngest~~!"
"Ah~ this is before the three-minute pasta has even finished in the microwave!!"
"He's fast! So incredibly fast!"
Chris confirmed it was a free chance with no one near him and curled it with the inside of his right foot.
This is a 100% goal!
Players know instinctively when they've struck it well—an electric signal races up the spine and through the whole body.
It was struck clean!
The ball left Chris's foot on a beautiful curving trajectory.
"Chris, Chris! Shoooooot! He's curled it perfectly!!!"
"Patterson diving!!"
"Can he possibly save that!!"
The two mischievous backups holding transparent mics for their commentary game, the board members leisurely swirling wine glasses in the VIP suite—all of them heard Emily's scream and shot out of their chairs.
On the opposite side, Abdullah dropped to his knees below the halfway line and prayed.
Please! If I have to leave, at least let me hear a clear reason!!!
A football match packed with so many people's hopes, pride, longings, rage, calculations, politics—and each person's private reason why they had to win.
But to some it was nothing more than a ball game.
All or Nothing.
Yet Han Shin had put it this way:
Football is war.
Players are soldiers.
The manager is the general.
Here, in the Stadium of Light, it felt as if the phantom sound of drums and trumpets announcing a new war was already ringing out.
What was needed to seize victory was not wine that had gone cold, but hot red blood still flowing.
Sweat droplets ran down skin and soaked the green turf.
Even the pure-white seagulls flapping their wings were watching the black football as it traced its parabolic arc through the air.