The Prodigal Son Jobe Bellingham and Abdullah's Shot?! First vs Second Team Evaluation Match (4)

The essentials of football are simple: a ball, and a goal.

In the earliest days, players kicked anything round they could find—cloth bundles, straw, even a pig's bladder. Even after the leagues were founded, every club used its own peculiar ball. It was the Spring and Autumn period of the football itself.

Only in 1970, when the FIFA World ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Cup began to be televised, did the official match ball finally bring unity. The design that still leaps to mind whenever anyone says "football"—the legendary pattern that became the star of the television screen. Telstar, for short.

To make it as spherical as possible, the designers turned to geometry: twelve black pentagons and twenty white hexagons. Yet recreating a perfect sphere on Earth is a physical impossibility. Scientists kept refining the shape until today's match ball—Size 5, twenty-two centimetres in diameter—became the standard.

For the Telstar 18 that had just left Chris Rigg's foot, tracing its beautiful arc, to count as a goal, it had to cross the white line painted exactly twelve centimetres thick. Just as the goal-line technology on television refuses to award a goal if so much as a hair of the ball is still on the line, the entire ball had to be over.

So why the goalposts at all?

The white frame is actually two separate elements: the two uprights are the goalposts, the horizontal bar the crossbar. They are not twins born at the same moment, but brothers. The eight-yard-wide posts are the elder; the eight-foot-high crossbar arrived twelve years later, the late-born younger sibling.

Yes—astonishingly, primitive football had no crossbar. No height limit whatsoever. The 1863 FA rules simply stated that a goal was scored whenever the ball passed between the posts, regardless of height. A keeper who was not a giant could only watch as the ball sailed into the sky for a score—exactly like rugby. When the two codes finally split, the brothers divided the scoring zone: rugby above the bar, football below it.

Sunderland's number-one goalkeeper, Anthony Patterson, made his decision in a flash.

Catching it is impossible. Deflect it somehow.

He dived toward the top-right corner of the crossbar. The ball came curling in like a boomerang. Anthony stretched every sinew toward the apex.

Please reach it!!!

"Patterson, stop it!"

The outfield players could do nothing but pray and shout "Keeper!" Their only hope was the Hand of God.

Tick—!

I touched it!

The impact travelled through his thick gloves. He had saved it!

He had—

Shhhhhhhrrrk!

Yet the ball, with cruel precision, slipped through the tiny gap where crossbar met post and nestled into the net.

Liam and Nektarios were thoroughly enjoying their mock commentary. Han Shin spun his arms in wild celebration.

"It's in! Yes! Yes! That's what I'm talking about!!! Brilliant, Chris! Brilliant!!!"

"Waaaaaah!"

Cheers and raised arms from Team Han Shin; Patterson sank to the turf. Chris sprinted across the grass, jabbed his index finger twice into the ground, then leapt with both arms wide.

"Houuuuuuuuu!"

He was doing the Ronaldo celebration. Teammates swarmed him in a hug.

"It's not Chris—it's Cristiano!!!"

"Congratulations!!! Chris!"

"Thanks, everyone~! Hehehe."

Because it was only a practice match, Han Shin had already stepped inside the touchline and was praising him without restraint.

"Well done—perfect! Chris! That was almost Beckham-level beautiful! I knew you could do it!"

"Thank you, Boss!!!"

Chris threw his arms around Han Shin.

"Chris, this isn't the Champions League final! It's a practice match—practice match. Calm down!"

In truth the only heart hammering near 200 bpm inside the stadium was Han Shin's own.

"When you gave me the number 10 I didn't know what to do, but the moment your instructions clicked it all opened up! You're the best!"

I get it, so please…

"Boss, I want to call you Dad! Is that okay?"

"Dad…?"

That's creepy… I only just turned thirty. A nineteen-year-old son is a bit much.

Chris was still a high-school student who had to attend a set number of classes even after the league started. Han Shin soothed him carefully.

"Your real dad would be hurt if he heard that. Anyway—it was fantastic."

"But Boss, my dad…"

Chris trailed off. At that moment Abdullah came charging up from the halfway line, breathing hard.

"Boss, a promise is a promise! You'll keep it, right?"

"Yeah. I was worried we wouldn't score at all, but the goal came way earlier than expected. As promised, I'll tell you the reason at half-time."

"Understood!"

A small, relieved smile returned to Abdullah's face.

"Still—absolutely no shooting. Got it?"

"Yes."

Jobe Bellingham had already retrieved the ball from the net and was preparing the kick-off with Dan Neil inside the centre circle.

"Oi!! If you're done celebrating, get back here! Fuck! It's only a little over two minutes into the first half!"

This is pissing me off. What the hell—got completely done while I was watching.

Adil, Abdullah and Pierre—the three Black midfielders—watched Bellingham and spoke quietly among themselves in French.

"Ce connard fait toujours ça."

(That bastard always does this.)

"Laisse tomber, il se la pète parce qu'il est bon au foot."

(Leave it. He's just showing off because he's good at football.)

"À mon avis, il a un complexe d'infériorité à cause de toi."

(I think he's got an inferiority complex because of you.)

"Un complexe d'infériorité, c'est ça?"

(Inferiority complex, that sort of thing?)

"Parce que t'es tellement bien au Real."

(Because you're doing so well at Real.)

"T'as pas trouvé que son truc de caméra cachée semblait sérieux?"

(Didn't that hidden-camera bit earlier sound serious?)

"Quoi, quand il a dit qu'il allait transférer?"

(What, when he said he was going to transfer?)

"Ouais, ça semblait sincère."

(Yeah, it sounded sincere.)

Han Shin only realised they were speaking French; he could not understand a word.

"You three! What are you whispering about? Get back to your positions!"

"Nothing important! Returning immediately!"

Kyril roared with delight at the goal that had exploded the moment kick-off finished.

"Waaaaaah! Did you see that, Speakman? That's Manager Han Shin for you! Who was it? Who scored?"

"Number 21, Christopher Rigg."

"Of course—Chris Rigg~~~~ Oh dear~~~~ Looks like I'm going to win the bet, doesn't it?"

"We'll see who's long and who's short. It's barely been two minutes…"

"Yoo-hoo~~~~ Go!! Chris, score five and win it!!!"

Kyril poured wine and drained the glass in one go. The director was a man too; he hated losing.

"Bellingham! Show them what you've got!"

They might as well have been hooligans.

Honestly, men… the second a bet is on the table they turn into primary-school kids. Completely lose their heads.

Yet the one who screamed loud enough to forget searching for the price of a new phone was Emily.

Both sides reshaped their formations; Han Shin returned to his place. While he had been celebrating, Maxwell had already called the nearest of his rattled players over and adjusted the tactics.

"Let's get our heads on straight and do this properly!"

"It's only one goal!"

"Ooooh!"

Team Maxwell showed fight. Meanwhile the second-team players were buzzing—having scored inside a minute, they were swimming in relief.

Beep—beep!

The whistle restarted the match.

"We're not falling for the same thing twice!"

Dan Neil played a short pass to Jobe Bellingham; Jobe drove forward from the halfway line with the ball at his feet. "Hunting dog" Abdullah closed in to mark him.

"Oi! Abdullah, you're man-marking me?"

"Yeah!"

"You think you can stop me?"

Swoosh—!

Jobe tapped the ball lightly with his left foot, feinting a step to the left. The moment he saw Abdullah's body lean right—

Thought so.

—he switched the ball from left inside to right inside in a flash and burst past. The La Croqueta left Abdullah off-balance and stranded.

"Damn it!"

The two central midfielders, Adil and Pierre, who had been spread left and right, saw their third-line man lose his mark and scrambled back in defence. In a single piece of skill Jobe had turned three central midfielders into mute spectators.

Han Shin was impressed.

Jobe really is the real deal. Great at escaping pressure, just pure quality. Unless something weird happens, he's the undisputed number 10.

Abdullah, stripped so easily by a simple move, was boiling with rage.

"Hey! What the hell is that bastard trying to do!"

He launched into a sliding back-tackle. Jobe went tumbling.

Beep—beep!

"Oi! Fuck! Abdullah, are you insane?!"

Jobe, kit now streaked with dirt, sprang up and exploded, as anyone would.

"Hsssss… hsssss…"

Abdullah knew it was a foul; he could only pant, ten mouths not enough to explain himself. The referee produced a yellow card.

"Foul! Abdullah, yellow! That was a straight red, but it's a practice match so I'm letting it go. Watch yourself."

"Sorry, Coach. Jobe—I'm sorry."

"Oi! I get that you want to impress the boss, but know your limits!"

Jobe lunged for Abdullah's collar; the French players surrounded him and held him back. The oldest player on the pitch, Luke O'Nien, peeled Jobe away.

"Calm down, hey Jobe. Cool it."

Captain Ballard joined in.

"Abdullah didn't mean… it on purpose. Or are you going to fight in front of the boss?"

"Let go of me! Do I look calm? Oi! If I get injured, are you going to take responsibility?"

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"…"

Han Shin had already arrived and was shouting.

"You fucking back-tackle like that…! What the hell were you thinking… Aish. This is one hundred percent Abdullah's fault, so apologise to Jobe."

The players heard their manager swear for the first time.

So he does swear…

"I'm sorry."

Bellingham waved him off with contempt.

"Ha, shit… Fine. Get lost! This is fucking disgusting—ptooey."

He spat on the ground.

"Boss, I'm sorry."

Abdullah hung his head.

"Don't apologise to me. After the match, apologise to Jobe properly, face to face."

Did my order not to shoot have something to do with this?

"Understood."

"Jobe, you okay?"

"I just managed to jump. Nearly had my leg wrecked."

"Thank God you weren't hurt. That La Croqueta just now was top class."

"I can do better."

Jobe shot Abdullah a sideways glare and declared to his manager,

"I'm scoring a hat-trick this match."

"Yeah? I'll be hoping for those three goals. If you've cooled down, shall we get the game going again?"

"Yes!"

After the storm, Bellingham prepared the free-kick. Han Shin recorded every detail in his notebook.

Seeing it in person makes it crystal clear.

Pretty much the same as Maxwell's assessment.

He also pondered the recent incident and the three players who had been chatting in French. From the moment Maxwell had handed him the squad list at nine o'clock, something had felt off.

I told him to split first and second team, and yet…

It was blatantly Commonwealth team versus everyone else.

Han Shin switched on the tablet he had left on his seat and scrolled through the information. Owner, players, staff—almost all French nationals.

In the five years since the takeover, the whole place has been cleaned out.

He had found one of the reasons Sunderland, despite possessing a squad of higher quality than the league average, had been underperforming.

"So this is one of the causes of the slump. Factions. Absolute mess."

Factions. In any group they are the seed of discord. Even Real Madrid, one of the world's greatest clubs, had not been immune. The first Galácticos—superstars gathered from every corner of the planet—had been split between the South American Brazilians led by Ronaldo and the Spanish core led by Raúl. They never truly gelled, and the results never matched the superstar billing.

The same had been true of the England national team in the era of the so-called "Scholes-Lampard-Gerrard" midfield. Club rivalries ran so deep that a golden generation lifted not a single major trophy.

And the Korea Football Association. From the president and technical director down through managers, coaches and players—the Korea University clique. Academic ties, regional ties, blood ties, plus the uniquely Korean culture of rigid hierarchy and age-ranking, had carved the national team into factions that ruined Korean football. At least that was the diagnosis of armchair Han Shin.

Factions are a time-bomb in any organisation; if you do not cut them out at the root they will explode somewhere, sometime.

The team I lead is going to be welded into one solid unit.

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Controlling the players, enforcing discipline, and creating an atmosphere where everyone gets along—that too is a manager's job.

At the very least, inside the club, communication in any language other than English has to be banned. Come to think of it, even at lunch yesterday they sat in their little cliques, didn't they?

And just now in the waiting room the French-speakers and the English-speakers had been sitting in separate groups.

There will be people left out. Håkon, Nazari…

One piece of the thousand-piece puzzle scattered in his mind clicked into place. He wrote the self-diagnosis conclusions into his notebook at once.

He was about to write the third item when the men doing the mock commentary let out a roar.

"Waaaaaaaaaah!"

On the big screen in the North Stand the clock had just passed the tenth minute. Maxwell reacted for Han Shin's benefit.

"Yes! The only one I can trust is you, Jobe!! Smash them!!"

Jobe pointed an index finger skyward in celebration.

"Boss! That's one of the three!!!"

"Yeah! Brilliant! Looking forward to the hat-trick!"

Twenty-year-old confidence—I like it.

Han Shin ignored the noise and quietly filled in the third item.

Football shirts traditionally carry the surname, not the first name. Older brother Jude Bellingham had Bellingham printed clearly across his back.

Why did the younger brother choose to print JOBE? Because he didn't want to live in his brother's shadow?

"Ah!"

The reason clicked, and with it a plan to take Jobe up a level.

The problem is a proud genius. I understand that feeling all too well.

Player versus manager—a clash of titans? Or dragon versus tiger?

Either way, it was going to be epic.

Chris, scorer of the opener, came over to the touchline seeking instructions from the head coach.

"Boss! What should we do? Orders, please!"

"Keep going exactly as you are! You're doing great! Pass that on!"

"Yes, understood!"

Doing great?

Even after conceding, Han Shin issued no special instructions.

If we just concede one more goal, it'll be perfect…

Without a single tactical tweak the game continued. Han Shin's surprise formation change had produced the early goal and clearly worked. But the unfamiliar shape gradually left them unable to hold their positions, and Team Maxwell seized the initiative. After trading one goal each, both sides exchanged attacks without converting them; the match stagnated.

Then, around the thirty-third minute.

Exactly as Han Shin had expected, Adil's lateral movement bewitched the defenders.

Decoy operation! Complete success!

When Ballard followed him, Adil slipped the ball into the gap for Nazari.

He told us to play the 2-on-1 pass, right?

The clever Ukrainian striker did not shoot. Instead he flicked a no-look back-heel into the space behind. Only after releasing the ball did Nazari check who was there.

I thought it was Timothy—it's Abdullah?

A free chance with no pressure on Abdullah. A little far from goal, but close enough to score. A golden opportunity had arrived.

What do I do? He said no shooting…

To the left Håkon and Chris were running. But a pass would be cut out one hundred percent.

Pass? Or shoot?

"Hit it!!!! Abdullah!!!"

Nazari screamed for the shot. Yet the manager's order still echoed in Abdullah's head.

Absolute rule: if you shoot, you're released.

A split-second decision in a life-or-death moment.

Shoot? Or not?

Whether he became the hero of the equaliser or obeyed the instruction rested entirely on Abdullah's choice.