The Magic of Halftime: First vs. Second Team Evaluation Match (6)
Anyone who loves football has imagined it at least once.
The comeback hero who snatches a dramatic victory in a crucial league match against a rival. The man who scores the winner in a Champions League final.
A manager’s romance is different: dominating a match through perfect tactics and an overwhelming gulf in quality between the players. Or the tactical switch and one stirring speech that flips the mood of a team that has been under the cosh for an entire first half and sparks the turnaround.
Han Shin had that romance too.
If he had to pick one, it would be the 2004/05 Champions League final between Liverpool FC and AC Milan. One of the greatest matches in football history—the Miracle (or Tragedy) of Istanbul.
Liverpool three-nil down in a Champions League final. Whatever magic Rafa Benítez worked at half-time, the second half was a complete transformation: 3-3, then victory on penalties. That legendary night.
Hoping one day to live out a romance of his own, Han Shin walked into the away dressing room ahead of his players, heart racing with anticipation.
He wiped the dust from the rickety single-file benches with a towel and laid a few sheets of paper on a wooden table he had found somewhere.
From the corridor he could already hear the loud voices of the players arguing about the first half.
Striker Nazari, who had set Abdullah up with a back-heel, was especially furious.
"Damn it! I knew this would happen! We're losing!"
Defender Jensen pointed the finger.
"The gaffer's tactics are weird enough as it is. Zero top and five of us standing around... and the so-called attackers can't even score."
"What?"
Pierre jumped to their defence.
"Chris scored after a minute, remember? This is on us. We should've kept that early momentum going instead of letting it die."
Romain with the dreadlocks agreed.
"Still, leaving Patrick alone like the gaffer said worked pretty well, didn't it?"
Jensen turned on him next.
"Patrick's shot got finished by Bellingham. Worked well, my arse."
"Fuck! We expected too much from the gaffer. Even after we conceded he just kept scribbling in that notebook without any new instructions. 'You're doing fine,' he says. Spit!"
Nazari still couldn't cool down.
Pembélé threw in a joke.
"Maybe he was writing the transfer list?"
"Was that a Death Note? Shit... if I'd known I'd have tried a bit harder."
Abdullah sighed.
"How the hell am I supposed to stop Bellingham on my own..."
Jensen grumbled.
"You, mate—stop trying to injure first-team players and just cut the passing lanes properly. You're no help at all, none."
"Jobe nutmegs me with a La Croqueta and then splits me with an Elastico fake—what am I supposed to do?"
"Exactly. Hunting dog my arse. You were trotting after him like a golden retriever."
"Enough, Jensen."
Nazari was still gutted about the counter-attack that had ended their chance.
"Abdullah, even if you had ten mouths you couldn't talk your way out of this. How do you not shoot from that chance?"
"My thoughts exactly. Even if it was the gaffer's order, how do you create a chance like that and then pass? We got hit on the break and Bang~~~! Basically euthanised."
Jensen suspected Han Shin's motives.
"I reckon the gaffer was testing you. A proper competitor would've ignored the order, taken the shot and scored. Far as I can see, you're finished."
"You really think so? Shit... maybe I should've just hit it. This is bollocks."
"Number one on the Death Note list, guaranteed. See you on holiday in France, Abdullah."
"Pembélé, then recommend something worth watching on holiday."
"Of course, brother. You into bands? Boots the Rock season two is finally—"
"Shh! Shh! We're here."
I heard every word, you lot.
Their voices had been so loud it almost felt deliberate.
The door clattered open and the players filed in bare-chested, looking thoroughly defeated.
Well now? Look at this lot.
"Good work, everyone. Take a seat."
"...Yes."
They wiped the benches with their hands out of habit before sitting—only to find them already clean.
Huh? Why's it clean?
No black grime or dust came off on their palms, which left them puzzled. One by one they perched on seats barely wide enough for a backside and waited for the manager's verdict.
"Right! I'm going to answer every question you had out there. Why I didn't give any more tactical instructions."
Pembélé joked.
"You kept writing in that notebook—was it a Death Note? Is Abdullah getting released for not shooting?"
"Oi, you bastard!"
Abdullah flared up.
"I'm sorry. Because of me we gave away a counter and it turned into a stupid goal."
Nazari, still full of regret, piled on.
"Well said. Gaffer, even if it was an order, a footballer has to shoot from there, doesn't he?"
Defender Jensen chimed in.
"Honestly, if I'd been in Abdullah's spot it would've been a goal."
"What are you on about, triangle-legs?"
"Hahahaha!"
"No. Abdullah followed my instructions, so I want to praise him. Håkon! I'm disappointed in you."
"What?"
Håkon, blindsided.
Didn't I do well?
Han Shin pressed his arms together to mime a winding stream.
"Why do you keep drifting inside from the wing? I watched and waited, and you kept sneaking into the half-spaces."
"Sorry. I broke the instructions."
Han Shin handed the bundle of papers to Abdullah.
"Here, Abdullah. A reward for you."
"What? What is it? What kind of reward?"
Adil and Pierre on either side craned their necks to see what was written.
"It's a reward, so only Abdullah looks."
"Yes!"
"Abdullah, read it out loud. From the first line."
"Nazari is..."
"Ah, before that—from now on, only English inside the club. Got it? Break the rule and it's a fine."
"Yes!"
Adil raised his hand.
"What is it?"
"What if my mother tongue slips out when things get heated?"
"When you scored earlier and were chatting, were you single-handedly staging the Normandy landings, Adil?"
"No, sir!"
"You're adults and professional footballers. I think you can manage that much. Broken English is fine—just stick to English as much as possible."
"Yes!"
"And that includes me. Korean only outside the club. I'll ask Chairman Kirill the same."
Abdullah flapped the A4 sheets.
"Um... gaffer?"
"Mm?"
"Can I read it now? I'm dying to know what's written."
"Go on."
Abdullah began reading, stumbling over the words.
"Nazari is like a Ukrainian fish with both eyes on one side—he keeps straying offside non-stop??? Gaffer, what is this?"
"What?! Which bastard wrote that—give it here."
"Nazari, sit down. Keep reading, Abdullah."
"As a striker his positioning is so bad he can't hold the line, so chances never even appear. He's a classic non-scoring forward."
"Me? A classic what?"
"Even if Kevin De Bruyne threaded him ten key passes he'd miss nine of them. Appalling finishing."
"Fuck! Fuck!!!!"
Nazari couldn't hold it in and hurled his water bottle. Water sprayed everywhere, soaking the hem of Han Shin's trousers.
"Did you write this, gaffer?"
"No. I asked Maxwell, the assistant, to evaluate all of you. He stayed up all night writing it."
"Ha... Bullshit! Eat shit, Maxwell, you dog—"
In truth Maxwell's report had been written in a relatively measured tone. After gathering the players, Han Shin had rewritten it to be far more provocative.
Sorry, Maxwell. Be the catalyst that lights their competitive fire.
"You fucking bastard! Seriously!!! What the hell is this!!!!"
"Whoa, calm down! Easy, Nazari! Calm down!"
His teammates grabbed him.
"Do you agree with this assessment?"
"How could I possibly agree?! Absolutely not."
"But from where I'm standing it looks pretty accurate."
Nazari glared at Han Shin as if he wanted to kill him.
"Excuse me? Manager or not... don't say things you'll regret. How many times have you even watched me?"
"I've watched every single match you started or came off the bench for Sunderland, plus the stats."
"What? That has to be nearly a hundred games."
"Trust me, I watched them all. That's the bare minimum."
The players felt a chill.
If he had watched every one of Nazari's games, that meant in a short time he had studied every player in this room.
"Nazari! Did you count how many times you stepped beyond the line and got caught offside in those forty-five minutes?"
"What, once? Twice at most?!"
"No. Seven times. You kept darting forward without realising you'd fallen into their trap, standing in positions where your teammates couldn't even pass to you."
Adil agreed.
"He's right, Nazari. I was drifting left and right a bit deeper and I wanted to play you in, but I couldn't."
"Really?"
Han Shin plucked the go stone that marked Nazari's position from the formation board.
"In effect we were playing ten against eleven. Anything to say about that?"
"Haa... nothing."
Nazari sat back down.
"So in the second half you're playing in the hole. Attacking midfielder instead of Adil—right here!"
He stuck the green go stone in place.
"Håkon will be in front of you. He's like a lighthouse—you can see him from anywhere. Stay behind him and look for chances. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Keep reading, Abdullah. Every single one of you is in there."
Han Shin's first purpose was to see who agreed with this deliberately exaggerated report and who didn't.
Anyone who agreed lacked the will, competitive fire and confidence to escape the backup ranks—their growth plates had closed. Automatic release.
Players like Nazari who pushed back still had a spark. He would watch them through the evaluation match against FC Zenit before the Korean tour.
The absolute deadline was the away game against Liverpool FC. Once the Korean tour started it would be hard to fully engage with the transfer market. Until then he would prune the dead wood and bring in new blood.
The second purpose was that the criticisms were objectively true; he wanted the players to recognise their real problems and the path to fixing them.
Håkon, for example, who always drifted inside, had been exiled to the wing so he would understand how a crosser feels. Walk a mile in their boots. And to see how he would solve isolation.
Abdullah read the goalkeeper assessment.
"Peterson has the talent to become England's number one after Pickford, though he makes the odd mistake. But this Nathan kid has butterfingers. Every time the ball comes he just flaps it away."
"When the hell did I flap it, you bastard!"
Jensen sneered.
"He's right. Butterfingers. Eternal backup. That's why Man United kicked you out."
"You wanna die?"
"Nathan's doing fine. That surprise volley earlier—no one was saving that."
"See?"
"Abdullah, read Jensen's."
"The Dutchman from PSV is tall and built like a mountain, yet even his positioning looks awkward. All he does is blame teammates, pointing fingers while losing the man he's supposed to mark and becoming a liability."
"What did you say?"
Nathan, who had just taken a hit, fired back.
"Spot on. You couldn't stop Semedo in that duel earlier either. Leaving Patrick alone was the order, fine—but Clarke skinned you alive."
"Who got skinned alive? Who! It was all Pembélé's fault."
"Why me? The gaffer told me not to track back."
"Jensen! Stop pointing fingers and do your own job. I heard you mouthing off outside too. Football isn't a one-man show. Why dump responsibility on everyone else?"
"I was careless. I'll be more careful."
"Pembélé was a highly rated prospect from PSG. But he's a glass man who breaks at the slightest touch. A wing-back who can't defend. He overlaps all game and joins the attack, but once he goes he never comes back, leaving the team exposed. A defensive black hole."
"This fucking dogshit! Is this real? Gaffer, is that why you told me to play like a winger?!"
"Ask the defenders who've played with you for forty-five minutes—no, the whole league. Do you agree with this?"
"We... agree."
Jensen and Jacob admitted it honestly.
"What? You thought that too?"
"Mate, are you even a wing-back? The three of us are always the ones defending. Overlapping? Fine, love it—but can you get back a bit quicker when we lose the ball?"
"You finished?"
"Shh. Pembélé, the guys who play with you every day give the most accurate assessment, don't they? You know better than anyone it's not a lie."
"But gaffer—"
"You need to be able to look at yourself objectively. I like your attacking instincts. The modern game is all about full-backs and centre-backs stepping up."
"Right?"
"But you must have felt it in your bones today—because of you the whole team is put at risk."
"Yes..."
"Overlapping? It's your strength, so do it. But the moment we lose the ball, don't even look back—get into the line with your teammates. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Continue, Abdullah."
"Nektarios, this Australian idiot has no idea what defending is. He can't play football but he loves a party. Must be transferred before his contract ends."
"Haa..."
Some players hadn't even made the practice-match squad and had nothing to say. Watching him, Han Shin made his decision.
It's only a practice match—he could have asked to come on as a sub. Zero fight. Nektarios is gone.
"Adil dreams of becoming the next Zinedine Zidane. But he forgets that Zidane is a different class and can get away with not defending. He doesn't see the whole pitch, tries flashy skills under pressure and loses the ball constantly."
"Putain! Putain!"
(Shit! Damn it!)
Adil kicked the wall with his boot.
"Adil!!! I told you to shuttle left and right. How did that feel?"
"You called it a decoy role so I was honestly a bit hurt. But drifting sideways like that, Håkon stood out because of his height."
"And? That's it?"
"With four players marking the front, I was free and comfortable. And then..."
"You didn't need the skills, did you?"
"Yeah. I was wondering what felt different—apart from pressure from behind I was free and easy."
Akwa pointed out.
"But midfield felt a man short. It was murder."
I gave him the 'enganche' role, after all.
"Right. Skills are fine, but that feeling of naturally escaping pressure—we're going to train that. Even if I drop you a bit deeper, can you do the same?"
"Yes! I can!"
Han Shin moved Adil's go stone deeper on the board.
"When Pierre first arrived he was exactly what he wanted to be—a box-to-box midfielder like Yaya Touré, full of presence."
Pierre's shoulders rose at the relatively kind words and he wore a goofy expression.
"But since the injury he kicks the ball like a terrified little girl. The tank that used to storm the penalty box is gone; now he wanders the centre circle like a clueless private who doesn't know what to do..."
"Stop, stop!!"
"Pierre, is something wrong with your condition? Injury? Or are you taking it easy because it's a practice match?"
"Absolutely not! And when did I ever look like a little girl—"
"Looked like a girl to me."
"Gaffer!"
"You too, eh? If you've got that between your legs then run until you drop. If I weren't injured I'd want to play instead of you—you were walking around out there."
"I'll run! In the second half I'll run like there's no tomorrow!"
"Really? You're not going to collapse or fade?"
"Look at this!"
Pierre stripped off his shirt and pointed at the black GPS vest.
"GPS tracker. If I don't hit twelve kilometres this match I'll run a hundred laps of the pitch every day."
"Think you can manage it, little girl?"
"Not a girl—a man! I'll show you!!"
Pierre roared so loud the cramped away dressing room seemed ready to explode. Han Shin instinctively covered his ears.
"Good. That look. I'll be watching in the second half."
The evaluations and instructions continued until only Abdullah's own remained.
"Abdullah is two-footed and can play anywhere—a true multi-position player. But defensively he switches off, loses his man, then lunges into reckless tackles and collects unnecessary cards."
Abdullah's hands trembled as he read his own brutal assessment.
"On top of that he's chicken-hearted like Puyol and freezes in front of goal, so he has no idea how to score?? If this triangle-legs ever scores, the sun will rise in the west and it'll be the end of the world... what the hell is this shit! Fuck!"
He crumpled the paper.
"You didn't shoot earlier when you had the chance. Were you scared of being released because you're chicken-hearted? Or were you keeping your promise to me?"
On paper he was a useful squad player—two-footed, willing to play any position without complaint. For players who showed promise, Han Shin pushed even harder.
The mentality needs fixing.
Like soil that only becomes fertile after rain and wind.
Abdullah muttered.
"...I'm chicken-hearted..."
"What was that~~? Can't hear you!"
"I'm not a fucking chicken-heart!!! I can score!!!"
"Aww... just copying the guy next to you? I still don't plan on letting you shoot."
"Gaffer!! Give me a chance. If this is my last day at Sunderland, I'll prove this shitty evaluation wrong even if I have to break your orders."
Good.
"In roughly ninety league appearances you've scored four field goals. Jobe's more likely to get a hat-trick first, isn't he?"
"I can do better than Jobe!"
Han Shin gripped Abdullah's shoulder.
"Okay. Second half you're allowed to shoot. Score one right in their faces. Got it? No goal in the second half and you're released???"
"Yes! I'll score for sure! No—I'll score a hundred!"
A hundred? Is he joking?
"I like the spirit, Abdullah. Enthusiasm is good, but no more scything tackles, yeah? I told you to be a hunting dog and you looked like you had rabies."
"What? Yes... sorry."
"Hahahahahahahaha!"
They still hadn't realised that although he claimed it was Maxwell's report, it was the manager himself who was getting under their skin.
Yet they all shared the same thought.
He finds the exact sore spot and pokes it until you boil over.
Only two days back from holiday. And this wasn't even a Tyne-Wear derby—just a practice match. No one expected to be set on fire like this.
Meanwhile, one man wasn't smiling.
Håkon.
No matter how long he waited, there was no evaluation of him.
Why does it feel like we're wrapping up already?
"What about me, gaffer? Is there nothing on me? I want to improve."
"Let's see... Håkon, Håkon..."
Abdullah flipped pages and checked the backs. The base document was Maxwell's, so of course there was nothing on Håkon. Han Shin quickly snatched the papers.
He improvised from the notes he had scribbled earlier.
"Here we go... why couldn't you find it? Right here."
"I didn't see it..."
"Håkon is tall but not good at hold-up play. He can't protect the ball in crowded central areas, trusts his physique too much, delays the pass and kills the tempo for everyone."
"Damn it! Maxwell...! So that's why you sent me on loan."
Maxwell had never even met Håkon.
I'm really sorry, Maxwell.
"Yo~ Håkon-Yåkon~ Not a loan—exile, bro~!"
Romain, who couldn't have cared less about his own evaluation.
"After forty-five minutes of putting in the crosses you usually receive—how was it?"
"I realised I was standing around like a telegraph pole. Watching Chris and Nazari taught me how to make runs."
"Okay. Ready to play centrally now."
"Yes! I am."
The completed second-half formation was a 4-1-2-1-2.
Players who had been given opposite roles to correct bad habits now received proper instructions tailored to their strengths. Everything changed.
Håkon Chris
Nazari
Adil Pierre
Abdullah
Romain Jensen Jacob Timothy
Nathan
"Håkon and Chris—we're going with the classic big-and-small partnership of legends Phillips and Niall. Your link-up clicked after one minute, so you can produce something good."
"Yes!"
"Nazari, make surprise runs from behind Håkon. That back-heel earlier was quality—play one-twos and create chances."
"Got it."
"Adil, you're the mezzala. In attack drift out to the wing. Remember that feeling from earlier. Only use skills at decisive moments."
"I'll show you a Marseille turn."
"I said don't..."
"Hahahaha!"
"Pierre?"
"Yes! I'll show you what Yaya Touré and Makelele of Mâcon look like!"
"What's Mâcon?"
"Ah! My hometown."
Like 'Ssangmun-dong Messi' or 'Apgujeong Ronaldo', I guess?
"Abdullah. La Volpiana on the build-up stays the same. But in the second half, if the chance comes, shoot. They saw you pass earlier so they'll be loose—grab the opportunity and score."
"I'll create a chance even if there isn't one."
"And Romain and Timothy."
"This formation lives and dies by the full-backs' overlapping. I changed it because I trust your attacking ability. But you already know what I want most, right?"
"Yo~ Yo~"
"Defensive recovery is priority number one."
"Jensen, if I catch you standing still pointing fingers again I'll break them. No bad-mouthing teammates during the match either. It drags the mood down, so cut it out. I'll analyse and judge after the game. Clear?"
"Yes. I'll apologise to my teammates for my words. Sorry for getting heated during the match."
There was no real bad blood, so the others encouraged him.
"Jensen! Don't let it get you down!"
"Got it."
"Not that you're the type to get down anyway, hahaha!"
"Shit... when a man apologises. Never mind. No more finger-pointing—I'll focus on defending."
"That's my boy~"
Jacob jumped in before his turn.
"What about Patrick?"
"Leave Patrick alone."
"Yes..."
Han Shin gave his honest thoughts and the big speech.
"The truth is, watching you trust a brand-new manager completely and carry out even the most unreasonable tactical instructions with precision—whether you realise it or not—moved me deeply! And I have no doubt you'll do the same in the second half. Right?!"
"Right!!!"
'Team Han Shin' hammered the hard walls together.
Boom boom boom boom boom
It sounded like war drums.
Han Shin waved the evaluation sheets like a flag.
"Are all of you just going to quietly agree with Maxwell's ridiculous opinions? Are you nothing more than what's written here?!"
"No!! We don't agree!!!!"
"Looking at this report you're not even scrap-heap material. Are you going to spend your whole pro career as backups? Is that what you want?"
"We hate that more than death!"
"I don't believe this evaluation. I only believe the you who sweat on the grass."
Han Shin gripped the A4 bundle with both hands.
"I'm going to take this worthless report!!!"
Rrrrip rrrrip
He tore the paper lengthwise and crosswise until it was confetti.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!"
He scattered it around the dressing room.
The black letters shattered into white powder that drifted through the air.
"To me this looks like fireworks celebrating our victory! Are my eyes wrong?"
"No!!"
"Are you going to roll over and lose to Maxwell the dog-eyed assistant's team just because you're the second string?"
"We want to win!! We will!"
The second-team members of 'Team Han Shin' roared their frustration. The dressing room shook.
"Don't you want to prove Maxwell wrong!!!"
"We want to prove it!!"
"This season I'm only keeping the warriors who will follow me to the league title. Do you want to follow me?"
"We want to follow!"
"I don't believe any of you want to retire having only dreamed of the EPL. I'm ready to burn this body to the ground this season so that you and our Sunderland can set foot in the league of dreams. What about you?"
"We'll burn harder than anyone!"
Han Shin thrust his fist toward the door.
"Then what are you waiting for?! Go smash those bastards' faces in!!! Kill them!!!"
"Waaaaaah! Smash them!! Kill them!!!"
"We win!"
"We will win!"
Their fighting spirit burned so high they forgot it was only a practice match.
But how many of them will still be here when the dust settles...