Bloody Purge: The Turbulent Summer Transfer Window
On the morning of the third, at the training ground of the Academy of Light.
"You lot are trying to make football look too pretty!"
Han Shin was running the fitness training process alongside Maxwell and the fitness coach, Reynald.
"Hah... hah..."
"One-two! One-two!"
The players, sensors strapped to their chests and wristwatch-style monitors on their arms, had been circling the track since morning.
"The reason your pass accuracy is dropping and you can't finish your shots is because you don't have the stamina to back up your mental strength! Say it with me—stamina shortage!"
"Stamina shortage!!!"
"Stamina is football ability!"
"Stamina is football ability! Aaaaaargh!"
"We're going to build the stamina to run nonstop for ninety minutes first. Got it?"
"Yes, Coach!"
"Mr. Reynald, how long does a pro player usually take to finish this test?"
"For 3,600 meters, a fit civilian averages twelve minutes. Players average eight."
Heh heh heh. 3,600 meters in eight minutes is top-club level. This guy has no idea, does he?
I used to clock a hundred meters around fourteen seconds, so eight minutes lines up about right.
The problem was that Han Shin didn't know much about refined modern training methods.
We're short on coaches. There's a transfer meeting today, so I need to request reinforcements fast.
"Lads! Eight minutes is the average, so everyone except the keepers is coming in under seven!"
"Yes! Seven minutes!!"
Without a word of complaint they stretched their arms and legs and hit maximum speed.
Reynald looked startled.
"Boss?!"
Is this guy serious? The kids know finishing in seven is impossible, yet they're just following orders?
Master's graduate Reynald rubbed his hands together with a sly smile.
I might actually get to run the fitness work the way I want, exactly to my taste.
Reynald was practically drooling, but his intentions weren't malicious.
Sunderland's players had grown slack from the constant managerial merry-go-round. Since every boss got sacked mid-season anyway, they never bothered building a real connection. Skipping fitness work and half-assing it had become routine.
But Reynald, who had missed yesterday for personal reasons, was shocked. This young Korean manager had the squad in the palm of his hand after only three days.
I don't know his secret, but if I play this right we might finally rebuild Sunderland from the ground up, properly.
In game terms Reynald was no five-star, but he was a solid four-star. The only reason he had stayed was pure love for the club. He wanted to rebuild the broken side just as much as anyone.
"Mr. Reynald, next let's do the sprint-speed measurement test."
"Excellent choice, Boss. After that we can move straight into shuttle runs."
"I like you already, Mr. Reynald. Keep putting the lads through hell from now on."
"That much I can guarantee."
The players circling the track were horrified by the conversation.
Dear God, that man is actually a devil...
"By the way, Mr. Reynald—can we convert these times into numerical endurance values for the players?"
"Once training ends, all sorts of data get stored on the devices. Send them straight to the analysis team and you'll get results—VO2 max and the like."
"So in other words, we can roughly reverse-engineer endurance numbers from the training data?"
"That's right. There are several ways to measure endurance, but..."
"Then can we normalize the players' endurance?"
"Normalize?"
"For example, express endurance or speed on a scale from zero to a hundred and line them up."
"Like game attributes?"
"Exactly."
"Boss, the thing is... you can't just slap attributes on them like a game. Too many complex factors, and every player is different..."
"So it's impossible?"
"No—if we work with the analysis team we can do it, but..."
Attributes, my arse. What do those white-collar desk jockeys hammering keyboards know about real work on the pitch?
Reynald preferred the old-school approach. He understood data mattered, but he refused to judge players by Excel sheets alone.
"Boss! Five laps left!"
"Good, good!"
After encouraging the players as they ran the course, Han Shin spoke again.
"Mr. Reynald, do you know baseball?"
"I try to keep up with most sports, so roughly. Not popular in England, though."
"Baseball has all sorts of data-analysis methods that use maths. Football's advanced too, but it's relatively weak on the numbers."
In baseball the famous methodology was called sabermetrics—every kind of player data analysis thrived there.
"Well, yeah. Maths... analysis."
Reynald looked unconvinced.
If you want to play number games, go do it in a video game. What the hell do you think football is?
"Baseball is basically a turn-based game, so you can collect batter and pitcher data discretely, like a sequence of natural numbers."
"Sorry? Natural numbers? Discrete? Ugh, my head..."
In baseball, with one batter and one pitcher facing off, data could be gathered as integers—discretely.
"But football's different. Way more variables, and above all the ninety minutes of play are continuous, like a real number. You can't just slice it in the middle. Plus twenty-two players are involved at once."
And more than anything, football isn't played with numbers!
Reynald bit back the urge to point that out.
"That's why in football it's hard to divide data into clean intervals, so we usually pull out specific events—particular moments in time—and calculate from those."
The fitness coach, whose maths skills were average at best, was finding it harder and harder to follow the young manager.
"Do you know about xG values?"
"That much I know. xG—expected goals."
"Right."
Football had all sorts of metrics—possession, pass completion, tackles. Among the more recent ones was the statistical technique known as expected goals, or xG.
In short, xG was the probability of scoring from a given moment. Concretely it was calculated from variables like distance to goal, shooting angle, body part used, the shooter himself, and the type of pass.
Low xG meant low chance of a goal. High xG didn't guarantee a goal either.
But what the hell is the point of those numbers?
"When we don't know a probability distribution... we use likelihood..."
"Boss! I strongly recommend you sit down with the data analysis team instead of me!"
I should pay the analysis team a visit.
"Ah, I'll do that. Mr. Reynald, I heard you studied sports fitness."
"I studied at Portsmouth."
"Portsmouth, hmm... Understood. Today we threw a program together on the spot, but could I ask you to report a systematic fitness methodology and schedule?"
"Sorry? It's been so long since I picked up a pen."
"A pen? There's this wonderful device called a computer. If you don't have one, shall I buy you one?"
"No need. I'll report."
"I'd appreciate a breakdown of the daily fitness process—day by day, week by week, month by month. I'll review it and implement."
"Understood."
Now he's trying to swallow the coaches, not just the players.
The first-team coach was filming the session on camera while timing with a stopwatch. Maxwell and Reynald's eyes met.
What's this bastard's deal?
You're going to have a rough time of it.
Clarke came in like a marathon finisher, arms raised in triumph.
"Hoo... hoo... Boss, I'm first!!"
"Clarke first—wingers really are quick. Exactly seven minutes, very good! As soon as everyone's through we move straight to the next drill!"
"Yes!"
Somebody save us...
Coaches and players alike stuck their tongues out at this strict, exacting head coach.
I need more objective data than what I can see with my own eyes. Time to bring in the specialists.
Tastes like nothing. Precisely nothing. This might be the hardest thing to get used to. I have to eat this every day?
Han Shin sat at a square table for four and ate lunch.
The menu was barely seasoned durum-wheat pasta, a vegetable salad without even a common oriental dressing, and so on. The only rays of hope were a thoroughly defatted steak and a poached egg.
The macros were perfectly balanced, but the sodium restriction left Han Shin's tongue utterly joyless.
There is literally no taste at all.
He had meant to eat with the players, but to discuss the transfer market he sat at a different table.
Across from him were Speakman, the director involved in every transfer, Isaac the England-region scout, and Technical Director Jocelyn Fournier, who handled almost all staff recruitment.
Fournier? Four-nio?
Of course they were eating a special menu different from Han Shin's. Fried rice topped with gravy, greasy grilled meat, and golden-brown bacon—same table, completely different plates.
If I'd known I wasn't eating with the squad I'd have grabbed that instead.
Han Shin set down his knife.
"We need far more specialized staff."
The fifty-two-year-old French director, Jocelyn, speared a piece of meat he had just cut.
"I heard from the director, and I one hundred percent agree the club is short on staff. I'm a veteran myself, but I've never seen a situation like this."
"Situation?"
"Until we won the title, nobody knew who the head coach would be. Munch munch... You can't fill staff positions under that kind of uncertainty. Until the head coach was locked in, every player and staff contract was on full stop! Hahaha. Honestly, it's absurd."
Answering while chewing meat like that is oddly rude.
"Coach! Here's my card—keep it. Call if it's urgent."
"My number is—"
"I already have the head coach's number, so no need. Munch munch."
He really smacks his lips. And every sentence ends with 'head coach, head coach.'
It felt like he was deliberately reminding everyone of the hierarchy.
Jocelyn Fournier had been at the club for five straight years since the takeover. He was one of the insiders involved in managerial appointments.
He had opposed the Manager War program, but it had gone ahead anyway, leaving him sour. Then a French manager he had earmarked appeared on the show, so he had hoped that man would win.
And of course an Asian had to win it.
On top of that, his first day back from holiday in sunny France to rainy England had brought orders from the director and owner to reinforce the coaching staff. He was thoroughly peevish.
Han Shin, of course, knew none of this.
Jocelyn casually sent a PDF of candidate names to Han Shin's phone.
"What I just sent is the staff recruitment shortlist. Take a look."
"Excuse me a moment."
"Sure~"
Staff recruitment list, huh...
In World Football Manager, once you took a managerial job you usually received full control—director, coaches, scouts, team doctor, every staff member chosen to taste. And they were emotionless NPCs. You just filtered by attributes, dropped the best characters into the cart, and contracts went from offer to signed in a few days. A week at most and you had a luxury coaching team.
Calling Dennis Bergkamp here is probably impossible.
Whenever Han Shin managed a second-division side in the game, he would sign Bergkamp—the legendary second striker of Ajax and Arsenal—as the ball-control coach.
But it didn't take long to realize that recruiting a legend of that stature as a coach was impossible in reality.
This is why how successful you were as a player matters so much. If Bergkamp walked onto the training ground, would the players follow me or him?
Han Shin weighed it objectively: if the core of Wengerball and the Invincibles ran a session, the players would follow Bergkamp one hundred percent of the time.
A coach whose playing status is too high might make it impossible for the manager to keep discipline. But a coach with no playing pedigree and only coaching brilliance doesn't make sense either.
The worry lasted only a moment. When Han Shin opened the document on his phone he was thoroughly disappointed.
A white background with nothing but names and nationalities slapped down carelessly.
Six out of ten are French no matter where I look.
And the unusual surname Fournier—same as the director—jumped out.
Surely not a relative.
Han Shin's skull throbbed.
"Ahaha, just looking at names doesn't tell me much. Especially this Antoine fellow—who is he?"
He singled out the name: Antoine Fournier.
"Ah~ Antoine, right, he was at Montpellier HSC~"
"How many years at Montpellier?"
"Let's see~ Hang on, how many was it?"
"You haven't forgotten the careers of the staff you prepared for me, have you? Hahaha."
"Of course not~~ Hahaha. Antoine spent about three years at Montpellier, then went to Grenoble or Bastia, I think?"
Hmm... 'I think'?
Han Shin lit the fuse.
"The surname Fournier is extremely common in France, isn't it?"
"Pffft...!"
Speakman sprayed orange juice.
"Excuse me. Didn't get any on you, did I?"
"No, I'm fine. Even if it had, it would wash out."
Speakman hurriedly wiped the table and his trousers with a tissue.
Scout Isaac silently spooned baked beans mixed with tomato sauce and watched the scene unfold.
Jocelyn Fournier's forehead vein stood out.
"What does background matter? Antoine is perfect as a coach! Perfect! Trust this Jocelyn, young Asian friend."
"Not 'young Asian friend.' I am Head Coach Han Shin."
Han Shin drove the point home calmly.
Speakman cheered inwardly.
That's it! That's it! Our Manager Han! The owner already likes him—use this chance to dump that fat bastard!
"Fine, Head Coach. You seem to be pointing out Antoine's background."
Jocelyn wiped sauce from his mouth with a handkerchief.
"By that logic you have zero career to speak of either, yet you landed at our club. Doesn't that make you a 'parachute' appointment?"
Don't get cocky, short-term contract head coach. You don't have 'full control.' Go play house with the players. The negotiating power is still on our side.
"Hahaha, a parachute? I was chosen for 'ability' after winning the competition, not for my background. Isn't that a progressive choice by our owner?"
Found it. The faction. You're the root of the rot.
Just as the fire was about to catch, Jocelyn suddenly backpedaled with a laugh.
"Hahaha, I'm not saying decide right here. Look it over carefully, study the detailed careers and our reports, hold meetings, and think it through."
"Huh? Yes. Of course."
Scout Isaac, who had kept his mouth shut, pointed at the fork.
"Boss! Grab your fork, quick."
"Sorry?"
Nutritionist Dr. Fiona Holbrook appeared, wearing spotless white attire without a speck of dust. She was an impressive figure who had earned her doctorate in nutrition at the University of Edinburgh, one of Britain's top universities.
She was here because this was home. Raised in Sunderland, she had been dragged to the stadium as a child with her family and become a fan. After joining the club she had overhauled the diet from the ground up. Statistics showed player injuries had dropped twenty percent as a result.
There were even rumors she had flatly rejected a massive offer from injury-plagued Chelsea FC. A woman completely devoted to Sunderland.
With her short bob she asked Han Shin,
"Oh my~ Manager, how is the meal? Suiting your palate?"
"Ah! Yes, it's delicious. At this rate I'll clean the plate completely."
Han Shin exaggeratedly twirled pasta and shoveled it in.
Speakman shook his head rapidly.
He mouthed "No! No! Stop!" but Han Shin missed the signal.
The exacting woman slid her glasses up.
"Oh, is that so? Did the lunch menu have too much salt? Should I cut it another twenty percent?"
Even less?
"No! The sodium is already plenty low."
"Low?"
"I mean the seasoning is perfectly mild~ I just love this umami and depth of flavor."
"Did someone... add MSG?"
"More importantly, does the menu change during the season?"
"Normally it's the same, but the day before a match we provide a high-calorie diet composed only of carbohydrates."
"And the day after?"
"For one day the players can eat whatever they want. Right now it's pre-season, so this is it."
So I have to eat this stuff all through pre-season? Sigh...
Once Dr. Fiona appeared, only Han Shin kept talking. The director, the scout, even Technical Director Jocelyn ate their "special" meals in silence.
The special meals were the food staff usually enjoyed—untouched by Fiona's hand. Some people claimed her cooking wasn't food at all and recoiled. Managers were the same. After one taste they rarely demanded the same diet as the players.
Yet Han Shin was already on day three of faithfully following the plan.
She knew better than anyone that the lack of seasoning made it taste bland. And yet...
I've never seen anyone eat it this enthusiastically!
She had come over because the man who was devouring her carefully calculated food with such gusto had sparked her interest and goodwill.
As strict as she looks. Clearly capable, and I like her. This one I absolutely have to keep.
Han Shin was carefully sorting the talent that had to stay from the rotten roots that had to go.
Now it's time for the bloody purge.