Farewell: Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
Afternoon at the Academy of Light.
Han Shin blew his whistle and barked instructions at the players running through their passing drills.
"Tweet—! Tomorrow's session is open to the fans for thirty minutes. You planning to spray passes like that in front of them too?"
"No, sir!"
"The harder we work, the more joy we can give the supporters!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Keep it simple—one-touch!"
"One, two!"
Han Shin stepped into the circle of eight players trading passes.
"This isn't working. I'll show you myself."
He took Abdullah's pass, snapped it ninety degrees to Jobe, and kept talking while the ball moved.
"We raise our fitness to the absolute maximum before the Zenit FC match on Tuesday."
"Zenit are the team that owns Russian football. Passes this soft will get cut out every single time!"
The Russian Premier League might not sit among the Big Five, but FC Zenit Saint Petersburg had claimed seven titles in the last ten years—absolute dominance. They had long shared the spotlight with FC Spartak Moscow, yet last season's championship had elevated them to the greatest side in Russian history. Naturally, they were now a Champions League fixture.
Zenit's rise to power had begun roughly twenty years earlier with a takeover. Gazprom—the world's largest natural-gas and oil producer, the company whose market value topped the Russian stock exchange and effectively underpinned half the national economy—had poured money into aggressive recruitment.
Oddly enough, the spark that turned the polar bears into kings of Russia had a Korean connection. In 2006 they hired Dick Advocaat, who had managed the South Korean national team the previous year. Advocaat delivered an immediate league title and then dismantled Bayern Munich 4–0 in the UEFA Cup semi-finals, handing Zenit their first European trophy.
The magician on that pitch was Andrei Arshavin. He went on to star at Euro 2008 under none other than Guus Hiddink—the same man who had guided Korea to the World Cup semi-finals. Heroes recognise heroes: Hiddink engineered Russia's own miracle run to the Euro semis. After the tournament Arshavin, now dubbed Russia's Diego Maradona, left for Arsenal. His teammate, Ukrainian legend Anatoliy Tymoshchuk, moved to Bayern and later returned as Zenit's assistant coach—still there today, even after the war in Ukraine branded him a traitor back home for refusing to return.
With the Zenit match looming, Han Shin pushed the squad harder than usual, even inserting himself into the drills.
"Already bottled it because they're a Champions League side?"
"We haven't bottled anything!"
In truth the players were rattled for a different reason. Captain Ballard and several others were missing from training. Secrets always leak through the smallest cracks. Agents had whispered that the club had handed Han Shin a massive transfer budget, and that Ballard was heading to Manchester. A few of the men still on the pitch had already been told by the sporting director they were on the release list and were negotiating new contracts with their agents.
Transfers. The eternal fate of the professional footballer. One-club men were rare these days. The squad tried to train like professionals, but concentration was impossible when every man could feel his own turn approaching.
Han Shin, the man who held their futures, knew it better than anyone. He forced the sagging atmosphere upward.
"Focus!"
"Focus!"
"In today's six-a-side mini-game, the winning team gets two extra starting spots against Zenit."
"Yes, sir!"
The mini-game began. Midway through, a raindrop struck Abdullah's forehead.
"Boss! It's raining!"
"You going to stop playing football because of rain?"
"We'll give everything!"
Shhhhhhhhh—!
The sky split open and the rain hammered down as the cruel hour arrived.
"Hah…"
Han Shin let out a sigh that did not suit him, cradled a bitter espresso, and stared through the office window at the downpour.
His once-clean desk was buried under Reynald's fitness plans and stacks of research papers. Through the club intranet he had free access to every sports-science journal he needed. Red pen marks covered every page—underlines, ticks, dense notes that revealed how hard he had wrestled with the material. Player contracts, scouting reports, transfer targets, and applications from prospective staff filled the rest of the surface in neat files.
After interviews, meetings, and training, Han Shin had gone through Reynald's entire programme from A to Z. Then he summoned the coaches one by one.
Ten minutes later Reynald sat opposite him, soaked and bedraggled in his red tracksuit.
"I've studied your training programme carefully, Coach."
"Yeah, I can see that. Ha-ha…"
"I'm afraid I have a difficult decision to deliver. I'll cut straight to it."
Gulp…
Tick-tick—
Even the sound of a throat working and the second hand of a wristwatch seemed loud in the silence. Reynald already knew. Anxiety clawed at him.
"Reynald… unfortunately you and our club… no, let me be precise."
Han Shin slid the carefully prepared training schedule across the desk.
"You and I appear to be heading in different directions. Thank you for everything you've given this team."
"Understood. Hah… feels like my heart just shrank. May I ask the reason?"
"Of course."
Han Shin produced a sheaf of papers.
"Have you seen the recent study published in the American College of Sports Medicine's Journal of Strength and Conditioning Research?"
Reynald shook his head.
"No. Haven't looked at a paper since my graduation thesis decades ago. Ha-ha-ha."
"It details the importance of high-intensity interval training—HIIT—in modern football."
"I know what that is."
"Then define it for me. Why introduce it, and what does it achieve?"
"Eh?"
"The definition of HIIT, the reasons for using it, and its effects."
"Short bursts of… high-intensity work that stimulate the muscles…"
Han Shin finished for him.
"What do we need in order to burn energy?"
"Energy? Food, right?"
"Food matters. But how does the body actually 'burn' calories? We talked about this two days ago."
He offered a hint.
"Burn… so fire?"
Wrong answer.
"How does fire start?"
"Well…"
"Oxygen. Combustible material reacts chemically with oxygen."
"Right—oxygen! Completely slipped my mind."
"Then what is EPOC?"
"No idea."
"Excess post-exercise oxygen consumption. Because oxygen burns calories, it correlates directly with energy expenditure."
"Post-exercise oxygen consumption…"
"Simply put: hard work makes you gulp oxygen; rest lets that demand fall. HIIT loads the body explosively for one to eight minutes, driving heart rate near eighty percent of maximum, then measures how quickly EPOC drops during irregular recovery. That data lets us tailor the most efficient session for each player."
What the hell is this guy talking about?
"HIIT! That's exactly what I was trying to say."
"Is that so?"
Han Shin ticked the schedule with his red pen.
"Your weekly running plan demands the same distance and pace from everyone, ignoring individual differences. That spikes injury risk."
"…Yes."
"Same problem with the weights. The latest research in Medicine & Science in Sports & Exercise shows functional-movement training outperforms traditional lifting for footballers."
"Medicine and science of sports and exercise journal…?"
"Your methods never calculate oxygen uptake, muscle fatigue, or lactate. Long-term that leads to declining condition—right here in the paper."
"If the scientists say so… hah…"
Reynald had no defence against the sharp, evidence-backed points.
Han Shin opened a drawer and handed over a folder.
"This is the new programme I'm developing with Nebula Nexus. One core idea is real-time monitoring of every player's condition via GPS and biomechanical analysis."
"May I read it?"
"Please."
Reynald took the folder.
"Oh… this is revolutionary."
"We're calling it the ARK Project."
"ARK Project?"
"Augmented-reality and VR technology delivering personalised training."
No matter how hard I try, I could never match this.
Reynald flipped pages while Han Shin spoke.
"To reach world-class level we need radical change. I'm recruiting coaches who can apply sports-medicine research—more scientific, more individualised methods."
Reynald had no choice but to accept why he had to leave.
"Laid out this clearly, my methods look prehistoric. I understand, Boss. I've fallen behind the times."
"In the process of change, I'm sorry to say we must part ways."
"Hah… nothing to be sorry about. A new wind is blowing in a new era. Ha-ha-ha. You're something else."
"No. Telling you we can't continue weighs on me."
"Ha-ha-ha… damn it. I'd rather you just swore at me. This way I can't even get angry!"
"Feel free to swear. I'll take it."
So it ends like this… What do I tell Reynald Junior's mum? Maybe take a month off playing golf? Can't face the wife…
Family first, always.
"Hah… I'll pack up today. Impressive plan. Almost wish I could stay and be part of it."
Reynald offered his hand.
"Short time, but good to meet a young manager like you."
Han Shin shook it.
"Thank you for everything you've given this club, Reynald."
Both men stood.
"I'll be cheering for Han Shin's Sunderland from afar. Ha-ha-ha. I'll be off."
"Take care."
As Han Shin bowed, Reynald turned back.
"Ah—next time, any chance of a reference from our star manager?"
"Of course. Never written one, but I'll make it the best I can."
"Ha-ha… that puts my mind at ease! Han Shin, see you again someday!"
"Yes."
A hard decision, but necessary for the team's progress.
Han Shin sank into his chair and stared at the rain.
"How many more times will I have to do this? Maybe it gets easier…"
Rain drummed on the railing.
The sky's crying the tears I won't shed.
A bitterness deeper than espresso settled into him.
A heavy-hearted Reynald met Maxwell in the corridor. Maxwell carried only a tablet instead of the usual stack of papers.
"Coach!"
"Han Shin call you in too?"
"Yes. Ten minutes until my meeting. He schedules things tight, doesn't he?"
"Hah… don't end up like me. I couldn't get a word in."
Reynald clapped Maxwell's shoulder. The weight of that hand—or rather the weight of the heart behind it—felt crushing.
"Don't tell me…?"
"Yeah. Today's my last day. Leaving a club I've grown fond of. Getting old is a miserable business."
"Damn… still ten minutes left. Fancy a smoke?"
"Our lazy assistant Maxwell doesn't smoke, does he?"
"Ha-ha-ha, calling me lazy to my face just because you're leaving? Just wanted a chat before goodbye."
"About what?"
"Want to slag off Manager Han?"
"Forget it, man. If you don't want the sack like me, prepare your answers properly."
"Or at least give me a tip for the meeting."
"A tip? Hang on…"
Reynald fingered his wedding anniversary necklace.
"That manager lives forty-eight hours in a day. He's the male Hermione Granger."
"Sorry—what?"
"He dissected the programme I spent a whole day building, then pulled out every paper under the sun and beat me black and blue with logic."
"Papers?"
"Papers! Ha-ha-ha! Reminded me of my old thesis supervisor who used to reject my drafts. The man's a football professor."
"He's sly, right? Like a fox."
"Fox? No—he's a snake. A thousand-year-old imugi."
Snake? Imugi? What's that?
Maxwell, clueless about Eastern dragon lore, had no idea what Reynald meant.
"Anyway, nine minutes left. Instead of a cigarette, here's some fresh advice from the man who just got roasted."
"What is it?"
"You ever hand him anything? Training plans, that sort of thing?"
Maxwell thought hard.
"I gave him player analysis reports. Stayed up all night before the friendly, even got a nosebleed."
"Then he'll dig into those reports. Why you wrote those player assessments."
"I knew it—that little…"
"Little what? Still haven't learned after getting smashed?"
Maxwell had been losing every mini-game lately. Reynald lightly chopped the top of his head.
"Ow! That hurt. The manager secretly changed my evaluations of the players!"
"He did? Ha-ha-ha, what a mystery. Probably means your evaluations were wrong."
"Funny, is it? Nazari nearly grabbed me by the collar for no reason. That's insubordination! Insubordination!"
Maxwell aired the previous day's grievance.
"Maybe the lads don't take you seriously. You spend all day watching YouTube and slacking. Kids notice."
Since he was leaving anyway, Reynald piled on.
"Podcasts and gossip are fine. But when you watch porn, turn the volume down or put earphones in."
Maxwell's private habit—something he thought secret—was suddenly public. His ears burned scarlet.
"I get that you're young. But when the moans of strange women reach the next room, what's the point? Your wife will be upset. Ha-ha-ha."
"Wh-wh-what? When did I ever—! Reynald, you see me as that kind of filthy, shameless man?"
Reynald wore a wicked grin.
"Why so worked up? Wait—did you actually watch it? Ha-ha-ha!"
"Oh for God's sake!!! You old man! I'm leaving."
"Still, having you around was always fun. Properly entertaining. I'll be off too."
Maxwell removed his cap in respect.
"Thank you for everything, Coach Reynald. I learned a lot. Won't forget it."
Reynald waved as he walked away.
"Take care. If we meet again, first round's on me at the pub."
"Yeah. Don't go far, you ignorant old git!"
"Ha-ha-ha. Right back at you, lazy assistant coach."
"I enjoyed it too, thanks to you!"
"Ha-ha-ha, likewise!"
Stubborn old fool. Doesn't even look back. I've got the tip—better re-read those player reports while I can.
Maxwell smoothed his hair with spit, checked his clothes, and hovered outside the door marked Head Coach: Han Shin.
Why does it look so far away? Jocelyn, Reynald, Ballard… and now me? Am I next for the chop? Hah…
Nothing left to lose. He knocked.
"Boss, Assistant Coach David Maxwell."
"Come in."
"Rain's come on this afternoon."
The wind and rain had driven the players indoors for individual sessions.
"It has. Rain's just part of life here. Sit down."
"By the way, Boss, I just ran into Coach Reynald in the corridor—"
"I have another meeting after this, so shall we get to the point?"
"Yes. Of course."
What will he ask? How do I answer?
While Maxwell floundered in a swamp of anxiety, Han Shin made a completely different proposal.
"Convince me—convince everyone—why I should keep you as first-team assistant coach."
"What???"
"Give a five-minute speech with solid arguments proving you are truly the right man for Sunderland's assistant role."
He set a digital wristwatch timer.
"I'll give you time to think. When you're ready, you have exactly five minutes."
FUCK! Damn it, this isn't what Reynald said! What the hell… a speech out of nowhere?
Han Shin's blank face suddenly overlapped with the white-haired ghost of Bernard Shankly who had once tormented him.
You… you… fox-faced bastard!
Maxwell's vision went dark.