The Reason We Must Win: FC Zenit (2)

Han Shin lightened the mood with the Theory of Root—a bit of Korean football lore known only to a select few of his countrymen.

But those absurd questions were never going to cut it in a real negotiation.

He scribbled a note to the sporting director explaining there was a method to the madness, then turned back to Nelson with genuine thanks.

"That was just the ice-breaker. I appreciate you answering my cheeky questions so thoroughly."

"Not at all. Just like Lea said—you're an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠interesting guy."

Behind Weiper's camera, Lea was dancing wildly with her earphones in.

Yeah… she's only four years older. Not exactly an unattainable noona…

"Ahem. Let's get down to business, Nelson Weiper. Are you considering coming to Sunderland?"

"I spoke with my agent Schmidt. There are a lot of positives, so I'm thinking about it."

"What's the biggest obstacle? We plan to use you as a key player in your preferred position."

"The Championship. I've never even heard of Sunderland, so I don't know if the club is competitive in the league. Feels a bit like a publicity stunt, to be honest."

True to his Germanic roots, Weiper was blunt.

"Fair enough if you don't know Sunderland. Our goal this season is the title. And I'd like you to be the first piece of that squad."

"So you're title contenders. How do you prove that? Looking at your CV, you've got zero managerial experience."

Han Shin played the card he'd prepared.

"In three days we have a friendly against FC Zenit. Zenit are a genuine Champions League side. If we beat them, doesn't that prove we can compete?"

"Zenit are strong. We've never even faced them. Honestly, from where I'm sitting, it's hard to imagine a club I've never heard of beating them."

"The match will be broadcast. Or if you prefer, we'll stream it live straight to you personally. If we win, will you give us serious consideration?"

"So you're proposing a bet… with my transfer on the line."

"I don't agree with the people who call you just another 'next Klose'."

"Sorry—what do you mean by that?"

Miroslav Klose. One of the tags that followed him was all-time World Cup top scorer.

In Korea, Klose's image was that of a classic target man and pure goal-getter—tall, a heading machine who smashed in those unforgettable World Cup bombs.

But his actual game was far more complete: blistering pace to exploit space in behind, and the ability to link play with clever passes. Even in his era he was regarded as one of the most complete forwards around.

Yet even the legendary striker of the German tank division had faced obstacles.

As a player of Polish heritage, he had nearly been left out of the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup squad entirely.

Then his saviour appeared: national team manager and legendary player Rudi Völler, who selected him with a simple declaration of principle.

The consensus was that Völler could make that call because he himself had left Werder Bremen as top scorer for Italy and then France.

After moving from Germany to AS Roma he won a cup, then crossed to Marseille and delivered the first-ever UCL title for a French club.

The man famous for his hairstyle later took the national team job after retiring—and shared a peculiar commonality with Han Shin.

When offered the national team post, he held no coaching licence.

Han Shin believed Völler's decision to pick Klose was rooted in his own memories of succeeding abroad.

So in the meeting he invoked that legendary name.

"I see you as this generation's Klose—and the raw material to become another Rudi Völler."

"I'm honoured to be compared to a legend like Rudi Völler. But I don't think our physiques or styles are that similar."

"I've been watching your post play using that height, your off-the-ball movement, your link-up play and technique, and the pure finishing of a traditional number nine."

"Thank you, gaffer."

Han Shin adjusted his tie.

"Weiper, do you know anything about my background?"

"Yes—the first Asian in history to become a real manager through a game."

"Even in the game, whenever I had the budget I always signed you. The physicality of Crespo in the duels, the quick feet of Klose… the positioning of Völler."

Weiper had been quietly absorbing the praise when Han Shin suddenly asked:

"Do you know where Rudi Völler achieved his greatest success?"

"AS Roma…"

Völler was a German hero, but firmly of the past. A young prospect who barely knew Sunderland naturally knew almost nothing about him.

Han Shin elaborated.

"He won the UCL with Marseille in France and established himself as one of Germany's greatest strikers."

"I understand that. But I still don't really see what that has to do with me, gaffer."

"Weiper. Was the place Völler became great… Germany?"

"No."

"Was it the Bundesliga?"

"No."

"The world is wide, Nelson. Germany isn't the only place that plays football. Why not join us and write a new chapter of history in the Premier League—just like Rudi Völler?"

"You mean…"

"Let's deliver Sunderland their first Champions League title and become legends together. You'll be Germany's number nine at the next World Cup."

"Hahahahahaha!"

Weiper's laughter at the outrageous ambition made Lea, still dancing, lean closer to the monitor.

"Why? It's cool! He's saying let's write history by winning together, Weiper!"

Even Schmidt, who had only been translating, scolded him.

"He's rating your potential this highly and you're just laughing rudely? Come on, Nelson."

"Sorry, gaffer. It just sounded completely ridiculous. All right. Let's add this to your bet."

Weiper raised his index and middle fingers in a V.

No—wait, that wasn't a V…

"If you beat Zenit by two clear goals, Schmidt and I will get on a plane to Sunderland and sign the transfer contract on the spot."

"That's a promise?"

Another reason Han Shin absolutely had to win.

Weiper's eyes turned steely.

"I don't hesitate in front of goal—or in life."

"Excellent. A striker needs that confidence."

The complete opposite of Mahrdi. Too much of a gap to just call it the difference between defenders and attackers…

"Do we even need to discuss wages?"

"I don't care how much I earn. I'll follow the manager who sees my true value."

Damn…

The line was so perfect Han Shin almost shouted "Damn!" out loud, half-suspecting Schmidt was embellishing the translation.

This kid has real foundation.

"Weiper, Schmidt—since the Zenit match is in three days, it might be wise to have the contracts ready before you fly to Sunderland. Hahaha."

Agent Schmidt answered with a line worthy of Goethe's homeland.

"I'll pray that the blue Russian cold doesn't freeze the black ink before it dries, or crack the earth beneath us."

"It's been a pleasure. Nelson Weiper is a class act. You too, Schmidt."

"Thank you. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠And if I may say so, gaffer—you're better looking than big brother Lee Jae-seok."

"Hahaha. Shall we wrap it up?"

"Sounds good."

Weiper's girlfriend Lea filled the entire frame with her chest, flashed a star-filter screen, and yelled:

"Han Shin! I sent you a direct message! You have to read it!!!"

Didn't they say she was Nelson's girlfriend…?

Agent Schmidt wisely left Lea's final outburst untranslated as the video call ended.

Back-to-back meetings had Han Shin feeling like his hair was about to fall out.

"Phew… now I get why managers go bald. Is that why bald managers are so good at football?"

As the man responsible for player sales, the stress was already pushing both his crown and M-shaped hairline into simultaneous retreat.

"Well done. You made the negotiation so comfortable I barely had anything to do. The way you slid into the Völler story was seamless—I'll be stealing that."

"You're handling the sales side for me, aren't you, Director?"

"We each have our jobs."

"And Rudi Völler was a calculated gamble."

"A gamble?"

"I wasn't even born when he played, so I don't know the details either."

"That part puzzled me too. You brought him up with such confidence."

"A player who doesn't even know Sunderland was never going to have a clear picture of Völler's style—especially when even I don't."

"True. His agent said he only cares about football on the pitch. So why pick Völler specifically?"

"I figured he'd be stubborn about the Bundesliga. Everyone wants Dortmund or Bayern."

"Of course. Every player dreams of joining a big club in their own country."

"So I looked for a legend Weiper wouldn't know well—someone who never played for Munich, moved abroad, and still became a star. That was Rudi Völler."

"He went from Bremen to Roma."

"Exactly. I deliberately made sure the word 'Bayern' never entered the conversation. The whole thing started with that random question about his blonde older girlfriend—that was the first layer of the trap."

Trap.

Speakman finally understood why Han Shin had opened with the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ridiculous Theory of Root.

"You used it to seize control of the conversation."

"There's a Korean joke theory for evaluating prospects called the Theory of Root. I used it as bait so they could never steer the talk. Completely knocked the wind out of them."

In the end, Weiper—who had never transferred before—and Schmidt, who was stuck translating, were completely cooked by Han Shin's rhetoric. They never got to push a single one of their own points.

Han Shin had even seized total possession of the conversational "passes."

Speakman summed it up.

"In chess terms, that was a Queen's Gambit opening."

"Yes. Push the pawn, and if they defend, you boldly move the queen for checkmate. In Korea we call it…"

What's the English for laying a foundation stone? No—he probably doesn't even know Go, even with AlphaGo. Better rephrase.

"I just dangled the irresistible bait of a legendary striker who succeeded abroad."

"Which shifted the focus from Sunderland the club to the bigger stage of playing overseas."

"And it made Nelson look like a frog in a well if he didn't dare take the leap."

"Damn… so the man who takes on challenges, right?"

"Exactly, Director. That was the intent. The frog in the well who dares to go abroad. Weiper walked right into it without realising."

Han Shin and Speakman were perfectly in sync.

"Brilliant. I already feel like I could leave all recruitment to you and you'd do better than me."

"Not at all. I still need detailed help—projected wages and so on."

Speakman slapped his palm with a fist.

"But the real problem is still that: the Zenit match. Two-goal victory."

"Right. Nelson only gains certainty if we actually beat Zenit."

They had dominated the conversation, but to seal the transfer they still needed goals on the grass.

Han Shin wore a meaningful look.

"Though I suspect interest in Sunderland will naturally explode anyway. Because…"

"Hold on, hold on, gaffer."

"What?"

"Let me guess first."

"Go ahead."

"It's the classic 'don't think of an elephant' situation, isn't it?"

"Exactly. Tonight when Weiper lies down with his girlfriend and a pillow, what's going to pop into his head?"

"Sunderland."

"Right. Sunderland. And me—Han Shin. Those keywords will keep circling. Especially after the unique impression I planted."

"Planted… yeah, it's planted deep."

Han Shin mimed holding a phone with both hands and scrolling social media.

"Instead of sleeping he'll be searching me up, or messaging his mate Lee Jae-seok with questions. Interest grows naturally…"

"And even if we lose to Zenit, that interest might still bring him to us?"

Han Shin shook his head.

"No, Director. We absolutely must win. Men are simple when it comes to competition."

"True—we've got pride. Lose a bet and you don't just cheerfully agree to go."

"Exactly. We prepare meticulously, put on a masterclass, and win by two goals as promised. That gives us the unshakeable moral high ground. Then he can't refuse our offer."

Speakman quoted a famous mafia-movie line.

"An offer he can't refuse…"

"You've seen The Godfather, Director?"

"I don't have deep conversations like this with men who haven't."

"Hahaha. You've got a serious mafia complex."

"Maybe that's why the hair's thinning."

Bran, who had been sitting there collecting easy money instead of translating, stroked his proud fluffy orange moustache and snickered.

"Both of you should start using anti-hair-loss shampoo or take the pills. This stuff needs early management."

"It's not that bad. Look how thick it still is."

Unlike Han Shin, Speakman quietly pulled on a cap to hide the thinning.

Bran turned to Han Shin.

"By the way—aren't you curious what Weiper's girlfriend said at the end with those massive boobs?"

Han Shin was speechless that Bran had deliberately phrased it as "what the boobs said."

"No. Not even a little. No need to tell me."

"You sure? You'll regret it. A beauty that juuuuicy—so full and—"

"I'll say it again: I couldn't care less."

"Ohhh~ Don't tell me the gaffer already has someone? Dr. Fiona was asking why you weren't at dinner today."

"Was she?"

"She was. And your Instagram popularity is insane."

"Yeah, I noticed. Haven't had time to deal with it."

His account was being flooded with photos from half-naked women—so many that checking it in public was nearly impossible.

Bathroom selfies poured in from ordinary fans all the way up to famous pop stars and K-pop idols.

If Emily ever got jealous enough to check, disaster would be guaranteed.

With urgent business finished, Speakman had no more time for banter and stood.

"Let's call it a day. I've got another transfer negotiation to handle."

"Director—how much for Adil?"

Adil had been marked for exit after the Jocelyn affair.

"Marseille, maybe max 6-7 million? I'll let you know once it's confirmed."

"Understood. I'll head out too."

"Great work today, gaffer!"

After saying goodbye to Bran, Han Shin texted Emily.

After a steak dinner at a restaurant with Emily, Han Shin drove her back to her place.

Then he stayed up until dawn at home, laptop open, analysing the opposition and refining tactics.

"Against these Brazilian players, counter-attacking will work better than going toe-to-toe."

He pondered how ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to handle Zenit's South American trio.

Click-clack.

As he typed the name of the new system—Diamond Counter—a single black hair drifted down onto the keyboard.

No real sign of hair loss.

But still…

Ominous.

"Just in case… maybe I should look into that anti-hair-loss shampoo Bran mentioned."

Russia's second city—St. Petersburg Airport.

At midnight the FC Zenit team bus pulled up.

Players climbed out one by one, yawning.

Vice-captain Andrei spoke first.

"Lads, no choice now—time to board. I'm dead tired. But… why the hell are we flying out at this hour for a friendly that isn't even Champions League?"

Goalkeeper Sergei clapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey, you hear? The opposing manager is that famous Asian guy."

Andrei's eyes lit up.

"The one who got famous from the game?"

"Probably thinks real football and the game are the same thing."

Brazilian midfielder Wendel pulled his eyes into slits.

"There's a slant-eyed manager in England~~~?!"

The South American players all joined in, pulling their eyes and chanting.

"Yellow monkey! Yellow monkey!"

Assistant coach Tymoshchuk frowned as he walked past.

"Quiet."

In their eyes an Asian manager was nothing but a joke.

Defender Nikolai stoked the fire again.

"Became a manager through Football Manager or whatever? Absolute nonsense."

Laughter spread like a virus through the squad.

"Hey, don't be like that. Asians can play football too. Those Westerners and their damn PC—political correctness… ahem."

Another player tried to rein it in, but the mockery still dripped from his voice.

"Must be some Asian quota for poor little Japanese as part of the PC policy! Hahahaha!"

Then coach Vladimir approached.

"That guy was spouting off like he knows football. Of course he's no match for us. Hahahaha!"

Vladimir checked that the manager and head coach were out of earshot, then lowered his voice.

"That Asian is a real joke. When we score, let's pull our eyes and mock him. If anyone complains, just say it's a celebration."

Brazilian Wendel agreed.

"Classic, Coach Vladimir. That Chinky is no match for us. I'll practise the celebration!"

He did a monkey impression.

"Ook-ook! Ook-ook!"

"Hahaha, Wendel you madman!!"

Once aboard the plane, the Zenit executives chewed over the gossip about Han Shin just as eagerly.

Vice-president Dmitri was no exception.

"I hear that Asian can barely speak English. Curious how he communicates with the players. Hahaha."

Even his female secretary Yulia giggled.

"Probably needs an interpreter, Vice-president. Maybe this man draws up tactics with monkey hand gestures? Hohoho."

"Wouldn't put it past him. Hahaha. More importantly, Yulia—come here."

"Vice-president, not here—it's awkward."

"Awkward my arse! I'll show you the hot taste of the Bolsheviks!"

"Oh my!"

"I am the flaming bat of Leningrad! Muahahaha."

Vice-president Dmitri drew the curtain around their private booth.

About an hour after take-off, captain Aleksandr stood up, projected Han Shin's Instagram onto a screen, and addressed the players.

"You know who we're fighting, right? The self-proclaimed number-one gaming world champion~~~"

His mockery drew roars of laughter.

"That bastard is fake. We are the real champions of Russia. How the hell are they going to beat us? Let's show them what real football looks like!"

"Wheeeeeeeew~"

"Uooooooahhh!"

The Zenit players whistled, cheered, and launched into song.

A song thick with certainty of victory, contempt for the opponent, and pure racism.

Their private jet drifted serenely above the cotton-candy clouds of the Eurasian continent, bound for Sunderland.

But Zenit still had no idea.

What awaited them was no ordinary friendly…

They were striding straight into the den of a Korean tiger that had already sharpened its fangs to a razor's edge…