The Silent War Inside and Outside the Stadium, Zenit (3)
Sunday morning, seven o’clock.
Han Shin was already up, racing through the video packages Isaac had edited overnight, firing off notes and trading opinions at double speed. By nine the players were seated in the tactical meeting room, and he took the floor for the video analysis session, laying out his own reading of the opponent.
“FC Zenit have seven Brazilians alone. Their South American midfield triangle and the strikers are the real threat.”
No surprise, given how players like Hulk used to light up the pitch. The European sanctions probably play a part too.
He clicked through portrait-style profile shots.
“Number 8 Wendel, number 5 Barrios, number 11 Claudinho—that midfield is thick. And number 9, centre-forward Artur. The back line needs watching as well.”
Footage rolled of Wendel wriggling free of pressure with silky rhythm before curling a shot into the far side of the right post.
“If we sit too deep and park the bus, their long-range shooting will punish us. Push the line up and those quick wingers will carve open the space behind us.”
The Brazilian trio appeared next, exchanging dazzling one-touch passes.
“Malcom, Claudinho, Wendel. Their triangular passing is the heart of Zenit. But it has a weakness.”
“What is it, boss?” left-back Huggins asked—the man who would have to deal with them.
“Zenit play a 4-3-3. When they attack, the defensive line shoots up the pitch to protect possession. That’s exactly when our chance comes.”
Diamond Counter
Han Shin stood before the tactics board and smiled.
“We’re going to run the Cannibal System—codename Diamond Counter.”
He sketched an unusual shape on the board. A few of the players recognised the pattern they had been drilling for days.
So that’s what all that training was for…
The board was a forest of arrows showing positions that never stayed still.
“Base shape is a 4-4-2 diamond.”
9 11
10
7 8
6
3 4 5 2
“Four midfielders mark Zenit’s Brazilians. The number 10 sits at the tip of the diamond and gets involved.”
“Yes!”
“But that’s the feint.”
“The feint?”
“Håkon—who’s been flying in the friendlies and training—starts up top.”
“Yesss!!” Håkon roared.
“In reality he never stops rotating.”
“How do you mean, boss?”
“They’ll have no scouting report on Håkon.”
Even Maxwell didn’t know…
“They’ll assume he’s a pure striker. He lines up as the centre-forward, but he drops deep into his natural midfield role. In short, we use Håkon as a false nine. You’re taking the false-nine job.”
He wrote FALSE NINE on the number-9 magnet.
Håkon thumped his chest. “Leave it to me!”
“When Håkon drops, Chris pushes on—and vice versa.”
“Yes!”
Han Shin toyed with a blue magnet.
“So our main attacking route isn’t central—it’s the flanks. The wing-backs fly forward and whip crosses in while the number 10 links play and looks for the central break.”
“The 10 combines with the two ahead of him in one-twos, or finds Håkon, or the overlapping wing-back. Huge job for the 10: he has to shuttle between attack and defence, dictate the tempo, and sometimes drop all the way to the edge of our own box to mark.”
He deliberately kept calling the role “the 10” without naming a starter, wanting the players to fight for it. Jobe, Chris, Jack Clarke and Abdullahi were already burning with ambition.
Midfield Rotation
“Anyone in the diamond ignores fixed positions and keeps rotating. That will scramble Zenit’s Brazilian midfield.”
He dropped the blue magnet that marked the number-6 midfielder and pushed the 2 and 3 up to the halfway line.
“We defend in a back five, but the second we win the ball the full-backs explode down the flanks and overlap.”
Leaving only one green centre-back magnet behind, he swept every other piece deep into the opposition half.
“In certain moments the whole team has to press like mad. Example: the second a Zenit defender receives, everyone surges forward together.”
Counter-Attack
He wrote the words on the whiteboard.
“So the concept is Fluid Counter. The key is unpredictability.”
Unpredictability?
“The striker they think is Håkon drops, the 10 surges. A mezzala who started central drifts wide, a full-back fills the hole in midfield. That constant movement, that refusal to be tied to a number—that’s the lifeblood. Clear?”
Heads nodded in admiration; applause broke out. It was unmistakably innovative and creative.
“In the end the main weapon is the counter that hits their weak spots, so the speed of transition after we win the ball is everything. Understood?”
“Yes!”
Abdullahi fired a sharp question. “But gaffer, what if we get confused by all the position-swapping?”
“Pwahahaha!”
“Idiot!”
“Why’s everyone laughing?”
Han Shin cut off the mockery. “Abdullahi’s got a point. That’s exactly the biggest problem you’ll face on the grass, isn’t it?”
“…Yes, boss.”
“You’re not fully fluent in my tactics yet, but I’ve got a trick.”
“What is it, gaffer?”
“We’ll tweak the system slightly according to the situation—or the clock.”
He shifted the markers into a new pattern.
“When Håkon goes high, when Chris drops, who sits at the tip of the diamond… by the time Zenit think they’ve figured us out, we’ll already be running a different variation.”
His masterstroke:
“Situational instructions will be given in Korean—something the other team can’t understand.”
“We don’t speak Korean either, boss.”
“Abdullahi, I’ll teach you.”
“Ah… right…”
“For example, if I shout Horangi! Håkon sprints. Got it?”
“Secret signals.”
“Exactly. Our private code. Only a few days left, so lock this system in and drill it until it’s perfect. Time to show Zenit a whole new dimension of football!”
“Yes, Coach!”
Around the same hour Han Shin was running the meeting, Zenit and Sunderland finalised the schedule for training-ground and facility use, then shared the finer details on hotels and transport that had already been agreed.
Zenit’s players and coaching staff checked into a hotel near the ground and headed to the Stadium of Light for a light session.
“Haaawn…”
“I sleep and still feel half-dead.”
Because the friendly would be televised, marketing chief Emily, the front-office staff, a hired interpreter and manager Smith were on hand to greet FC Zenit.
Emily, interpreter at her side, smiled. “Welcome to Sunderland. I’m Emily, chief executive.”
Head coach Tymoshchuk, blond hair tied back with a band, answered. “Pleasure, Miss Emily. The manager is in meetings with the board, so the squad came ahead.”
Ohhh shit… Jesus, a beauty like this in this backwater?
None of the young men had expected a woman at all; the sudden appearance of the stunning Emily set them buzzing.
“Please take your time looking around, and we hope you’ll give us a good match.”
“Of course. No need to worry on that score.”
Manager Smith discussed logistics with the visiting staff. “Manager Han Shin is in an internal meeting this morning, so feel free to use the training room. This afternoon the training ground is closed to visitors because of a fans’ open day.”
Coach Vladimir cast a glance around and spoke with a sneer. “Hmm, cleaner than I expected. Those Asians you hired must scrub well.”
Emily’s face, mid-conversation with another staffer, hardened. Smith made no effort to hide his discomfort.
“Ahaha, Coach, a bit early for that, isn’t it?”
One of the Zenit players draped an arm around the slight-framed Smith—more like a headlock than a friendly shoulder.
“That manager—what’s his name again? Han… something?”
“Manager Han Shin.”
“Right! Han Shin. Just from the sound of it I thought he was some martial-arts master fresh off the plane from China!”
The other players roared with laughter.
“Perfect name for a kung-fu teacher!”
“Bringing karate into football, is he?”
The instant backbiting and racist jabs made Emily’s blood boil, but she forced herself to stay calmer than she ever did in front of Han Shin. She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached.
“Manager Han Shin… is an outstanding strategist our club brought in.”
From the corner, towering vice-captain Andrey repeated the same routine he had performed on the plane. “Oi, you see the Asians outside? How do they all look exactly the same?”
Wendel chimed in. “They’re all kung-fu guys! Jackie Chan~ Jackie Chan~! Kung-fu~ Hi-yah~~~”
Whoosh—! Whoosh—!
Sergey launched a couple of threatening kicks into the air.
These bastards… insulting our manager? Hoo…
Emily’s anger climbed with every second of the boorish display. She still wasn’t completely sure of the label, but they had agreed to date. She had watched him at dinner the night before, talking non-stop about future plans, pouring every ounce of passion into the team. Her boyfriend—and Sunderland’s devoted manager.
She could take no more. She decided to deliver a sharp rebuke.
Emily strode forward with deliberate steps toward the cluster of burly Siberian giants.
“That woman’s coming our way.”
The giggling Zenit players watched her load both barrels.
“Casse-toi, connards!”
(Fuck off, you bastards!)
A crisp French curse, cold as a bottle of beer straight from the fridge.
Not like any of you understand a single word either, right?
The interpreter’s eyes spun, but he tried to do his job. Silently vowing never to interpret for Sunderland again, he rendered the insult into Russian.
“That… fuck… off… shit…”
“No! Why would you translate that?!”
Emily, flustered, stamped her heel down hard on the nearest foot.
“Aaaargh!”