A Manager from North Korea? Tell Him to Go See Kim Jong-un

Kyril wasn't bad, but the three from the consortium clearly didn't like me.

Last night, as he moved from table to table greeting club officials, they had made their dislike of him blatantly obvious.

In truth, Kyril did not own one hundred percent of the club. He held a forty-one percent stake. The remaining fifty-nine percent still belonged to the Madrox Consortium — led by Stuart Donald, who had taken over the club when it was on the brink of bankruptcy — making them the majority shareholders. The consortium's stake, and thus its power, was divided among three men, including Donald.

Kyril held the largest single block of seats and served as the controlling shareholder in charge of day-to-day management. But there was no telling when the consortium might unite against him.

They could dig up any excuse — poor results or whatever else — and force a sacking.

"But I'm going to get promoted this year."

Han Shin flipped rapidly through the pages. And this was the greatest merit and most powerful benefit granted to him for winning the Manager War — the reason he accepted a weekly wage far below the average without complaint.

It was a kind of certification issued by ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Union of European Football Associations — essential for anyone who wanted to manage a top-flight club in Europe. The so-called P License. The tiers ran from C to A, and then to Pro level. Without a Pro-level qualification, Han Shin was, in principle, not allowed to take the job at all.

That had been one of the reasons the Manager War had nearly fallen apart at the planning stage. The Football Association had flatly refused: they would not entrust a team to a manager with no minimum credentials. The organizers had argued and argued that most of the contestants already held licenses, that there was no chance an unqualified person would win. At last the high-handed FA had relented, and the World Football Manager tournament had gone ahead in the spirit of the greater good.

Experienced managers will win it, they thought.

But the man who had won the Manager War was—

"Me, of course."

A promise had been made, so they had settled on paying a fine every time he took charge of a match.

"They cover the fine levied every time I manage a league game… that's the deal."

Naturally the club was not paying every fine out of its own reserves. Sunderland was no fool; they were not about to take a loss. Under the guise of production support and sponsorship, the program's production company covered the fines instead. In an era when a hit piece of content could easily cost ten or twenty billion won, the producers of the Manager War had calculated that hiring "an unknown actor named Han Shin" was a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bargain for a popular show — and had agreed to underwrite most of the costs.

They had valued his unflappable entertainment instincts — performing a Ronaldo celebration in front of countless cameras without so much as a flicker of the eye — and the clean-cut Korean looks that Western audiences favored. Compared to hiring a star actor with an astronomical fee, the cost of this variety package was dirt cheap.

"They're basically telling me to play the clown. But for the record, I'm dead serious about this."

They would provide lodging near the clubhouse, cover work-related expenses, and furnish him with a car. Sunderland's home ground was called the Stadium of Light — a name that reflected the city's mining identity and honored the people who had once worked by lamplight in the dark. Because of that heritage, the area hosted any number of volunteer and charity events ending in "of Light."

"They said there's a donation event right after I take the job… not sure how I'm supposed to handle that."

Finally he read through the miscellaneous clauses at a leisurely pace.

The rest of the miscellaneous terms were largely formalities. He was also required to participate diligently in documentary production and live broadcasts, including filming in the manager's private office and the locker room. Five percent of the revenue the club earned from the broadcast programs would be paid to the manager.

The truly demanding — and interesting — clauses were these.

The first was participation in a sequel reality documentary, greenlit on the back of the Manager War's massive ratings. For one full season they would film a new program that fused the styles of the globally successful Sunderland 'Til I Die and All or Nothing: the Championship struggle of a manager with no professional playing experience. Simply capturing the various incidents that unfolded at the club over a year would be enough to generate entertainment. If Han Shin were sacked mid-season, it would be variety gold. If he somehow led the club to success, it would be an inspiring story. Either way, it would be compelling. The broadcaster had nothing to lose.

And neither do I.

Han Shin himself had nothing to lose. There was the risk of every moment being recorded and his private life exposed, but simply being entrusted with a club of this scale was something to be grateful for. And five percent of the revenue on top of that? There was no reason to refuse.

The other interesting clause, of course, concerned the historic and tradition-steeped Tyne-Wear Derby.

During the manager's tenure, should a Tyne-Wear Derby against Newcastle United be played, he was required to win it.

A derby. A bloodless war between rival clubs from the same region, between neighboring cities. The world was full of famous derbies. In La Liga there was El Clásico between Real Madrid and Barcelona. In Serie A, the Derby della Madonnina between Inter and Milan. In England, the Northwest Derby between Manchester United and Liverpool. Less famous but no less violent was the Dockers Derby between West Ham and Millwall. And for Sunderland, there was the Tyne-Wear Derby.

Barely twenty kilometers away, in the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, stood Newcastle United. Named after the rivers that ran through each city, the Tyne-Wear Derby was the fateful clash between Sunderland and their bitter rivals. The head-to-head record stood at fifty-three wins, fifty draws, and fifty-four losses — as fierce as it got.

But right now Sunderland were in the Championship while Newcastle, backed by Saudi money, were making waves as dark horses in the Premier League. They were not even in the same division, so they could not meet. Kyril had told him that not long after he became owner, a Tyne-Wear Derby had been staged in the FA Cup. Lacking any real understanding of what a derby meant, he had hung Newcastle-supporting banners at the home ground — a catastrophic, fatal blunder that had led to this clause being inserted into the contract.

If they ever faced Newcastle, it would be in a cup competition — the FA Cup or the League Cup.

Surely we won't meet them… right?

"If we run into Newcastle, I'll make damn sure we smash them."

They were his team, after all.

As Han Shin sipped his coffee, a table beside him filled with middle-aged men wearing expressions of pure discontent. Three rough-looking men were deep in conversation. This was no pub that sold beer, yet they kept gulping down coffee in great swallows.

One remark from the potbellied man made Han Shin's face twist.

"Fucking chino. Fucking Chink!"

Even when a Korean was famous, the default slur for an Asian was still Chink, Chinky — a racial insult that mocked the slanted eyes of East Asians. And they were spitting it out in a café in the middle of the city.

"Oh, Lord, I can't believe it. Appointing a Korean with no experience as the new manager — what the hell is the club thinking?"

The bald man ranted on.

"Bloody Chinese bastard. How's some bloke who's never even played pro football supposed to lead our team?"

"Exactly! This is complete bollocks. We need someone who knows English football, someone with experience."

"It's all because of that French owner — the little shit's too young. We need to stop with the experiments."

"I'm sick to death of that damn show they're filming."

"We need a manager who can actually get us promoted. This isn't a place for any random nobody. This is Sunderland."

"Hear, hear! Sunderland forever! Chinese bastard, go back to your own country."

The man with the thickly haired arms slammed his cup down on the table.

"Damn it, and what about the players? How are they supposed to follow a man who's never even set foot on a pitch? If that bastard shows his face, I'll spit on him first thing."

"By the way, why isn't the club offering a contract to Roikin?"

"Forget Roikin. The terms didn't work out — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he's not coming. Traitor."

"Money. Money. Where the hell is that baguette bastard spending it all?"

"Probably too busy stuffing it into some Chinese back pocket."

The same barista from earlier approached and scolded them.

"Gentlemen, could you please keep it down a little in the café?"

"What, customers can't even talk in a shop? We paid for this dishwater. Tastes like rubbish. Let's just go get a proper beer."

"Dishwater? You're disturbing the other customers!"

The bald man laughed.

"Heh heh heh. Look at that one — said he wanted an Americano and then ordered a mocha like me. Sweet as anything."

"What? Really? Give it here."

He grabbed the cup full of ice and drained it in one go.

"Good, right?"

"A bit better."

The bald man crunched ice between his teeth and asked,

"Miss, one question. You're not a Sunderland fan, are you?"

"I am, actually. It's our team — of course I support them."

"Then doesn't this make you angry? What do you think?"

"About what?"

"That Chinese bloke."

"If you mean the new manager, he's Korean."

"Chinese, Korean — they're all Asian, same thing, isn't it?"

"You ignorant bastard. No, it's not. Isn't he from North Korea?"

"Tell him to go back to Kim Jong-un."

"That's right, that's right. Get lost back to North Korea!"

The potbellied man nudged his friends in the ribs.

"Why are you poking me?"

"Hey, look over there."

"At what?"

"That Asian — isn't that the bastard?"

They glanced sideways at Han Shin. In a quiet provincial town during the football off-season, the mere presence of an Asian was suspicious enough on its own.

The atmosphere's a complete mess. No need to get tangled up in this. Time to leave.

Han Shin gathered his papers, pulled his cap low, and started to rise from his seat. That was when he felt a heavy pressure clamp down on his shoulder. The bald man had grabbed him.

"Hey, you — aren't you that Korean from the telly?"

The three men closed in around him. The barista fretted, unsure what to do.

"That's him, right? I told you — he looks exactly the same."

"All Asians look the same."

"Doesn't even have any facial hair. Looks like a kid. You sure you're not mistaken?"

"I'm telling you it's him. Hey, Chinky — what's your name?"

Han Shin brushed the hand off his arm with a sharp flick. He took off his cap and stared straight at them.

"Han Shin."

"What?"

"It's not Chinky. My name is Han Shin. I'm the man who's going to be your team's manager. What are you going to do about it?"