The Man Everyone's Watching (4)
Rubbing his furrowed brow, the Elche CF manager's face grew darker by the second. The second half kicked off after halftime, and whether it was just his imagination or not, the away fans' chants seemed to drown out the home supporters' songs from the stands. No, this wasn't his imagination. The manager knew all too well what frustration was boiling over among the Elche CF faithful right now.
Conceding three goals in the first half on defense? That was a problem, sure. But at this moment, the fans' biggest gripe was undoubtedly the toothless attack. They'd barely scraped a 1-0 win in the opener, and the lack of firepower up front remained Elche CF's Achilles' heel. The passing from midfield to the attack line was solid today, just like in the last match. The issue was the final touch—the killer instinct that just wasn't there. And this wasn't a new problem this season. It had doomed them to 19th in La Liga and relegation the year before that, and an 8th-place finish in La Liga 2 last time around. The blunt attack was the root of it all.
Two managers had come and gone. Yet even this one, gripping the reins now, hadn't sharpened the attack into a proper weapon. That was why home crowds were thinning out game by game. Solid defense might keep you alive, but it didn't thrill like goals raining in. And when even that defense crumbled like today, the disappointment hit twice as hard.
"Don't rush those passes! Stick to your positions like I said! Focus, damn it—focus!"
A bellow erupted from nearby. The Elche CF manager, arms crossed, glanced sideways. Despite leading by three, the opposing manager was out in the technical area, yelling his lungs out like something was eating him alive. The Elche boss quickly looked away, his face twisting in a scowl.
Damn it.
It stung his pride. The opposing manager, Jordi Calavera, was a rookie in his first season helming a pro club. With over a decade of pro experience under his belt, the Elche manager couldn't help but see him as a greenhorn. And the tactics Jordi had rolled out today? They rubbed him the wrong way too. They demanded top individual talent to work—something AD Alcorcón's squad just didn't have. Pulling that off would've been a disaster for them. Worse, Jordi wasn't even trying to counter his setup; he was just laser-focused on executing his own vision. That wasn't pro-level coaching.
He'll learn soon enough. How reckless it is to chase ideals as a manager.
The Elche manager had chased his own dreams once, trying to infuse the team with his ideal soccer. But molding a squad to your vision took time, and sudden tactical shifts left them reeling early on. Distrust crept in from the players. Change always hit rough at first—that was natural. But pro football didn't tolerate it. Results came first. Future-building soccer? Only if you backed it with wins now. Managerial seats were as precarious as a house of cards. No results, no future—you were out the door.
He'd endured a few sackings, gradually shelving his ideals. He analyzed his players ruthlessly, molding the team around what they did best. That's how he'd survived over a decade at pro level. That's why Jordi Calavera looked so laughable now.
But...
...my situation's a bit different from back then.
There was one key difference between his rookie days and Jordi's. A fantasy goal machine who not only patched their organizational holes but created chances himself—and buried them. A striker so freakishly talented, it was baffling why he was slumming it in La Liga 2. That one player was filling every gap in AD Alcorcón that his old teams had lacked.
Exactly the kind of player we desperately need...
Football was simple: score more than the opponent. The striker position decided that. The presence—or absence—of a game-changer who could deliver three points was the gulf between him and Jordi. Even now, in his current gig.
It had been ages since he'd seen one player dominate a match like this. Elche's attack was sputtering partly because of him. Cha Tae-oh's mere existence pinned their backline too deep to push up. The gap between defense and midfield killed smooth build-up. Alcorcón pressed midfield hard, starving their final third. Balls dropped back to defense... and thwack! Long balls forward, turnovers galore.
The culprit? Alexs Hoevertu. Essential in defense, but a liability going forward. His poor build-up and slow legs exposed space behind, chaining the backline in place. Bench him? Couldn't—his defensive impact was too vital. But was he even that good today? Three goals said no.
Goddamn it.
It clicked why that rookie was forcing his style, and why Alcorcón's board backed it. A bitter taste rose as thud! Cha Tae-oh snagged the ball.
Heavy pressure clung to him, but Tae-oh shook it off effortlessly. Despite his height, his fluid ball control and silky dribbling left the Elche manager inwardly impressed. As Tae-oh neared the penalty arc, Alexs froze up, clearly torn. Step up and risk space behind? Drop and eat a rocket from distance?
In the end, Alexs charged boldly. Better to concede space than let Tae-oh breathe. But Tae-oh shrugged off the physical battle, slipping the ball inside. Box packed tight—no angle for Miguel Amaro's shot, like they wouldn't get burned twice.
But then... thud!
Alcorcón switched it up. Tae-oh beat Alexs into the box, perfectly timed for Miguel's cheeky layoff...
Thwack! Splash!
The fourth goal. Today.
Roooar—!
Home boos filled the stadium, arrows aimed at both Alcorcón and their own team.
"...Can't do this anymore."
The Elche manager made the call. Yank Alexs—useless in attack, no help in defense. Too late, probably. Four goals down? Miracle needed. At 17 minutes into the second half, Elche subbed first. Alcorcón responded in kind: Miguel off (1G 1A), then Maurinho at 25', and at 29', the monster himself—Cha Tae-oh (2G 2A) and Nico Salaberria (1G).
Starters cleared out. Yet Jordi and Alcorcón stuck to their guns. Rough around the edges, but an invisible confidence fueled them. Elche couldn't match it.
"Wrong position! Wake up! Stay focused till the end! Pass and move!"
Jordi yelled again. Watching, the Elche manager's cheeks burned.
...I'm the most pathetic one here today.
It hit him. His pride wasn't bruised by the loss. It was Jordi—chasing ideals while he'd settled into grim reality—mirroring his own bitter evolution. And maybe, just maybe, this kid could succeed where he'd failed.
Not pride wounded. Self-respect shattered.
"...Haha."
The Elche manager could only laugh bitterly.
No hat-trick. But two assists made it four attack points. Two games: 6 goals, 3 assists. Five per match average. This was pro level, La Liga 2—not fourth tier. Tougher than Barça Atlètic, too. First time facing a wall like Alexs.
Not fully satisfied, though. Humiliating that cocky defender felt good, but not the utter demolition he'd craved. Higher levels meant center-backs with pace, strength, and ball skills.
Chewing regret on the bench, a chuckle slipped out.
I've changed a lot. Last year, he'd have sulked over no hat-trick.
"Knew it the second you got it wide. Just like B team drills. Felt you'd loop back—sure enough, you took my pass and buried it. Haha!"
Miguel Amaro plopped beside him, reliving the assist, chattering away. Their B-team chemistry clicked in A too. No wonder he was buzzing—2G 1A in two pro games.
I smirked again. That's how it should be. No regrets on the change. Just growth as my vessel expanded.
Beep—Beeeep!
Final whistle. 4-0. Subs didn't score but kept a clean sheet post-changes. Two blowouts had everyone grinning like kids.
Except one. Dead serious.
"When you got it wide earlier? You should've pushed higher. Standing still stalled the ball back. Remember: your job doesn't end after the pass."
"Yes, Coach."
"You did great today, though. Fix this, and you'll shine even more. Telling you direct? So you clock the flaw now. Not pissed, right?"
"Nah, Coach. We won big! Haha."
Eyeing Jordi Calavera, I smiled faintly.
Another one like me on the team.
Post-match, FC Barcelona scout Guillermo stretched, packing slowly. He eyed Atlético Madrid's scout Felipe beside him, hurrying like mad.
Obvious what lit the fire under him. Playing dumb, Guillermo probed.
"Hey, Felipe. Long time—dinner? My treat."
Felipe, packed in a flash, snorted.
"Lie better, Gulli. You treating? Perfect bullshit."
"Wha? It's true!"
"Whatever. You know why I'm rushing."
Standing, Felipe added, "Gotta jet. Your move last week? My turn."
Watching him bolt, Guillermo's lip curled.
...I handled mine over the phone.
Grrrrumble!
His gut roared. Scowling softly, "Damn. Acting up again."
Muttering that cursed gut, Guillermo rose. Last scout left in the press seats.