Ahead of Round 9
We finished the match in Eindhoven and headed straight back to London.
The moment we landed, the coach dismissed us on the spot. I had my bodyguard waiting, so it made no difference to me, but the club ferried the rest of the players home in twos and threes.
“Young Master! Did you catch Coach Ruud’s interview?”
my bodyguard asked the second I climbed into the car.
“No. What happened, Manager Yoon?”
“He heaped praise on you.”
This was the same van Nistelrooy who had glared daggers at me the entire match as if he wanted me dead.
“Really? I’ll watch it the second I get home.”
The interview turned out to be lengthy.
“…Especially number 10, Park Je-woo, left a real impression. The quality of his passing and his ability to dictate the game were simply not youth-level. Before the first half was even over we had no choice but to change our tactics just to stop him. If we hadn’t, the scoreline would have been even heavier.”
“In all my years as a coach and manager I’ve seen plenty of outstanding youth players. But today Park Je-woo ranked among the very best of them. He was already painting the next picture before the ball even reached his feet, and he made every teammate around him look a class better.
If he keeps growing at this rate, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to meet him again on Europe’s biggest stages before long.
I think I’ll have to give my friend Park Jin-sung a call tonight and tell him the future of Korean football looks very bright indeed.”
“This guy… if he was going to say all that, why the hell did he stare me down like that on the pitch?”
“It wasn’t exactly a match a manager can watch with a smile, was it?”
“Fair point. If the finishing had been a little kinder we probably would have scored two more…”
On Wednesday afternoon Park Jin-sung received an international call. Hearing a familiar voice after so long, he answered with genuine warmth.
“Hey! Van Ni!”
“You bastard! Say my name properly!”
Park Jin-sung’s mischievous streak flared.
“Why so angry? Want me to call you Van Gol instead?”
“Jin, you little shit! Haven’t you even read the articles?”
“What articles? Did they fire you from the youth team, Ruud?”
“Your damn kid completely wrecked us!”
“What are you talking about? Spill it.”
“We just played Tottenham’s youth side!”
“Ah—there’s a Korean kid at Tottenham’s academy, right? I’ve never even seen him myself. Only read the articles, so I know less than you do.”
Park Jin-sung had been run off his feet lately, juggling the dual roles of Performance Enhancement Committee Chairman and Technical Committee Chairman. He hadn’t even finished appointing all the committee members yet. Association President Seo Jae-won had ordered him to exclude anyone connected to the entertainment industry, internet streaming, former association presidents, or graduates of K University. Factoring in every scandal, controversy, and incident left almost no one worth appointing. The few who were qualified were already working as managers or coaches in the field. He simply hadn’t had the bandwidth to pay attention to overseas youth players.
“That kid is the real deal. I’ve seen Young-min when he was little, but this one is on another level. He’s that good. Insane talent.”
“That good?”
Ruud’s evaluations were always razor-sharp and cold. He was never the type to pick up the phone just to dish out empty flattery.
“Yeah. If you’re that curious, watch yesterday’s UEFA Youth League match.”
“I will. And I should call Young-min and ask him too.”
“I’m jealous. If only we had a kid like that in the Dutch youth setup! Jin, that talent doesn’t even belong in your country.”
“There he goes spouting nonsense again. You lot couldn’t even make the World Cup in Russia.”
Van Nistelrooy lost it at that.
“You… you son of a—!”
“Pfft. Shouldn’t you be choosing between national-team coach and youth-team manager? One or the other?”
“Shut up! Korea wouldn’t even be a proper opponent for us!”
“Then arrange a friendly and prove it.”
“Fine! I’ll make a friendly against Korea happen somehow. And you better not start crying like last time when we thrash you 5–0 again!”
This bastard was still harping on about that ancient 5–0.
“Yeah, yeah. Do it if you can. Not sure you’ve still got the pull, though.”
“You just wait! I’ll make it happen no matter what!”
From Park Jin-sung’s perspective, if van Nistelrooy really could arrange a friendly against the Netherlands, that would be pure gold.
He hung up, checked the time in London, and dialed Tottenham’s Song Young-min.
“Je-woo? He’s ridiculous. Looks like he put on another show yesterday.”
“That good?”
“Hyung-nim, you didn’t know?”
Park Jin-sung felt a momentary pang of guilt and brushed it off.
“I see the articles pop up now and then, so I knew he existed, but I haven’t watched a full match. I’ve just been insanely busy. Only got five hours of sleep last night.”
“Really? Wow, you’re working yourself to the bone. Hmm… if you watch the PSV match from yesterday, the Round 3 Chelsea youth game, and the Inter Milan away match, you’ll understand Je-woo better than anything else.”
“Got it. I’ll make sure to catch those three. Are you two close?”
“We talk on the phone sometimes and grab a meal about once a month. When I go to his place I can eat proper Korean food. Oh—and Coach Wagner knows him well too. Je-woo said he’s already met Coach Wagner in person.”
“He met Coach Wagner? All right. I understand.”
Park Jin-sung realized he had been using busyness as an excuse to ignore everything happening overseas. He decided to start with the Eindhoven match.
Ten minutes into the game he understood exactly why Ruud had gushed so hard. This was a type that simply did not exist in Korea—rare even on the world stage. Passing, defending, escaping pressure, dribbling, physicality, work rate… a complete hexagonal playmaker.
Everyone else already knew about this talent, and he alone had been clueless. The shame burned.
“Haa… even if I have to stay up all night, I need to check every single kid playing abroad.”
And he needed to ask Coach Wagner exactly how Park Je-woo looked through his eyes.
Tuesday had been the PSV match. Wednesday morning we did light recovery work and then rested. Thursday we gathered in the video room.
“Arsenal Youth’s triangle of Folarin Balogun, Trae Coyle, and Bukayo Saka is racking up the most goals in the league. And their attacking midfielder Emile Smith Rowe is no slouch either.”
The coach paused the footage.
“The one you really have to watch is Bukayo Saka. This kid is the real deal. Explosive dribbling, two-footed, deadly crossing. One-v-one ability plus ice-cold decision-making. He also loves switching with Trae. Tanganga! Cirkin! Can you handle him?”
“He looks slower than our Madueke. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’ll have him crying in the toilets after the match.”
The coach nodded, restarted the video, then stopped it again.
“Good. Next threat is Emile. He’s nominally a playmaker, but he’s better at carrying the ball, bursting into space, and linking play than pure passing. His biggest strength is off-the-ball movement—he’s an excellent decoy.”
So that one’s mine, then?
After that he warned us about Folarin Balogun and Miguel Azeez as well.
“This one’s a classic poacher—lives for those half-chances around the six-yard box. Clinical finishing, electric pace. But he’s weak in the air and his dribbling is purely linear. No flashy tricks.”
“Miguel Azeez—you’ve all heard of him, right? Joined the Arsenal academy at five years old back in 2007. They called him a ‘prodigy’ once, but who in this room hasn’t been called a prodigy? Raise your hand and I’ll give you the nickname myself.”
—Hahaha—
“Passing, shooting power, vision—all solid enough. But in my eyes he’s just Oliver’s inferior copy. Nothing special. Oliver, Bowden—no issues, right?”
“I was never called a prodigy. They called me a genius. I’m above that.”
“Hah. Fair enough, Genius Oliver!”
“In the training matches Oliver’s under me.”
“Bowden! What did you just say? Wanna settle this one-v-one right now? Let’s put money on it!”
Oliver bristled, but the truth was Bowden usually did a solid job of marking him.
“Quiet. Moving on. Next is Charlie Patino. Just returned from injury not long ago.”
:
:
Right now Arsenal Youth was exactly what their name suggested—an arsenal, a weapons factory. The 1998–99 generation had a few decent defenders, but everyone younger was heavily attack-oriented. Their back four was mid-table at best. The goalkeeper was reliable, though, and the midfield and attack were monstrous. Hence the arsenal moniker: a team that only ever screamed “Attack! And more attack!”
Even though we had racked up 9–0, 7–0, and 7–1 thrashings, they still scored far more goals than we did. They beat Reading 4–2—the same Reading we only managed to draw 1–1 with our bench—and they took down Chelsea 6–4, a side we had beaten 3–0.
If Tottenham’s current strength looked something like:
Defense ★★★★☆
Midfield ★★★★★
Attack ★★★★☆
Balance ★★★★☆
then Arsenal’s profile was roughly:
Defense ★★☆
Midfield ★★★★☆
Attack ★★★★★ ★
Balance ★★★☆
Complete, specialized all-in on attack.
“Arsenal’s setup is obvious. They’ll come out in a 4-3-3 or 4-2-3-1.”
Was our coach going to shore up the defense?
“We’re going with the same 4-3-3 as the other day. Push the line high and fight fire with fire.”
“Whoa!”
“That’s our coach!”
When he declared it would be spear versus spear, the whole room erupted.
“If they score one, we score two. If they score two, we score four. That’s the mentality. Clear?”
“Yes, Coach!”
“From now on it’s pure attacking training. Everyone out onto the pitch.”
“Yes, Coach!”
Attacking drills were always several times better than boring defensive work. And facing the league’s most explosive attack head-on? That was pure cool.
Besides, after Mendes’s advice, I no longer intended to play it safe either.