Chapter 30
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Translator: Silver Dragon
Chapter: 30
Chapter Title: Local Opinion on the Club Owner
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We won the EFL Cup first-round qualifier 3-0 in spectacular fashion.
And the second round the following week ended 2-0, giving us a 5-0 aggregate victory to advance.
After that, the team's momentum flowed smoothly.
There were the occasional baffling 1-0 losses, but mostly draws and wins.
Players like Yoo Sung-chul, Parker, Shaun Wright-Phillips, and Duff were steadily growing through consistent game time, backed by the rock-solid Gattuso, Gareth Barry, and Gareth Southgate—like a hearty bowl of beef stew.
But no matter what, the standout was Kevin Phillips.
Today's match against Tottenham was another 2-0 win, courtesy of his brace.
Days like this called for a drink.
So I headed to the most famous spot in Blackburn, the Rovers Pub.
I went alone, without security, just to soak in the vibe.
Even on a weekday, it was packed, buzzing with talk of today's game.
"Incredible! I thought it'd end in another draw, but Kevin Phillips pulled it off."
"Rovers are different this year!"
A few patrons glanced my way as I walked in amid the cheerful chatter.
I found an empty table, sat down, and ordered a beer.
"Chips and a beer."
I tossed some bills down and slipped a ten-pound note into the tip jar, then listened to the pub chatter while waiting for my drink.
"Why do they keep playing Parker?"
"He's working hard, right? Kid's got grit."
"All he does is run. Why sign a guy who got relegated with Charlton and dropped to the second division?"
"He's probably just a stopgap since we couldn't snag West Ham's Lampard. Won't last long."
"Ian's kid is shaky too. All pace, no finish like his old man."
Shaun Wright-Phillips and Scott Parker were getting their first real senior minutes this season, so the criticism was understandable.
That's why we rotated Yoo Sung-chul into right wing and central midfield to plug gaps—he was such a utility player that he always pulled his weight.
When my beer arrived, I took a swig as the talk turned endlessly to Blackburn.
"Another round."
"Hey, hold on!"
"?"
The pub owner, who'd been peeking at me from behind the kitchen curtain, strode over purposefully.
"Aren't you our team's Young Boss?"
"Young Boss? Nice ring to that."
"It is you! The Lancashire Trumpet!"
The nickname the press sometimes tossed around—"Lancashire Trumpet"—drew every eye in the place to me.
"Thought you looked like an Easterner, but it's Mr. Lee!"
"Jack Walker's successor, our club's owner."
Suddenly, handshakes came from everywhere, and one guy jumped up, shouting to the whole pub.
"Hey, everyone, check this out! Rovers' new boss is in our pub!"
They sure knew how to hype it up.
People from other tables started drifting over, offering handshakes.
"Mr. Lee, brilliant signing with Kevin Phillips!"
"Football's worth watching this season, right?"
"You kidding? You saved Rovers from relegation."
Bricklayers, truck drivers, shop clerks, factory workers—everyone gathered, hailing me as the savior of their beloved Blackburn Rovers.
It had only been a year.
When I'd first come here, negotiated with Jack Walker, and taken over the club for ten pounds, there'd been protests: "Selling our team to Asian money?" "Our history and tradition sold to a foreigner!" Jeers aimed at me.
But Jack had trusted me with the reins, and I'd kept pushing for this team.
"Mr. Lee, let me buy you a drink."
"On the house—our best fish and chips."
"Mr. Lee, autograph?"
Even our players wouldn't get this kind of reception in a pub.
And in this atmosphere, didn't I owe it to them to join in?
"Boss."
"Yes, Mr. Lee."
"All the beers for everyone here tonight—on me!"
The Rovers Pub erupted in cheers louder than Ewood Park after a match.
Post-game, owner and fans sharing a pint in the same pub—nothing beat that.
"Mr. Lee, Kevin Phillips gonna outscore that Shearer prick this time?"
"Of course. He's on track to be England's top striker."
"That Mr. Ryu you brought in—he's hustling hard."
"He'll shine big at the Korea World Cup in three years."
"No plans to sign a proper right winger instead of Ian Wright's kid?"
"Yeah, Shaun's promising, but one guy can't carry it."
Mixed feelings on Shaun Wright-Phillips.
But the kid was grinding—taking Yoo Sung-chul as a mentor, training not just right wing but left too since Duff was injury-prone, even shadowing the striker like his dad.
Talk shifted from players to the club, but mostly praise for me.
And right there, I made the fans a promise.
I rang the golden bell like on a game show, raised my hand to quiet the crowd, and got everyone's attention.
"Folks, let's make a promise right here."
"!?"
"Stadium operations and FA approval for official ownership mean no big signing yet. But when everything's sorted at season's end!"
All eyes locked on me.
"You'll see Blackburn Rovers sign the world's best player, wearing our kit on the pitch."
"R-Really?"
"Signing the world's best? Owen or Beckham?"
"Trust me. The world's greatest will play for Blackburn next year."
Applause rippled, then roars, chants of my name.
"Mr. Lee! Mr. Lee!"
"Victory Blackburn Rovers!"
I left that night buzzing, the best pub session ever.
Beer tab was steep, but you splash out big on nights like this—no regrets.
September rolled into October, bringing the EFL Cup third round after Portsmouth.
Our opponents: Leeds United.
They'd been grinding their teeth since our opener, throwing their full first-team squad into the cup tie to take us down.
A nail-biting title race atop the table: Man United leading, Arsenal and Chelsea chasing hard.
And we prepared thoroughly to meet them.
"Mr. Lee."
"First time in the locker room pre-game in a while. Just a quick word."
I addressed the squad before the Leeds match.
"Dirty Leeds—don't get hurt gorging on cheese and the reds today. Win. That's it!"
"Let's go!"
"Time to take down Dirty Leeds!"
The fired-up squad charged onto the pitch.
And the match kicked off.
Harry Kewell's blistering pace whipped in crosses like lashes, Wayne Bridge heading them down.
But today's keeper, Schmeichel, flung himself expertly to deny them.
Unlike John Filan in Portsmouth, the Dane in this do-or-die cup third round proved his starting spot with four superb saves in the first half alone.
The league defense still lacked cohesion, leading to silly goals conceded, but his class remained undimmed.
We hit back relentlessly.
Scott Parker shifted from central to wide, sticking to Kewell.
Dalglish had tasked him with man-marking, and Parker popped up with every dribble, body-checking alongside.
Paht!
Beep!
"That's not a booking! Just a collision!"
The ref's whistle drew boos from the Blackburn crowd, but luckily, just a verbal warning—no card.
Parker kept targeting Kewell after, Gattuso sweeping midfield to intercept passes.
It clicked why Dalglish insisted on three midfielders in 4-3-3, sacrificing attack.
Two central.
Anchor Gattuso, partner rotating Parker, Ince, or Yoo Sung-chul—one man-marks the ace, one zones with defense. Possession battles somehow slipped away.
Dalglish envisioned Gattuso at the base, dominating midfield before surging forward—but as I'd said, that was...
Puh-eung!
"KEVIN PHILLIPS!!!!"
I knew you'd deliver.
In the League Cup too, his scoring touch didn't quit—a thunderbolt from distance at 44 minutes shattered the 0-0 deadlock.
James Beattie tangled with a defender; he spotted the gap and struck on the sneak.
Yeah, 4-3-3 or 4-4-2—win and it's all good. That's football!
The match ended 1-0 on Kevin Phillips' winner.
We advanced to the third round; fourth in December, then quarters with a win.
"Go Rovers!"
The Rovers Pub would be rocking tonight.