Chapter 52

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Translator: Silver Dragon

Chapter: 52

Chapter Title: Ferguson Said, You Can't Buy Championships with Money.

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After wrapping up their Asian tour, the Blackburn Rovers squad finally returned home to the place they'd missed so much.

"Oh, what's this?"

"Looks like all sorts of new stuff popped up while we were away on tour."

The players showed keen interest in the new exercise equipment set up on the training pitch.

They'd left it to the staff to add more training facilities during the Asian tour.

"Listen up, everyone. These are the strength-training tools that physical coach Werner Leitl requested. I approved and paid for them myself."

As the squad gathered around in fascination, Luis Figo picked up a traffic cone.

"Isn't this the kind of cone they use on construction sites? What kind of training are we supposed to do with these? Make us play at a build site or something?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Laughter erupted from all around, and Coach Werner stepped forward with a long pole, hooking it onto the traffic cone.

"Like this."

"?"

Two cones and a pole... Isn't that limbo?

"This is a move from Latin American dances. You lean back like this and pass under it."

"Dance? You want us doing yoga-like stretches?"

"If you nail it, your flexibility will be no joke. Soccer players have great muscles, but their bodies are too stiff. You need some proper flexibility. Let me show you."

The players watched with half amusement and half bewilderment as Werner demonstrated the limbo himself.

A former tennis pro turned soccer physical coach making them do this—do they have to go along with it? Their faces said it all.

"Everyone, follow Werner's lead."

At Heinke's order, captain Southgate stepped up first, awkwardly bending backward to pass under. Baggio followed suit.

"Ugh!"

Baggio, who'd undergone multiple leg surgeries, clutched his old injury spot as he leaned back but made it through.

"Baggio, you're out. Go get a massage from the trainer over there."

And so, the Blackburn players dove into physical training with a wild array of new gear—from Latin limbo poles and balance beams used by gymnasts to yoga mats, shuttle run equipment, and more they'd never touched before.

After the squad's session, they checked out the other changes.

Entering the club cafeteria, the usual aromas of olive oil and grilled meats were completely gone. The kitchen had been totally revamped, filled with the sterile scent of stainless steel.

"Mr. Lee, you've arrived?"

Mario Romano, Gattuso's father-in-law and the club's dedicated head chef, rushed over from checking ingredients to greet him.

"The kitchen's been completely redone."

"That's the German manager's policy. He said the wooden setup was filthy and ripped it all out."

"Hmm."

"Germans have no sense of flavor or feel for cooking. And these ingredients—what even are they?"

Piles of premium Mediterranean seafood like shrimp, mussels, cuttlefish, oysters, and European cod sat alongside North Sea herring, freshwater salmon with its rich red flesh, and a mountain of vibrant greens: cabbage, kale, spinach, asparagus, peas, and more.

"Players are human too, and food should make the eater happy. But he insists on pure nutrition-focused meals."

"Hahaha. There has been a health food craze sweeping Premier League clubs lately."

It started with Arsenal's Arsène Wenger in 1996, pushing the dietary revolution: "Cut back on meat and fried food. Focus on veggies and fish." Soccer players' meals were changing one by one.

Of course, half the EPL clubs still loaded their cafeterias with greasy fries, sugar bombs that melted your tongue in one bite, and the British soul food of cod and vinegar sauce.

"The new manager's changing everything from what they eat to how they train, so please ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠cooperate."

"Fine, fine. I'll make it if that's what he wants..."

With the league opener and Charity Shield against the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠league and cup champs looming, Heinke's visible reforms—from the small stuff upward—were catching my eye one by one.

"Martin, do it right!"

"Scott, Gareth! You kids think you can push me out with this?"

"This is how it's done."

The veterans—Schmeichel, Southgate, Paul Ince, and others—were leading the charge, ramping up the intensity even more.

New managers usually clash with the old guard, but Heinke had cleverly won them over first, then used them for top-down mentoring of the youngsters.

The on-pitch operations were in Heinke's capable hands. Now, what about off the pitch?

Gruff Scottish brogue blasting through another TV interview, eh, Sir Ferguson?

Lately, with the season approaching, Manchester United—and Ferguson in particular—had been all over the media.

He'd grab any passing reporter and yap away, especially taking shots at Arsenal and us.

Back in the late '90s and early 2000s, Arsenal outspent United on transfers. Wenger was a big spender, tossing around tens of millions of pounds like pocket change each year.

We'd brought in Luis Figo for 60m plus Baggio, Holland, and Friedel on free transfers—four players for 60m total.

Arsenal dropped 56m on five this season: Sylvain Wiltord, Francis Jeffers, Lauren, Robert Pires, Igor Stepanovs.

And seeing Ferguson zero in on that? I couldn't just sit quiet.

Not when he's trash-talking us like that from the outside. Quiet ain't my style.

A short while later.

I invited reporters to a Blackburn pub, treating them to beers and fries in a laid-back vibe before opening up.

Beer mugs in one hand, pens and recorders in the other—their eyes were sharp.

"This Premier League season's stacked with stars. Figo and Baggio will shine brightest."

"Mr. Lee, you sound overflowing with confidence for the season. Anything else to add?"

The reporters eyed me like they were begging, "Drop one more bombshell."

A grin crept up, and I fired back.

"That Scottish geezer from Manchester says lately, 'You can't buy a championship with money' or whatever. But isn't the real danger the team that won't even pile up cash for the soccer world this season?"

"Oh, oooh!"

"Did you just diss Sir Ferguson?!"

What's wrong with that? I'm not on the pitch staff.

"Every season, fans haul bricks, run factories, sell stuff, scrape together pennies for the team. When that money piles up, we buy top players, spruce up the stadium—give back. Has Ferguson landed a real big signing since the Treble?"

"...Not really."

"Like Mr. Lee says, United hasn't bought big since Jaap Stam in '98."

"Exactly! This season, all they've got is that bald French keeper. Neglect reinforcements like that, and they'll get burned. We'll show 'em in the upcoming Charity Shield."

"Oh, oooh!"

"Mr. Lee! Declaration of war on United?"

"Does the German manager think the same?"

"Write what you want. Stoke the rivalry fire proper!"

The more we hammered, the more public opinion would see United obsessing over us.

Ferguson wouldn't ignore this. Historically, only Leeds, Liverpool, and Arsenal poked the bear like that in England. Now Blackburn joins the 'anti-United' rivalry ranks.

"Any words for facing United in the Charity Shield?"

"Oh, I've got something special prepped."

Reporters dropped their beers and fries, scrambling for notebooks.

"England's No. 7 Beckham meets the real deal world's No. 7 Figo. Think they can handle it?"

"Oh, oooh!"

"Charity Shield's Beckham vs. Figo showdown?"

Cardiff, Wales, UK.

Millennium Stadium.

In this Welsh venue packed with 70,000 fans, last season's FA Cup winners Blackburn faced last season's league champs Manchester United.

Wembley Stadium, slated for use until this year, was already being demolished early by a British consortium including Daeyang Global. For now, FA cup finals would alternate between Old Trafford and here.

Red waves and blue waves blended, shaking the Millennium Stadium like an earthquake. The roar was deafening.

I waited casually in the corridor outside the locker room, arms crossed.

When the locker room door swung open and Heinke emerged, he jumped in surprise.

"Mr. Lee?"

"Mentally armed and ready?"

"You were waiting out here?"

"How could I miss the manager's tactics talk?"

Heinke grinned wide, leading the squad out. I just gave a thumbs up.

"Let's go, Rovers!"

"Let's go, Rovers!"

And so, Blackburn and United's squads marched down the corridor onto the pitch.

United looked every bit United—each player a monster.

But we could hold our own.

England's Charity Shield.

It's finally on!