03. The Prodigal Son Returns (3)
The phone call was not long.
It wasn't a conversation to be had over the phone in the first place. One person's life.
No, perhaps a matter concerning two people's lives.
There were too many things to say to resolve it with a single phone call, countless conversations to be had, and a future that needed to be intensely contemplated and discussed.
―England? Not Germany?
"Mansfield. Let's meet tomorrow, right away."
―Tomorrow? What do you mean, tomorrow? No, and why England? Did you go to your hometown before taking charge of Bochum? To clear your head?
"If you don't come on the day, I'll consider it a refusal. Let's meet then."
Before hanging up, I heard some chatter from the other end, but I cut the call decisively.
Deeper discussions could be had when we met.
And I didn't think he wouldn't come.
"He just hadn't shown his ambition because the opportunity hadn't arisen."
He wasn't a soft-hearted friend who would let a presented opportunity slip by indecisively.
After finishing the call, I slowly walked around the vicinity.
Suddenly, I glanced at my wristwatch.
Two in the afternoon.
It was still a long way from sunset, and it wasn't lunchtime either.
Yet, it was quiet. Excessively quiet. I had noticed it from the absence of parked cars in the parking lot.
"There's no one here."
A bitter laugh escaped me automatically.
When was it?
I had once visited a ghost town in Germany.
Decades ago, it must have been a bustling city with miners going in and out of the mines.
But the city I saw was a silence, desolation, and loneliness where no trace of past clamor could be found.
"It's similar..."
Paaah, I let out a deep sigh.
Like words scattering in the air, it was similar.
The modest but sturdy clubhouse was surprisingly submerged in silence.
The past, filled with the sound of kicking balls and shouts, now only had silence lingering like a mere memory.
The front office staff, who used to bustle around the building, busy with their lives, were also nowhere to be seen.
A sinking ship.
That was Mansfield right now.
I walked silently, retrieving memories from the past.
At that time too, Mansfield was a weak team in the lower leagues. The number of fans then and now probably hadn't changed much either. In the first place, this city was, literally, a backwater town. 60,000 people. Even at a generous estimate, it didn't exceed 70,000.
However, such silence had not existed.
The sound of kicking balls, the curses of coaches, and the shouts between players.
It was truly intense.
That was football, and this was a place where football was played.
"I expected it, but it's bitter all the same."
But I couldn't give up prematurely.
I looked down the path I had walked. I looked at the outer wall of the building.
"It's clean."
Although not a single person, let alone a cleaner, was seen wandering around.
The street and the wall were clean, as if managed daily.
It wasn't long before I understood the reason.
"Jack."
Jack, who had been in the booth in front of the iron gate, was sweeping the street with a long broom.
After watching that scene for a long time, I nodded my head.
Even on a sinking ship, there were those who remained, unable to abandon the vessel.
That was the hope that this shipwreck could set sail again.
And there was still hope, like that of a foolish sailor frantically bailing out the water pouring like a waterfall into the shipwreck with a small basket.
―Ppeong!
"...?"
A sound that cleared my ears.
I turned my head. It was a familiar sound. How could I not know it? The refreshing sound of a ball being kicked through the air.
My steps quickened towards the training ground established behind the clubhouse.
As I got closer, shouts and the sound of kicking balls were heard. A faint smile leaked out. What a welcome sound it was.
"Hmm."
Arriving at the training ground, I narrowed my eyes.
"Hey, back, go back!"
"If you can't hold onto the ball, pass it quickly! They're pressing!"
Shouts and roars poured out continuously.
But the voices were mostly thin and young.
It was indeed so. Not just the voices, but also the players running on the pitch.
"They're youth players."
The fiercely running players were all young. They were youth players. But their numbers were insufficient. They had split into two teams, but there were eight players per team. Above all, there was someone who caught my eye.
An adult player with a balding head, who couldn't be called a youth player.
"Jenkinson."
A familiar face. Unlike in the past, he had aged, so I didn't recognize him immediately, but I could recall past memories without difficulty.
Only then did I realize that this practice was a bit strange.
"There isn't a single coach."
There wasn't a single coach overseeing the training. There was no visible system either. The players were each shouting something, but there was no uniformity.
Amidst them, only one person was struggling and shouting something, but things were different outside and on the field.
The voice of Jenkinson, the only adult player, scattered powerlessly into the air.
'Practicing on their own without coaches? That too... Wait. Is this really youth player training?'
The players were mostly youth players. Only one was an adult player.
But could this be considered youth training?
'Perhaps... the only players on the team right now are.'
No way. The roster I had definitely researched beforehand still had quite a few first-team players remaining.
Somehow, in a situation that seemed to be heading for the worst, a hollow laugh escaped me.
I was the one who had miraculously avoided relegation by winning all five remaining games at Bochum.
Hadn't the sports pages all been adorned with how great my achievement of miraculously avoiding relegation was, saying that winning a championship would be easier?
It was clearly an enormous achievement that allowed me, whose only prior career was as a youth coach, to instantly become a permanent manager in the Bundesliga.
'That actually looks easier.'
This time slot was definitely supposed to be for adult player training.
Even if there was no manager, wouldn't there be at least one or two coaches remaining?
Yet, there were no coaches and no players. It was clear that only one adult player was out, mobilizing even youth players for training.
'This is a real headache.'
Since I had called Max to my side, I thought I had at least crossed about eighty percent of the mountain range.
I was complacent. There were still too many mountains to climb.
'In the end, what's important is the manager's ability.'
And the 'results' produced by that ability.
My eyes gleamed. Players running wild on their own, without a coach to provide a center.
I spoke to the fullback standing near the touchline.
"Those two kids playing as wingers right now. Looking at them, their weaker foot also seems to have the basics down, even if it's not as good as their dominant foot, right?"
"...Who are you?"
"The opponent's defenders are fast. You lack the speed and physicality to break through classically. Since your weaker foot isn't bad either, it's better to cut inside."
"Huh?"
The freckle-faced fullback looked like he didn't understand what I was saying.
So, I spoke firmly.
I already had the experience of successfully making world-class players play as I intended on the field through countless mental battles over a dozen years, stopping just short of grabbing them by the scruff of their necks.
That was the experience of a coach.
Or the dignity of a manager.
"If you dare to ask 'huh?' again in such a stupid manner, I'll shove the shoes you're wearing down your throat."
"!"
"Shut up and do as you're told. Tell the two wingers not to clumsily stick to the line but to cut inside. Their footwork isn't bad. And what's your name?"
"James, it's James."
"Right, James. You keep going up. When the winger draws the defender and cuts inside, you sprint down the line. Do you think you're defending well right now? Even a brief look shows it's a mess. James, your defending is like an old, decrepit dog stumbling around."
"...!"
"You can't tackle, your one-on-one marking is lacking, if that's the case, then just give up on defending and run. Since your defending is useless anyway, just give up on it and at least utilize your quick feet. Just overlap like crazy. If you see space, tear into it like a wild dog!"
James couldn't even breathe, just blinking his eyes.
I grabbed his shoulder, as if pressing down hard, and drilled each syllable of my low but firm voice into his ear.
That much was enough. To control a young player, just a teenager, who had never been arrogant due to his ordinary talent.
Watching James shout at the wingers at the top of his lungs, my eyes gleamed.
'I might have to build a team with terrible, absurd players. To win even with such players, the only thing I can trust is my own ability.'
Calmly, I watched the field.
John Jenkinson.
He, who had been playing as if struggling desperately, was merely suppressing it; he was full of regret.
'Damn it.'
He gritted his teeth at the sight of the midfielder losing the ball without properly receiving or controlling the pass he had just sent.
'It's impossible. Even if it's the 4th division, that's impossible. Absolutely!'
Why had it come to this?
He felt as if a fire was burning inside him, suffocating him.
It wasn't that he was tired from running; it was the mixture of seething irritation, anger, emptiness, and regret that choked his airway.
Today was a training day.
It had never been canceled. Yet, apart from himself, none of the few remaining contract coaches, nor the players who hadn't transferred yet, nor the first-team players whose contracts remained, had come.
'Is this a team? Is this a professional club?'
No, it wasn't. At least not to them.
It probably wasn't a professional club. Although they had narrowly avoided bankruptcy, they were effectively on borrowed time.
If they couldn't move up to a higher league even a day sooner, they wouldn't receive proper broadcasting rights fees or sponsorships, so the trust formed by the fans would lose the ability to repay debts and would enter bankruptcy proceedings again.
Unless a white knight appeared to save the club.
John Jenkinson knew it too. This club was ruined. The club he had played for his entire life.
The logo on the uniform he had worn for over twenty years since his youth.
That logo on his heart was a second heart, but now the time had come for that heart to stop.
But even if the heart stopped. Whether it was a defibrillator or electric shock, shouldn't one do everything possible to make it beat again?
John Jenkinson thought so. That's why he had scraped together even the few remaining youth players. The first-team players, whose hearts had already left, wouldn't listen even to their captain's words. In the end, the youth would have to play this season. That was the team's situation.
The worst, where they couldn't even form a starting eleven without youth players.
However.
'There's no answer.'
He himself was not a coach. He was just a player.
No matter how much he shouted on the field, if there was no commander outside to set tactics and direct, the limits were clear. Especially with such young players.
He felt as if he could hear a ringing in his ears, like the beeping of a heart monitor flatlining.
But he didn't stop.
Because a heart, while it beats, pounds even more intensely.
The winger, who had been hesitating on the line, either putting in a sloppy cross or losing the ball, suddenly changed his movement and cut inside.
'Ridiculous.'
Though it was a short time, Jenkinson had figured it out. This winger's dominant foot was his right.
He was a kid who constantly crossed with only his right foot.
'Aim for the right foot.'
As expected, the kid controlled the ball with his right foot, tapping it forward.
His footwork showed some skill, but it was the kind of individual skill filled with unnecessary, showy movements typical of those young kids. Jenkinson stood firm and, the moment the ball left the right foot, he stuck out his own.
Ppeong—!
"!"
His foot met empty air. Jenkinson's eyes widened. The ball, having left the right foot, went to the left foot. And the left foot unhesitatingly struck a shot.
"Huh!"
"So close!"
"Aww, if it was just a bit more inside, it would've been a goal!"
The direction and accuracy of the shot, and the impact where the ball connected, were not good.
But it was a clear shot. And an unexpected one at that.
John Jenkinson looked at the winger who was scratching his head and sighing.
'Hey, his weaker foot isn't half bad either?'
But why hadn't he used it? Why had he only run the line until he was blocked or kept putting in crosses that never worked out?
Then why, as if it were a lie, did he suddenly cut inside?
He had been caught off guard.
If that shot had been just a little more accurate, it would undoubtedly have resulted in a goal.
'Huh.'
John Jenkinson, a veteran defender in his own right, had been thoroughly outdone by a rookie who didn't even look seventeen.
'It's not a coincidence.'
The same situation occurred several more times.
The opposing winger cut inside, as if suddenly awakened.
Though it was individual skill with footwork full of unnecessary movements, it was still potent at the youth level. No matter how good Jenkinson was, he was just one among the back four. While he was controlling the line or occupying other spaces, the two wingers quickly cut into the center, shaking the game itself.
That was right. A game was now taking place. Not just kicking a ball haphazardly, but a football match.
Thump.
Jenkinson momentarily felt his heart pound.
A faint throb echoed from the fading beep.
It was then. The ball from the winger who had cut into the center was hastily and forcibly cleared by another defender. A mere clearing action, with no purpose or direction.
"Nice!"
But Jenkinson shouted. That alone was excellent. At least at this level.
"What the?"
"Block it! Block it!"
But that cleared ball landed at the feet of an opposing fullback who had suddenly appeared and was sprinting like mad.
That, at least, surprised Jenkinson. It was a good overlapping run, penetrating the space. In an instant, he shook off the marking players and was in a position to control the ball comfortably.
The fullback took the ball and unhesitatingly put in a cross.
Because it was a cross following such a sudden overlap, the defenders hadn't gotten into position.
Fortunately, a young attacker from the opposing team, who happened to be in the spot where the ball dropped between them, got his head to it.
"wosh!"
"!"
"Goal!"
"Wow, it's a goal! A goal!"
The opposing team erupted in cheers and jumped around. It seemed the opposing team, who had been thoroughly intimidated because Jenkinson was on this side, went absolutely wild at the sudden goal.
Jenkinson watched the scene with a hardened face. The youth players on his team, seeing their revered senior's expression stiffen, didn't know what to do. But Jenkinson wasn't angry.
Thump.
The pounding of his heart didn't stop; it continued to ring out.
"What is this?"
Someone had interfered with this.
And from a position where they could see the entire game.
Jenkinson turned his gaze. Outside the touchline. Someone was standing there.
"..."
A young man with his arms crossed.
John Jenkinson had a professional career of 20 years.
He had played countless games and met countless coaches and managers.
Therefore, he knew.
Eyes that looked as if they would devour the game.
A neck with veins bulging as if ready to shout at any moment.
And yet, a calm, settled gaze, as if watching the game intently.
"Manager."
It was the new manager.