The phone call was brief.
It wasn't a conversation meant for the phone anyway. A man's life—or perhaps two lives..hung in the balance.
Too much needed to be said, too many conversations needed to be had, and too many futures needed to be fiercely debated and discussed to resolve it with a single call.
"England? Not Germany?"
"Mansfield. See you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? What's happening tomorrow? And why England? Did you go back home to clear your head before taking the Bochum job?"
"If you don't show up tomorrow, I'll take it as a rejection. See you then."
Before hanging up, he heard a muffled commotion on the other end, but he disconnected decisively.
Deeper discussions could wait until they met in person.
And he had no doubt the man would come.
"It's not that I didn't want to show my ambition; the opportunity simply never arose."
He wasn't the kind of soft-hearted friend who would let a golden opportunity slip through his fingers.
After ending the call, I slowly strolled around the area.
Suddenly, I glanced at my wristwatch.
Two o'clock in the afternoon.
It was still hours before sunset, and long past lunchtime.
Yet the place was eerily quiet—too quiet. I noticed immediately that the parking lot was empty.
"No one's here."
A bitter smile escaped my lips.
When was it?
I once visited a ghost town in Germany.
Decades ago, it must have been a bustling town, filled with miners going in and out of the mines.
But the town I saw was utterly silent, devoid of any trace of its past vibrancy. It was desolate and lonely.
"It's similar..."
I let out a deep sigh.
Like words dissolving into the air, it was similar.
The simple yet sturdy clubhouse was eerily silent.
The past, once filled with the sounds of kicking balls and shouting, now echoed only with silence, like a distant memory.
Even the front office staff, who used to bustle through the building, were nowhere to be seen.
A sinking ship. That was Mansfield now.
I walked in silence, recalling memories of the past.
Back then, Mansfield had also been a weak team in the lower league. The number of fans probably hadn't changed much since then. After all, this town was literally a backwater. Sixty thousand people, maybe seventy thousand at most.
But this kind of silence had never existed.
The sound of the ball being kicked, the coaches' curses, and the players' shouts filled the air.
It was truly fierce.
This was soccer, and this was where soccer was played.
"I expected this, but it still stings."
But giving up prematurely wasn't an option.
He looked down at the path he'd walked and up at the building's exterior walls.
"So clean."
Despite not seeing a single cleaner or anyone else around, the streets and walls were spotless, as if they were maintained daily.
He soon understood why.
"Uncle Jack."
Uncle Jack, who was in the booth by the iron gate, was sweeping the street with a long broom.
After watching him for a while, he nodded to himself.
Even on a sinking ship, there are those who refuse to abandon it.
That was the hope that this shipwreck might once again unfurl its sails.
And there remained another hope, like a foolish sailor frantically bailing out the waterfall of water pouring into the sinking ship with a tiny basket.
Bang!
"...?"
A sound that pierced my ears.
I turned my head. It was a familiar sound. How could I not recognize it? The crisp, clean sound of a ball being kicked.
My steps quickened as I headed toward the practice field behind the clubhouse.
As I drew closer, the shouts and the sound of the ball being kicked grew louder. Faint laughter drifted through the air. How welcome these sounds were.
"Hmm."
Arriving at the practice field, I narrowed my eyes.
"Hey, back up! Back up!"
"If you can't hold onto the ball under pressure, pass it quickly! They're closing in!"
The shouts and roars poured out relentlessly.
One voice, in particular, sounded thin and young.
And it was true. Not just the voice, but the players sprinting across the field were all young—youth players. But there weren't enough of them. Even split into two teams, each side only had eight players. What truly caught my eye, however, was one player who didn't belong.
A balding adult player who clearly wasn't a youth.
"Jenkins."
I recognized the face. He'd aged since I last saw him, so I didn't immediately place him, but the memories came back easily.
It was then I realized something was off about this practice.
"There's not a single coach."
Not a single coach was overseeing the training. There was no apparent structure. The players shouted instructions at each other, but there was no coordination.
Amidst the chaos, a lone figure struggled, shouting something, but the field was a different world from the outside.
Jenkins, the only adult player, watched his voice dissipate weakly into the air.
Practicing on their own without a coach? And... wait a minute. Is this really a youth team training session?
Most of the players were youths, with only one adult among them.
But could this really be considered youth team training?
Maybe... the only actual players left on the team are...
That couldn't be right. The roster I'd researched beforehand clearly showed several first-team players still remaining.
As the situation spiraled toward disaster, a hollow laugh escaped me.
I was the one who had miraculously kept Bochum in the Bundesliga by winning all five remaining games.
The sports pages had been plastered with headlines proclaiming that winning the championship would be easier than the miraculous survival I had achieved.
It was undoubtedly a monumental achievement for someone whose previous career had been limited to coaching to suddenly become the official manager of a Bundesliga team.
This actually looks easier.
This must be the adult players' training time. Even without a manager, there should be at least one or two coaches around, right?
But there were no coaches and no players. Only one adult player was out there, clearly using youth players for training.
This is giving me a headache.
Since I had called Max over, I figured we were at least past the halfway point.
I was being complacent. There were still so many mountains to climb.
Ultimately, what matters is the manager's ability.
And the results that ability produces.
My eyes lit up. Players running wild without a coach to keep them in check.
I approached the fullback standing near the touchline.
"Those two wingers playing now—they seem decent with their weaker feet, not as good as their dominant feet, but still fundamentally sound, right?"
"...Who are you?"
"The opposing defenders are fast. Classic dribbling won't work—they're outmatched in both speed and physicality. Since the wingers can use their weaker feet reasonably well, they should cut inside more."
"Huh?"
The freckled fullback looked utterly confused.
I spoke firmly.
For over a decade, I had engaged in countless psychological battles with world-class players—stopping just short of physical altercations—and successfully made them play according to my strategies on the field.
That was the experience of a seasoned coach.
Or the authority of a respected manager.
"One more 'Huh?' or some other stupid retort, and I'll shove your damn cleats down your throat."
"!"
"Shut up and do as you're told. Tell the wingers to stop hugging the sidelines and cut inside. Their footwork isn't half bad. And what's your name?"
"James, I'm James."
"Alright, James, keep pushing forward. When the winger cuts inside with a defender on his back, sprint down the line. Do you think you're defending well right now? It's a complete mess just from watching you for a moment. James, your defending looks like an old dog limping around."
"...!"
"Your tackles are weak, your one-on-one marking is inadequate. If that's the case, just abandon defending and focus on attacking. Since you can't defend anyway, give up and use your speed. Just keep overlapping relentlessly. When you see an opening, charge into it like a rabid dog!"
James stood breathless, his eyes blinking rapidly.
I gripped his shoulder firmly, pressing down as if to crush it, and spoke in a low, resolute voice, driving each word into his ear.
That should be enough. It was more than enough to subdue a teenage player of merely average talent, one who had never even entertained the thought of arrogance.
As I watched James bellow instructions to the wingers, my eyes gleamed.
Perhaps I'll have to build a team with mediocre, even absurdly inadequate players. If I'm to win with such a team, my only hope lies in my own abilities.
Calmly, I focused my gaze on the field.
John Jenkins.
He played the match with a desperate, struggling intensity, but beneath the surface, he was filled with regret.
Damn it.
He gritted his teeth as he watched the midfielder lose possession of the pass he had just sent, failing to receive or control it properly.
This is impossible. Even for the Fourth Division, this is impossible. Absolutely impossible!
How had things come to this?
He felt like his insides were burning, suffocating him from within.
It wasn't the physical exertion of running that was making him breathless; it was the seething frustration, anger, emptiness, and regret churning inside him, choking his throat.
Today was a training day.
It hadn't been canceled. Yet, apart from himself, none of the remaining contract coaches, players who hadn't yet transferred, or First Team players with remaining contract terms had shown up.
"Is this a team? Is this a professional club?"
No. At least, not for them.
It wasn't a professional club. They had barely avoided bankruptcy, but were essentially living on borrowed time.
If they didn't get promoted to a higher league soon, they wouldn't receive proper broadcasting revenue or sponsorships. The fan-organized cooperative would lose its ability to repay its debts and be forced into bankruptcy proceedings again.
Unless a prince in shining armour appeared in his white horse to save the club.
John Jenkins knew it too. This club was doomed. The club he had played for his entire life.
The logo on the jersey he had worn for over twenty years, since his youth days.
That logo, positioned over his heart, had been his second heart. But now, that heart was about to stop beating.
Even if a heart stops beating, shouldn't we do everything possible—defibrillation, electric shock, anything—to make it beat again?
John Jenkins believed so. That's why he desperately gathered the few remaining youth players. The First Team players, their hearts already gone, wouldn't listen to even the captain's words. This season, the youth players would have to carry the team. That was the team's reality.
Without even the youth players, they wouldn't be able to field a starting eleven—the worst-case scenario.
But...
There's no answer.
He wasn't a coach, just a player.
No matter how loudly he shouted on the field, without a commander on the sidelines to devise tactics and give instructions, the limitations were clear. Especially with such young players.
He heard a ringing in his ears, like the beeping of a heart monitor flatlining.
But he didn't stop.
A heart beats more fiercely as it continues to beat.
A winger who had been hesitating on the flank, either half-heartedly crossing the ball or losing possession, suddenly shifted his movement and cut inside.
How amusing.
In that brief moment, Jenkins recognized the winger's dominant foot: his right.
This was the same player who had been crossing exclusively with his right foot all game.
Target his right foot.
As expected, the winger controlled the ball with his right foot, tapping it forward.
The winger's quick footwork was skillful, but it was also full of the unnecessary, showy movements typical of young players trying to impress. Jenkins stood his ground, solid and steady, and the instant the ball left the winger's right foot, he lunged forward with his own.
Bang!
"!"
His foot grazed empty air. Jenkins' eyes widened. The ball, having left his right foot, hurtled toward his left. Without hesitation, his left foot unleashed a powerful shot.
"Whoa!"
"So close!"
"Ugh, if it had been just a bit more inside, it would have been a goal!"
The shot lacked precision and power, and the impact was poor.
Yet it was a clear shot. And an unexpected one at that.
John Jenkins scratched his chin, glancing at the winger who was sighing in frustration.
This kid's left foot isn't half bad, is it?
So why hadn't he used it before? Why had he only tried to break through the line, only to be blocked, or endlessly send in futile crosses?
And then, suddenly, as if he'd been lying all along, he cuts inside?
He'd been caught off guard.
If that shot had been just a bit more accurate, it would have undoubtedly been a goal.
Huh.
John Jenkins, a seasoned defender, had been thoroughly outplayed by a rookie who looked barely seventeen.
This isn't a fluke.
The same scenario repeated itself several times.
The opposing winger surged inward as if suddenly awakened, his footwork a flurry of unnecessary movements and flashy individual skills. Yet at the youth level, this was devastatingly effective. Even Jenkins, for all his experience, was just one man in a back four.
While he focused on controlling the line or occupying other spaces, the two wingers rapidly cut inside, shaking the very foundations of the game.
Yes, this was a proper match, not just aimless kicking. This was football.
Thump.
Jenkins felt his heart pound in his chest.
Amidst the fading beep of the buzzer, a faint heartbeat echoed.
It was at that moment. A winger, having surged into the center, had his shot hastily cleared by a defender. The clearance was desperate, lacking both purpose and direction—a mere reflex to get the ball away.
"Nice!" Jenkins shouted. "That's good enough! At least at this level."
"What's happening?"
"Defend! Defend!"
But the cleared ball suddenly bounced into the path of the opposing team's fullback, who had burst forward in a mad dash.
Even Jenkins was surprised. It was a brilliant overlapping run, the fullback instantly shaking off his markers and positioning himself perfectly to control the ball.
The fullback took possession and unleashed a powerful cross.
The defenders were caught off guard by the sudden overlap and cross, leaving them scrambling to get into position.
In the chaos, the ball fortuitously landed near the opposing team's young striker, who nodded it into the net.
Thwack! Flutter!
"!"
"Goal!"
"Wow, it's a goal! A goal!"
The opposing team erupted in cheers, jumping and celebrating wildly. They had been visibly intimidated by Jenkins' presence, but the sudden goal sent them into a frenzy.
Jenkins watched the scene with a stony expression. The youth players on his team, seeing their legendary senior's face harden, didn't know what to do. But Jenkins wasn't angry.
Thump-thump.
His heart pounded relentlessly.
What's this?
Someone had interfered.
And they had done it from a position where they could see the entire field.
Jenkins turned his gaze to the sideline. A figure stood there.
A young man with his arms crossed.
John Jenkins had been a professional player for twenty years.
He had played countless matches and worked with countless coaches and managers.
He knew the signs.The eyes that seemed to devour the game.
The veins bulging in his neck, as if he were about to shout.
Yet his gaze remained calm and focused, as if he were merely observing the match.
"Manager."
It was the new manager.