Maximilian.
"Chairman, this is the man I want to recruit as our head coach."
Lucy seemed momentarily taken aback by my sudden formality, but quickly composed herself.
It was the same businessman I'd seen at the coffee shop before.
"Welcome, I'm Lucy, Chairman of Mansfield."
Lucy produced a business card from her pocket, as if she'd been prepared for this meeting all along.
Max looked momentarily flustered, then firmly pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose and hurriedly accepted the card.
"I didn't realize this was an interview, so I didn't bring any business cards..."
"It's fine. Please, sit down. Your legs must be tired."
Max awkwardly took a seat.
He looked so uncomfortable in his seat that it was almost suffocating.
A faded knit shirt, jeans, and horn-rimmed glasses.
Unkempt, shaggy hair.
If not for his slightly aged face, he would have looked like a typical engineering student.
His pupils darted nervously behind the horn-rimmed glasses, unsure where to focus. His tongue kept wetting his dry lips, his nose twitched, and he fidgeted with his glasses, pushing them up his nose repeatedly.
Peeking into the past awkwardness of this Tactical Genius was rather amusing, but the suffocatingly awkward atmosphere was hard for me to endure as well.
"He's a friend who works as a power analyst in Germany," the Director explained.
"Manager... you must have met him when you were in Germany?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"With your experience as a power analyst, what about your coaching experience?"
I glanced at Max.
As if understanding he was expected to answer, Max cleared his throat and spoke, his voice trembling slightly.
"I have no coaching experience."
"So this is your first coaching job... and you're immediately the head coach."
Lucy said this while looking at Max, not me.
I took another look at Lucy, realizing her intention.
Even though he came on my recommendation, she wanted to assess his character herself.
I leaned back in my chair, a faint smile playing on my lips.
Max swallowed hard a few times before speaking.
"The foundation of coaching begins with power analysis."
"..."
"The goal is to analyze the opponent's strengths and weaknesses to devise appropriate countermeasures, or to analyze our own team to clearly identify strengths and weaknesses, then research methods to maximize strengths and minimize weaknesses, ultimately finding the optimal coaching approach."
"So you're saying power analysis should be the foundation?"
"Exactly. Power analysis must precede coaching. Only by understanding our players' shortcomings and strengths can we provide tailored advice and training. That's the coach's role."
"Hmm, I see. The importance of power analysis. But how do I know Mr. Max is good at it?"
At that moment, Max's eyebrows twitched.
"You've touched a nerve. His pride."
He hated anyone who doubted his abilities more than anything.
His confidence might seem excessive, but his actual skills justified such arrogance.
Except for now...
"How should I demonstrate my abilities?"
His tone instantly turned aggressive.
Lucy looked slightly taken aback by his sudden shift.
This was precisely why the Tactical Genius had spent years drifting between anonymous power analyst positions.
I intended to keep this impudent genius close by as much as possible.
Lucy wouldn't outright reject my intentions, but we needed to align our visions to lead the Club together.
Just as I was about to intervene, Lucy spoke in a cold voice.
"You need to show us something that leaves no room for doubt."
"So, what exactly is the method?"
"That's for Mr. Maximilian to figure out. Do I have to tell you the method too?"
"!"
"Are you thinking that? You look like you know nothing about soccer. How can you convince me?"
Max's face flushed red.
I knew Lucy's words had hit the mark.
"How fascinating. You seem like an unknown power analyst, and I don't think you were a player. Am I right?"
"...You're right."
Lucy's eyes were sharper than I'd expected.
Perhaps it was because business, at its core, revolved around managing people.
She seemed to have easily discerned what kind of person Max was.
"Then you must have faced many injustices over the years. People often think the sports world is purely meritocratic, but connections are far more important."
"..."
"As someone without a playing background, it must have been difficult to break into the coaching staff dominated by former players. Just the fact that you weren't elected likely led to unfair treatment."
Lucy's voice trailed off.
Max's face seemed to drain of all color.
"So, someone who understands such injustices is acting this way because they think I know less about soccer than you do?"
"..."
"There are coaches like that sometimes. When fans criticize their tactics or player selections, they dismiss them with a sneer: 'What do these clueless fans know about soccer?'"
Lucy's voice returned to its usual tone.
"But sometimes, if you listen closely to the fans shouting and cursing from the stands, you'll hear them yelling things like, 'Take him out! Put him in!' And sometimes, whether the manager was already thinking that way or just following their advice, he actually made those substitutions."
This was a common occurrence. The fans' shouts from the stadium carried clearly to the bench.
"Surprisingly, those substitutions often worked. The players who came in off the bench scored miraculous game-winning goals, leading the team to victory. Was this just a coincidence? Or did they somehow guess right?"
"..."
"Even if fans can't analyze and organize things professionally, they know whether the soccer is fun, whether the players are skilled, or whether their performance is just plain awful. Soccer might seem complicated when you delve into it, but when you're just enjoying it, it's simple, right? Score goals and win."
"Hmm."
"People who watch soccer aren't clueless about it."
"..."
"Maybe it's more about feeling the game?"
Max remained silent, unable to respond.
Lucy stood up briefly, excusing herself to use the restroom.
As she rose, she glanced at me, her eyes conveying a clear message:
Make sure this goes well. Give me something to work with.
I couldn't help but smile wryly to myself. She had already decided to pass Max's interview. The reason for her approach remained unclear to me.
After Lucy left, Max, his face flushed, gulped down the cold water in front of him.
"What's up?"
"What do you mean?"
"The head coach position."
"I'm interviewing for it right now, aren't I?"
"But weren't you supposed to take over Bochum?"
"They already hired an interim manager who got them relegated, remember?"
"I thought you'd start in the second division."
"A rookie like me? Who gets to start in the second division?"
"..."
"You have to start in the lower leagues. What, disappointed it's not the Bundesliga head coach position?"
Max's lips twitched before he let out a sigh.
"I had that thought for a moment, but I snapped out of it."
"..."
"I'm just a no-name power analyst, freelancing without a team. Who's looking down on whom here? Are they underestimating me because they think I lack skill?"
He gave a self-deprecating smile and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses.
"This team. Are you confident?"
"What does it look like?"
"Eric, you were the kind of guy who would hire an unknown power analyst like me out of your own pocket, even for just second-tier games. You were obsessed with winning."
"What's so surprising about that?"
"So, you took this team because of that obsession?"
I chuckled.
"Just obsession?"
"...?"
"I'm going to win the championship with this team."
"The Fourth Division? Yeah, that's about right."
"No."
"...?"
"The Premier League, the Champions League, the FA Cup."
"!"
I don't know what he saw in my eyes.
But in Max's pupils, my eyes were blazing with an intensity that outshone everything else.
He let out a long, heavy sigh and took off his horn-rimmed glasses.
"I won't need these."
Max pulled out a thick report. A glance at the title made me groan. It was about the Bochum squad. No wonder he rushed over here—he must have thought he'd be managing Bochum.
Max pulled a tablet from his backpack-like bag.
"I looked this up and put it together just in case," he said. "Since you suddenly asked me to come to Mansfield."
As I flipped through the pages of the tablet, I shook my head in amazement.
Though it was nothing compared to the Bochum Report, it neatly summarized the Mansfield squad, last year's tactical approach, and a basic outline of their strategies—all at a glance.
"Didn't you just get the call yesterday?"
"Yeah."
"So you wrote that much for the Bochum Report, and even managed to create this outline for Mansfield, even if it's just a few pages?"
"Why are you asking when you're looking right at it?" he said, sounding slightly annoyed.
"How? In just one day?"
"For Bochum, I already had a lot of data. Plus, finding more wasn't hard. Mansfield? I didn't have any data, so what?"
"..."
"It's fascinating, isn't it? Each team has its own distinct style and tactics. Even when they appear to use the same formation, the details vary significantly. What works brilliantly in one place can completely fall apart in another. I found it really interesting. I initially underestimated the Fourth Division, but seeing how each team adapts its tactics and roster to their specific circumstances was truly intriguing."
In other words, it wasn't just about the interview. In fact, he hadn't even mentioned the interview itself.
He had created this whole thing simply because he found it enjoyable.
And he had done it all in a single day. No matter how much data he had prepared beforehand, it's impossible to organize, analyze, and produce such a comprehensive report so quickly.
This could only mean one thing: he genuinely loved this work.
I silently studied the tablet, finding its contents almost perfectly aligned with my own understanding. A smile crept across my face.
Just then, Lucy returned.
As soon as she sat down, Max blurted out his response as if shouting:
"I'll submit an analysis report on every team and player in the Fourth Division. Their tactics, team status, how they played last season, and even predictions for how they'll move this season. Please review and evaluate it."
"By next week."
"Huh?"
"I'll need it by next Thursday."
"That's..."
"League Two teams play over 40 games a season. Two games a week is normal. We're a small team—one person has to do the work of two or three. Especially the Head Coach."
"...I'll do it."
"Good. I'll let you know the results after reviewing the report."
As she said this, she winked at me.
"...Oh, right."
Next Thursday. Lucy's surgery date.
So...
She wants me to judge based on merit, not connections.
But I'm not worried. Even now, he's already a half-formed genius.
As I walked Lucy home, I asked, "Why were you acting so cold?"
"Cold? Me?"
"I thought I was going to freeze over there."
"You were the one being colder! I froze watching how you treated Alensky."
"That's an exaggeration."
"No, seriously. He just seemed so confident."
"Confident?"
"Look at how everyone was giving him the side-eye because of his outfit, but he just strode in and sat down like it was nothing."
"Maybe he just doesn't care what people think."
"That's exactly what high self-esteem is—not caring what others think."
Lucy was right.
Come to think of it, when Max was at the peak of his career, hailed as a legendary coach, he never wavered, no matter what the media, fans, or even the club owner said. He firmly believed in his tactics and relentlessly pursued them.
"But why does that matter? Why would you want to break his confidence?"
"At least he's secretly worried about you, right?"
"Me?"
"He went from being a coach to suddenly becoming the manager. Plus, he seems to have a hidden inferiority complex about the elected coaches. Imagine someone younger than him, someone he knows, suddenly becoming manager and offering him the Head Coach position like it's a favor."
"Anyone would be grateful for that."
"Grateful, but there'll still be a part of him that sees you as an equal. He'll see it more as helping you out than supporting you."
I understood the difference.
I smiled bitterly.
Lucy might be right. Even the Max I know from the future sometimes shows that attitude. How much more so now, before he's been tempered by the professional world?
"So, this Club Owner openly criticized him to save our Director's face! See, Eric? Who else would go this far for you?"
"This reminds me of the old days."
"Hmm?"
"When I was on the Youth Team. You said something similar back then."
Lucy's smooth forehead furrowed, her voice tinged with the effort of recalling the moment.
"When you hurt your knee."
"Ah! I remember! When you were injured and knew you couldn't play in the next game, but you still crawled to the training grounds at night?"
"Crawled? What do you mean, crawled?"
"Seriously! I was so dumbfounded. Do you know how much trouble I went through trying to stop you? You just stuck out your lip and didn't say a word, huh?"
Did I really do that?
"Ugh, Eric, you were crying back then."
"I wasn't crying."
"Oh yes you were! Your eyes were glistening with tears. I hugged you and told you there were people who cared about you, so you shouldn't treat your body so recklessly."
"That's right. You said the same thing back then too."
"..."
Was I dredging up memories of the past? Or simply reminiscing?
In the strangely subdued silence, the car engine seemed unusually loud.
I glanced out the window. Lucy's face was faintly visible in the reflection, tinged with a faint red glow from the streetlights and passing cars.
Beyond her reflection, I gazed at the sky.
Perhaps it was because we were in a remote corner of England, but the stars shone with exceptional brilliance.
Just like back then.
Even through my blurred vision, the starlight and Lucy's voice, urging me not to give up, remained vividly etched in my mind.
In the strangely heavy silence, I found myself speaking without thinking.
"Thank you."
"...You sound so serious about it. It feels a bit awkward."
"I know better than to hide what I want to say out of embarrassment. There's nothing more foolish."
"...So, is there anything else you want to say?"
A brief silence hung in the air. She laughed awkwardly, "Aha ha," and quickly changed the subject.
"Just forget I said anything. It was just a thought."
"Even knowing it's foolish, sometimes it's hard to suppress the embarrassment."
"...I hope the time comes when you need to suppress your embarrassment."
"Someday."
"Someday?"
"The day we get promoted to the Premier League."
"Then we absolutely have to make it. For the team's sake."
The time required for direct promotion to the Premier League:
Four years. Exactly four years.
The original time of her death.
So, before that happens, I have to do what needs to be done. So I won't have any regrets.
***
The next day, I had Max report to my office.
In truth, Max becoming Head Coach was already a foregone conclusion. I knew his capabilities well, so I figured we should put him to use as soon as possible. It was also crucial for him to adapt to both England and League Two, specifically Mansfield, as quickly as possible. This was why I had him naturally attend the coaching staff meetings.
"And who's this?"
"He's the Head Coach. For now, let's call him an intern."
"..."
Perhaps due to the sudden appearance of a new coach, Alrop and Alensky exchanged quick, uneasy glances. Their intentions were transparent.
Their intention was clear: to manipulate the club's code of conduct and rules to their advantage, effectively blunting any blade that might restrain them.
"Good morning, Mr. Maximilian. But since you haven't even been with the club for a day, wouldn't it be better to familiarize yourself with the club first before taking a seat here?" Alrop suggested.
I shook my head firmly. "We'll be meeting like this often in the future. Consider this an opportunity to get acquainted."
It wasn't a request or an invitation. It was an order.
A cunning fox like Alrop couldn't possibly miss the implication.
His complexion paled slightly as he forced a smile. "In that case, you'll be joining today's discussion as well. It might take a while."
Alrop said this, looking directly at me.
His gaze seemed to penetrate my intentions completely.
The disagreement remained two against two.
No clear resolution emerged. Was he dragging out the discussion, wallowing in this unresolved issue like a pig in mud, all to ultimately force his will upon me?
His eyes flashed with a warning: I won't let you have your way so easily.
Unfortunately for him, I despise being read by others.
It's as loathsome as an opposing manager deciphering my tactics.
Could there be anything more dreadful?
After countless matches, I've developed an instinctive sense for how to prevent others from reading me.
For example:
"There's a more pressing matter than that. Let's discuss that first."
I was about to exceed their expectations.
"You mean something important?"
"Yes. It's a matter of utmost importance. I'm requesting your cooperation in the presence of both our coaches."
I drew their attention.
"Right now, the most critical thing for our club isn't some code of conduct or anything like that. It's the rebuilding process."
"!"
"Isn't that obvious? Rebuilding the team every new season is standard practice, and with a new manager in charge, it's only natural to start with a clean slate. So..."
I paused mid-sentence, letting the silence hang in the air.
When I felt their senses were fully focused on my lips, I dropped the bombshell:
"Compile the list of players to be released yourself."