03. The Prodigal Son Returns (3)

The call wasn't long.

It wasn't the kind of conversation that could be settled over the phone. This was about a person's life—no, perhaps two people's lives.

There was too much to say, too many discussions to be had, and an uncertain future that required careful planning and intense deliberation.

— "England? Not Germany?"

"Mansfield. See you tomorrow."

— "Tomorrow? What do you mean, tomorrow? And why England? Did you go home before taking over Bochum? Trying to clear your head?"

"If you don't show up tomorrow, I'll take it as a rejection. See you then."

I could hear him yelling something as I hung up, but I cut the call without hesitation.

The deeper conversation would be had in person.

And I didn't believe for a second that he wouldn't come.

"The only reason he hasn't shown his ambition is that he hasn't been given the chance."

He's not the type to let an opportunity slip through his fingers.

After ending the call, I slowly wandered my surroundings.

I glanced at my wristwatch.

2 PM.

It was still far from sunset, and it wasn't lunchtime either.

Yet, it was silent—eerily so. There wasn't a single car in the parking lot.

"No one's here."

A bitter chuckle escaped my lips.

I remembered a time when I had visited a ghost town in Germany.

Decades ago, it must have been bustling with miners coming and going from the coal mines.

But when I saw it, there was no trace of that liveliness—only stillness. Desolation. Emptiness.

"This feels… similar."

I let out a deep sigh.

Just like the words dissolving into the air, the resemblance was undeniable.

The club house, once modest yet sturdy, was eerily silent.

The past, filled with the sounds of kicking balls, shouting coaches, and players barking orders, was now nothing more than a distant memory.

The bustling staff who used to scurry in and out of the building were nowhere to be seen.

A sinking ship.

That was Mansfield now.

I walked in silence, drawing upon old memories.

Back then, Mansfield was still a struggling lower-league club. The number of fans probably hadn't changed much either. This town was, in every sense, the middle of nowhere. A population of 60,000. Maybe 70,000 at most.

But there had never been this kind of dead silence.

There had been the sound of kicking balls, the voices of coaches hurling curses, the shouting of players—

It had been intense.

That was football.

And this was a place where football was played.

"I expected this, but… it's still bitter."

But that didn't mean I could give up so easily.

I looked down at the pavement I had walked on. Then, I glanced at the building's exterior.

"Clean."

There wasn't a single janitor in sight, not a single worker.

And yet, the walls and streets were spotless, as if they were maintained daily.

It didn't take long to figure out why.

"Hey, old man."

At the metal gate, in a small booth, Jack stood with a long broom, sweeping the pavement.

I watched him for a while before nodding to myself.

Even in a sinking ship, there are always those who refuse to abandon it.

And they are the ones who offer the last glimmer of hope—the reason this wreck still has a chance to sail again.

Even as water floods in like a crashing waterfall, there are always fools who scoop it out with a tiny bucket, refusing to give up.

Bang!

"…?"

A sharp, echoing sound pierced my ears.

I turned my head.

It was familiar.

How could I not recognize it? The crisp, satisfying sound of a football being struck.

My steps quickened toward the training ground behind the clubhouse.

The closer I got, the louder the voices, the sound of the ball meeting boots, the shouts filled with passion.

A faint smile crept onto my face.

How I'd missed this sound.

"Hm."

Arriving at the training ground, I narrowed my eyes.

"Hey, move back! Back!"

"If you can't hold the ball, pass it quickly! They're pressing you!"

Shouts echoed through the air.

But the voices were thin and young.

And indeed, the players on the field were just kids.

"Youth players."

They were running hard, training with passion. But their numbers were lacking. Split into two teams, each had only eight players.

And most notably, one person stood out.

A grown man with a bald head—clearly not a youth player.

"Jenkinson."

A familiar face.

I didn't recognize him at first since he had aged, but it didn't take long to recall the past.

And that's when I realized something was off about this training session.

"There's no coach."

Not a single coach was overseeing the practice.

There was no structure. No organized drills.

The players were shouting their own instructions, each acting independently.

Among them, only one person was desperately trying to direct things.

But as expected, a player's voice on the field rarely reaches everyone.

Jenkinson's instructions were scattering into the air, unheard.

"Self-training without a coach? And… wait. Is this even a youth training session?"

Most of the players were youths. There was only one adult player.

Could this really be an official youth training session?

"Wait… don't tell me. Are there no players left on the first team?"

That couldn't be right.

I had already reviewed the roster before coming here—there should still be some first-team players remaining.

Yet, seeing this situation unfold before me, I couldn't help but laugh bitterly.

It felt like everything was spiraling into an even worse disaster.

There's no way. The list I had checked in advance still had quite a few first-team players left.

I couldn't help but let out a hollow laugh at how things seemed to be heading toward the worst possible situation.

I was the one who miraculously saved Bochum from relegation by winning all five of the remaining matches.

It would have been easier to win a title instead. Didn't all the sports headlines celebrate my incredible achievement in pulling off the miracle of survival?

Before that, my only career experience had been as a coach, yet I had instantly become a full-fledged Bundesliga manager. That was, without a doubt, an extraordinary feat.

'This looks even easier in comparison.'

At this time, it should be the training session for the senior players.

Even if the team didn't have a head coach, at least one or two assistant coaches should still be here, right?

Yet, there was no coach and no players—only one senior player, seemingly training with the youth squad.

'This is giving me a headache.'

Calling Max to my side was at least a step in the right direction.

But I had been naive. There were still far too many mountains left to climb.

'In the end, what matters is the manager's ability.'

And the results that ability produces.

I sharpened my gaze. The players were scattered, each moving on their own without a coach to keep them in line.

I approached the fullback standing near the touchline and spoke.

"The two wingers playing right now—I see they're somewhat capable with their weaker foot, even if it's not as strong as their dominant foot."

"…Who are you?"

"The opposing defenders are fast. If they try to break through classically, they'll lose out in both speed and physicality. Their weaker foot isn't too bad, so they should cut inside instead."

"Huh?"

The freckled fullback looked at me in confusion, unable to understand what I was saying.

So, I spoke more firmly.

I had spent over a decade dealing with world-class players. We might not have grabbed each other by the collar, but I had engaged in countless mental battles and successfully made them play according to my vision on the field.

That was my experience as a coach.

Or rather, my authority as a manager.

"If you ask me 'Huh?' one more time, I'll shove your boots into your mouth."

"!"

"Shut up and do as I say. Tell the wingers to stop hugging the line and start cutting inside. Their dribbling isn't bad. And what's your name?"

"James. It's James."

"Alright, James. Keep pushing up. When the wingers draw defenders inside, you should be making overlapping runs down the flank. Do you really think your defending is good right now? Even just watching for a second, it's a mess. James, your defending is like an old dog stumbling around."

"…!"

"You can't tackle properly. You're weak in one-on-one marking. If that's the case, stop defending and just run. If you can't defend anyway, at least make use of your speed. Just keep making overlapping runs whenever there's space. Charge forward like a mad dog."

James blinked rapidly, stunned into silence.

I grabbed his shoulder firmly, my voice low but unwavering as I drilled the words into his ears.

That was enough. Controlling a teenager with average talent who had never experienced arrogance was easy.

I watched as James shouted instructions to the wingers with renewed determination, and my eyes gleamed.

'I might have to build a team with weak and unremarkable players. If I want to win with them, my only hope is my own ability.'

I calmly observed the field.

---

John Jenkinson.

He was struggling to keep up in the game, suppressing the overwhelming frustration within him.

"Damn it."

He clenched his teeth as he watched his midfielder lose possession after failing to receive or control his pass properly.

'It's impossible. No matter how weak the fourth division is, this is impossible. Absolutely impossible!'

How did things end up like this?

He felt suffocated, not from exhaustion but from the boiling mix of anger, despair, and regret that was choking him from the inside.

Today was supposed to be a training session.

It hadn't been canceled. Yet none of the remaining contracted coaches, the players who hadn't transferred, or even the first-team players still under contract had shown up—except for him.

'Is this a team? Is this a professional club?'

No. At least, not for them.

Even though the club had narrowly avoided bankruptcy, it was practically on life support.

If they didn't get promoted to a higher league soon, they wouldn't receive proper broadcasting fees or sponsorships. The fan-owned cooperative would lose its ability to pay off the debts, and the club would fall into bankruptcy proceedings again.

Unless a financial savior appeared.

John Jenkinson knew it. 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 academy days.

It had become his second heart, but now, that heart was about to stop beating.

But even if a heart was about to stop, wasn't it only right to do everything possible—use a defibrillator, administer an electric shock—to make it beat again?

That's what John Jenkinson thought. That's why he had gathered what little remained of the youth players.

The first-team players, whose minds had already left, wouldn't listen to even the captain. This season would have to be played by the youth squad. That was the reality of the team's situation.

Without them, they wouldn't even have enough players to field an eleven-man starting lineup.

But…

'There's no hope.'

He wasn't a coach. He was just a player.

No matter how much he yelled on the field, without someone outside directing tactics and managing the game, there were clear limitations—especially with such young players.

He could almost hear the final, fading beep of a dying heartbeat ringing in his ears.

But he didn't stop.

As long as the heart was still beating, it had to beat even harder.

Suddenly, a winger who had been hesitating along the line, either crossing poorly or losing the ball, changed his approach and cut inside.

'Ridiculous.'

Jenkinson had analyzed him in the short time they'd been playing. That winger's dominant foot was his right.

He had been crossing with his right foot the entire time.

'He's going to use his right foot.'

Sure enough, the player controlled the ball with his right and kept dribbling forward.

His footwork was decent, but it was the kind of flashy, unnecessary technique young players often used.

Jenkinson stood firm, waiting for the moment the ball left his right foot, then reached out to intercept.

Thud!

"!"

His foot struck nothing but air.

Jenkinson's eyes widened.

The ball had shifted to the left foot, and without hesitation, the winger took a shot.

"Whoa!"

"Damn, that was close!"

"Ah, if only it had been a little more accurate, it would've been a goal!"

The shot lacked precision and impact, but it was a clear attempt on goal.

And it was unexpected.

Jenkinson stared at the winger, who sighed in frustration.

'He's decent with his weaker foot?'

Then why hadn't he used it before? Why had he stuck to the line, attempting useless crosses?

And why, all of a sudden, had he started cutting inside as if someone had flipped a switch?

He had been caught off guard.

If that shot had been just a little more accurate, it would have undoubtedly been a goal.

Then, the same thing happened again.

The wingers repeatedly cut inside instead of sticking to the flank.

Jenkinson, a veteran defender, found himself struggling against these sudden tactical changes.

For the first time in a long while, his heart pounded with excitement.

And then, he noticed something.

A man standing beyond the touchline, arms crossed, eyes sharp as a predator watching its prey.

Jenkinson, with 20 years of professional experience, recognized that gaze instantly.

The gaze of a true tactician.

"A manager."

A new manager had arrived.