07. Rebuilding, From the Toes to the Head (1)

Rebuilding.

Completely overhauling a team's roster and laying out a new foundation.

Before every new season, clubs analyze their previous performance and begin strategizing.

Who should be sold? Who should be signed? What tactics should be adopted for the upcoming season?

When the changes extend to the entire team, it is called rebuilding.

And the most fundamental requirement of a rebuild—

"A release list, you say?"

"Yes. Due to the club's financial situation, we can no longer sustain the current wage structure. At least half of the squad needs to be cut."

It all starts with releasing surplus assets.

Coach Alensky couldn't even hide his shock.

"Half? Our first-team squad currently has only twenty players!"

"Coach, before you took charge, five players had already left due to contract expirations and transfers."

"That means we've already lost enough players!"

Alensky looked ready to explode, but I calmly met his gaze.

"Who decides if it's enough?"

"I've been here longer than you, alongside Coach Alov! We know this squad inside out!"

"So, was it your decision to make?"

"…!"

Alensky froze. I paid no attention to his rising voice or his frustration. Instead, I looked straight into his eyes and spoke in a low voice.

"Don't make judgments."

"Coach!"

BAM!

"…!"

I slammed the table. My palm stung slightly, but that was irrelevant.

Alov remained silent, his expression grave, while Alensky clamped his mouth shut.

"Have you worked for other clubs before?"

"…I was with another team before coming here."

"Did the physical coach there have a say in squad decisions?"

"!"

"Alensky, we agreed to discuss matters based on contracts, didn't we?"

Alensky took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Yes, we did."

"Then just stick to your responsibilities as stated in the contract."

No response.

Tightly shut lips. A faintly trembling mouth. I shifted my gaze indifferently.

Alov, too, seemed like he had something to say.

When our eyes met, he forced an awkward smile and spoke.

"From a tactical standpoint, most of our players are one-trick ponies."

Alov was always cautious. Instead of outright opposing my decision, he quickly formed a logical argument.

One-trick ponies.

Rather than being versatile, these players excelled in just one area.

For example, some had poor overall abilities but were incredibly fast. Others lacked multiple skills but had a powerful shot.

"When designing tactics, having players who can perform multiple roles is invaluable. Unfortunately, we are a weak team with a thin squad. To create diverse tactical plans, we need players who can handle multiple responsibilities."

"I agree."

"That's why I'm worried. Sure, releasing players also means signing new ones, but that won't be easy. Let's be honest—our club isn't exactly a popular destination."

Alov maintained a calm tone, yet his words carried an implicit warning.

"If we go through with this release plan, we might not even be able to field a proper starting XI, let alone a 25-man squad."

"I'll worry about that. Thank you for your concern."

Alov's eyes widened slightly.

Squad selection is the manager's sole authority.

In other words—don't interfere. I let him know that with a quiet warning. He understood immediately, and his face hardened.

"Each of you will prepare a release list with five names."

"!"

"You want us to submit separate lists?"

"No need to be so shocked. I know full well that the squad is divided into factions under each of you."

"…."

Their eyes wavered with surprise.

Alensky bit his lip, unsure of what to say, while Alov tried to remain composed, though his expression subtly shifted.

"Choose five players from your respective groups and put them on the release list."

"Sigh."

"Why are we the ones doing this?"

"Why not?"

They were speechless at my nonchalant response.

"Transfers and releases fall entirely under my authority. No one else in the club has the right to interfere."

"!"

"But I'm compromising. Don't you see?"

"Compromising…?"

"Yes. Instead of unilaterally deciding on the releases, I'm willing to hear your opinions."

"…."

"That means I'm placing trust in you both. You've been here longer than I have, so I assume you have a clearer understanding of the squad."

A logical argument. No room for refutation.

"I want to lead this club alongside you. Let's consider last night's argument as a minor misunderstanding and move forward. I'll be waiting for your reports."

"…."

The two coaches exchanged silent glances.

A suffocating tension filled the air.

They wanted to say something, but words failed them.

I gave them space.

"Go and start working on it immediately. If necessary, conduct interviews with the players. Take your time—I will consider your input carefully."

---

Rebuilding Isn't Just About Releases

If players leave, new ones must also arrive.

'My first target is…'

I searched my memories from before my return. Countless names surfaced in my mind—exceptional talents, top-tier prospects, and budget-friendly gems.

But they had to meet one key criterion.

'A player who would even consider joining our fourth-division club.'

Most names were instantly crossed out.

But a few remained.

From the available pool of players, I identified a name that stood out even among top-tier talent.

Danny Scott.

A late bloomer in the Premier League.

But right now?

No one knew about him. Not even himself.

A player on the verge of retirement.

I couldn't approach him recklessly.

As my mother often said, if you want perfectly cooked rice, you have to let it steam properly.

So, I took my time.

---

At the hospital.

"Here, the local newspaper and the business journal."

"Thanks."

Lily, lying in her hospital bed, smiled as she received them.

I handed her the newspapers I had picked up and casually asked,

"Your surgery is the day after tomorrow, right?"

Lily stretched.

"Ugh! It's already tomorrow. Thanks for bringing me newspapers every day. Even in the hospital, I need to stay updated."

"I won't be able to bring them tomorrow or the day after."

"Huh?"

"I have to travel."

"…."

Lily unfolded the newspaper, subtly covering her expression. Her pupils were frozen—she wasn't reading.

I sighed lightly.

"I finally secured a meeting with that player I mentioned. Tomorrow is my only chance."

"Then you have to go. Is he good?"

"Top priority."

"Then you definitely have to go. Don't worry about my surgery. It'll be quick."

Her voice held a faint trace of disappointment.

I nodded.

---

Meeting Danny Scott

Danny Scott, preparing for retirement, was bewildered by an unexpected meeting request.

'They want to sign me?'

Did they not hear that he was retiring?

Or had they mistaken him for a younger player with the same name?

Scott sighed, staring at the man in front of him.

"I'm thirty-six."

"I know."

The young man responded nonchalantly.

Scott frowned.

"I'm not a goalkeeper, you know?"

"I wouldn't come to scout you without knowing your position."

"I've only played midfield. Never defense."

"I have no plans to use you as a defender. I know your defending is terrible."

Scott sipped his tea in silence. It tasted bitter.

His opponent's expression remained unreadable.

"You're not a con artist, are you?"

"Would I need to be, given the state of our club?"

Scott let out a deep sigh.

The young man sitting across from him exuded a strange aura.

An unmistakable mix of Asian heritage in his features, yet something about him was strikingly unique. His presence alone seemed to demand attention, regardless of whether he was in Europe or Asia.

Not a conventional pretty boy, but undeniably attractive.

"With a face like that, even nonsense sounds convincing."

Scott muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Still, there was no reason to waste more time.

"Look, I appreciate the offer, but I'm retiring."

"I know."

"Then why bother?"

"Because you haven't retired yet."

Scott hesitated for a moment.

"…I will soon."

"That's what people say when they haven't made up their minds."

The man leaned forward slightly, his gaze locked onto Scott's.

"If you had truly decided, you wouldn't be here talking to me."

A moment of silence passed between them.

Scott had no immediate retort.

"Listen, Mr. Scott. You may think your time is up, but I don't."

The young man's tone was calm, measured—completely devoid of desperation.

It wasn't a plea. It wasn't an attempt to convince him through empty words.

It was just a statement of fact.

"You're not done yet."

And for the first time in a long while, Danny Scott found himself uncertain.

"Retirement can always be postponed, can't it?"

"..."

"I think four years should do."

"Four years?"

"Yes, that's about the time we need."

Danny Scott fell silent, lowering his gaze.

A small business card lay next to his cup of tea.

Mansfield Town Manager, Eugene Fisher.

The new manager of a club that had plummeted to the fourth division and was now in administration.

"Four years… That would make me forty."

"Well, back in the day, Zlatan played for AC Milan until he was forty-one before retiring. You'd still be in your prime."

That was when Danny Scott finally understood why he was getting drawn into this conversation, why there was this strange, inexplicable feeling.

'The way he speaks…'

Eugene Fisher's words weren't guesses, predictions, or mere speculation.

They were spoken with certainty.

Thirty-six was old for a footballer, but in life, it was still young. By now, Scott had developed a decent eye for reading people, and he could tell—this man wasn't just confident.

He had absolute belief.

'As if he's seen the future?'

Danny Scott, a man known for his prudence and level-headedness, was getting swept up in this conversation against his better judgment.

It wasn't just persuasion.

It was something more terrifying than that.

There were no vague statements, no abstract words—just clear, precise conviction.

Danny Scott let out a dry chuckle.

'This guy's crazy.'

Or a con artist.

As if reading his mind, Eugene raised his hand.

"We don't have money. We can't pay you much. That's just the reality. The club is barely staying afloat."

Scott folded his arms, waiting.

"But there is one thing I can give you."

Scott arched a brow, intrigued despite himself.

"Before you retire, I can give you a trophy."

Scott scoffed.

"Your team is struggling to avoid relegation in League Two. You mean a fourth-division title?"

"No."

Eugene grinned and held up three fingers.

"The Premier League. The FA Cup. The UEFA Champions League."

Danny Scott burst into laughter.

"You think it's that easy?"

"It's difficult. I know. I've done it. It's ridiculously difficult."

"You've done it?"

Scott already thought this guy was crazy, but now he was outright laughing at him.

Done it? This young, inexperienced manager?

Eugene shrugged, completely unbothered. His tone was casual, yet firm—like someone who had never known how to lie.

"I've won each of them once. Just never all at the same time. So, I suppose it's time for a treble, don't you think?"

"...Aren't you the manager of a fourth-division team? What was your previous experience?"

"Oh, before getting this new opportunity, I coached clubs like Manchester United, AC Milan, Dortmund… All the big ones. But officially, I've only had one coaching job."

"..."

Danny Scott had no idea what to say.

This guy was clearly insane.

A complete lunatic spouting nonsense.

And yet… Scott couldn't bring himself to stand up and leave.

Why?

A strange, nagging sensation stirred in his chest.

He had played for a long time. He was exhausted. His knees ached, his back hurt, and he had aged enough to know his limits. He had never won a single trophy, but he still had a respectable career.

At least, that's what he had told himself.

'Did I still want to play?'

The sudden question popped into his head.

And it was this question that kept him rooted to his seat.

Trying to maintain a neutral expression, he asked,

"You're recruiting an old player like me?"

"Oh, you're actually on the younger side."

"What?"

"Among my scouting targets, you're one of the younger ones."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"We don't have money."

Scott stared blankly at Eugene.

That same casual expression. That same matter-of-fact tone.

As if he had no idea how absurd he sounded.

Danny Scott thought to himself.

'This guy is absolutely mad.'

But…

His fingers idly traced over the business card.

Mansfield Town Manager, Eugene Fisher.

"...Where the hell is Mansfield, anyway?"