Chapter 2: The End and the Beginning (2)

The flight from New York's JFK Airport to Manchester Airport took seven hours.

As soon as the gate connected, Helena dashed out like she was being chased and leapt into the club car waiting to pick her up.

The drive from Manchester Airport to Barnfield Training Centre—where Burnley Football Club's training ground and offices were located—usually took over an hour. But by hounding the driver, Helena managed to cover the distance in a mere 30 minutes.

Anxiously gazing at the passing English countryside, she skipped the luxury of unpacking at a hotel. Upon arriving at Barnfield, she headed straight into the club's offices.

The last time she'd closed her eyes to sleep was early yesterday morning her time, but fueled by tension and caffeine, she strode purposefully through the chaotic club office—disrupted by the sudden resignation of the manager and his staff—and flung open the door labeled "Mike Garlick."

"What the hell is going on here?!"

"Who are you?!"

Two middle-aged men, seated across from each other at a meeting table, exchanging grim looks, turned to her with startled expressions.

Helena pulled out a chair from the table, plopped down, and addressed the man her research had flagged as potentially helpful.

"I'm Helena Cartwright. The new director dispatched here."

"Oh. So, from Cartwright Fund? I'm—"

"Yes, Mike Garlick. The former chairman before last. But that's not the point. What on earth happened? Why did the manager suddenly resign?"

The expressions of the two middle-aged Englishmen soured as they stared at the young American woman who had barged into the office and started firing questions.

Seeing their displeasure, Helena's mind raced through her options. Suppressing the emotional urge to "yell," she opted for the冷静 rationality inherited from her father and the experience she'd amassed over the past decade: "apologize."

"Sorry about that. I haven't slept in 36 hours, and I just came straight here from New York after about ten hours of travel. I guess my words got ahead of me."

Sitting up straight, she looked at the two men.

"Let me introduce myself properly. I'm Helena Cartwright, the new director dispatched from Cartwright Fund to Burnley Football Club. What's the situation, and how can I assist?"

Her polite apology and introduction seemed to soften them a bit. Mike Garlick and John Banaszkiewicz, who'd been speaking with him, began to brief her on the situation.

With all personnel from ALK Capital having withdrawn, Mike Garlick—who had sold his beloved hometown club to ALK Capital eight months ago but retained an honorary director role—and his longtime friend and fellow Burnley director John Banaszkiewicz were the only remaining executives at the club.

Thus began the absurd scenario where Mike Garlick, the chairman before last, and Helena Cartwright, the proxy for the new owners, joined by the only other active director, John Banaszkiewicz, had to tackle the current crisis facing Burnley Football Club.

"…So there's no way to convince the manager to come back?"

"Sean had been talking about resigning ever since I first sold the club. ALK Capital managed to keep him on with promises of new investment and full support. But now that ALK Capital has pulled out and a new American owner has shown up, convincing Sean to stay is impossible."

Mike Garlick added as an aside that he didn't have any particular prejudice against Americans.

John Banaszkiewicz picked up the explanation.

"Sean feels trust has been broken, and trust means everything to him. He's probably pretty disappointed in Mike and me too, even if he didn't say it outright."

Helena felt another sigh coming on as she clutched her head.

She'd already downed her fourth cup of coffee since arriving at the office, but she resisted reaching for the coffee pot on the side and struggled to keep up with the two directors' jargon-filled conversation.

"…The problem is that the season opener is next week, and we don't have a manager, a head coach, or frankly any coaching staff at all. They all left with Sean."

"Uh, what about the junior varsity—er, the junior team manager? Can't we promote them?"

When Helena interjected, recalling the materials she'd crammed on the plane, both men flinched and sighed in unison at her question prompted by John Banaszkiewicz's lament.

"Look, over here we don't say 'junior team.' The under-23s are the reserve team, and the under-19s are the youth team. Sure, the under-19s are broken down further by age, but Burnley isn't a big club with a heavily segmented youth system. Oh, and the main team is called the first team," John Banaszkiewicz explained, suddenly turning into an impromptu soccer crash-course instructor for Helena.

Mike Garlick continued.

"But the reserve team manager quit with Sean too."

"What about the under-19s—the youth team, then?"

Mike Garlick and John Banaszkiewicz exchanged glances.

As Helena watched them, John shook his head and said,

"He's been here less than a month. And he's a complete rookie with zero experience managing a first team or even a reserve team. I can't even remember what level his UEFA license is."

"He's got a UEFA Pro License. I remember Sean mentioning it," Mike Garlick chimed in, mulling it over.

"Anyway, right now, he's the only option we've got, isn't he? Or can we hire a new manager within a week?"

"We could hire someone, but…"

"But?"

"…Whether we can get the manager we *want* is another question," Mike Garlick said, his tone half-resigned.

Helena pressed him.

"Then shouldn't we at least meet this guy and talk to him?"

"…It's probably better than doing nothing."

The man who entered the meeting room, where all three of the club's remaining directors were gathered, was about 180 cm tall—a thin, soft-spoken young East Asian man.

Having attended New York public schools as part of her family's educational philosophy and befriended people from all walks of life and ethnicities, even Helena couldn't quite pin down his age.

But the confidence and swagger she'd stereotypically expect from a sports manager were nowhere to be found.

After a silent bow, the black-haired man sat across from the directors, politely placing both hands on his knees and looking at the three of them.

Thinking he resembled a cow led to slaughter, Helena glanced again at the documents in front of her (this primitive club still managed records on paper!).

"Uh, Hyung-Min Kim?"

The man let out a quiet sigh and responded in clear but distinctly accented English.

"Just call me Kim. I won't even hope for Hyung-Min."

"Then, Mr. Kim?"

"Kim. Mr. Kim."

*Is it a G sound, not a K?* she wondered silently before continuing.

"Mr… Kim. Are you aware that you're the only manager left at the club right now?"

"Well, yes, but there are still quite a few coaches with the youth team, no?"

"But the—"

Helena quickly checked her notes.

"UEFA?—Mike, what's UEFA?—Anyway, this UEFA Pro License? They say you're the only one here who has it."

Kim tilted his head slightly, then nodded up and down in lieu of a verbal response.

"Great. Then can you take charge of the team for the season opener?"

"You mean the Division 2 opener?"

Another unfamiliar term popped up, and Helena finally gave up on the conversation, turning to the other two men sitting idly beside her for help.

Fortunately, John Banaszkiewicz caught her silent plea and stepped in.

"Not the reserve team—the first team opener."

"Uh… you didn't call me here to fire me?"

"Fire you? No, why would we fire you? We're asking you to manage the Premier League opener next week as interim manager."

Kim sat there blankly for a while, as if processing the request, before finally responding in an incredulous, heated tone.

"You want *me* to manage Burnley in the Premier League? A total newbie like me? Do you people have any common sense?"

"No, we're not asking you to take over the whole season…"

Suddenly branded as unreasonable, John Banaszkiewicz broke into a cold sweat and began desperately justifying himself.

Ignoring the exchange beside her for a moment, Helena turned to gaze out the window at the dreary sky, silently cursing the ruthless boss (and father) who'd thrown her into the middle of this mess.

---

Normally bustling with noise, the club office hallway had grown eerily quiet since the manager and his staff departed en masse. Hyung-Min walked to the end of it and opened a small door.

The under-19 team manager typically shared a desk in a communal office with other staff, but Sean Dyche, the manager who'd brought him to Burnley, had insisted on converting a small storage room into a private space for him.

It held just a small desk, a chair, and a folding chair propped up next to a filing cabinet.

But to Hyung-Min, who'd only been at Burnley Football Club for a month, it was the one place he considered his own.

"What'd they say? You're out?"

A grizzled, white-haired man with a sour expression sat in the chair at the tiny desk, which took up half the cramped room. A single small window near the ceiling let in the fading summer light as he questioned Hyung-Min the moment he walked in.

Hyung-Min shook his head at the man occupying his desk, unfolded the folding chair, and sat across from him.

"No, Arthur."

"I thought they'd obviously called you in to sack you. Then again, they'd have to pay a penalty if they did, so maybe they can't even afford that? So, what'd they want? The board must be out of their minds right now."

Arthur Brimelow was a living legend of Burnley Football Club's development program, having dedicated 60 years to the club.

Born and raised in Burnley, he'd come up through the youth ranks but suffered a career-ending injury right after debuting for the first team. Afterward, he'd served as a coach and manager for various youth teams and the reserve team, eventually becoming the head of the club's development program.

The aging coach, nearing retirement, had planned to hand over his duties to Hyung-Min—the new youth team manager—at Sean Dyche's earnest request, then enjoy a sweet retirement with his wife.

Of course, no one had bothered to ask Clarissa Brimelow how she felt about suddenly spending excessive time with her retired husband.

Hyung-Min responded to the ornery old man, who was glaring at him impatiently like a teacher demanding an answer from a child.

"They want me to manage the first team for the season opener. As interim manager."

"Have they lost their minds?!"

Arthur's explosive outburst made Hyung-Min nod in agreement, though he felt a slight sting.

"Well, yeah, but you don't have to put it *that* harshly…"

"No, they should be on their knees begging in front of Sean's house! There's no need to hand this to a greenhorn like you! I'm not asking for Joachim Löw, but they could at least call Roy Hodgson! Neil Warnock's free right now too. We're Burnley Football Club! They can't sully the Clarets' honor—fighters to the end—like this!"

The former Germany national team manager who won the World Cup.

The ex-Crystal Palace boss who'd led top-tier clubs and England's national team for decades.

And the veteran master of promotions in English football history.

As a parade of unemployed European football giants was summoned, Arthur noticed Hyung-Min's darkening expression and faltered, stopping mid-rant.

"Uh, er, no… I mean…"

"It's fine, Arthur. I get it."

"Ahem. Look, you've got talent, of course, but being a Premier League manager is…"

"You don't have to explain, really."

"No! Who knows? You might have the talent of a Julian Nagelsmann!"

The mention of the genius who debuted as a Bundesliga first-team manager at 28 and took over Bayern Munich—the league's powerhouse—at 34 for a record-breaking €25 million transfer fee (and Hyung-Min's peer in age) sent Hyung-Min burying his face in the desk in deeper despair.

"No, wait… What I meant was…!"