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Episode 1. The Threat of Release
Beep- Beep! Beep-!
The whistle sounds.
It signals the end of the Champions League final.
“Damn! We did it! We won!”
“Coach! Where’s the coach?”
I sat in my wheelchair, looking fondly at the players cheering.
‘Somehow, we did it again this year.’
How many times was this now?
33 years as a manager.
I had won the Champions League 14 times during that span.
“Coach!”
“What are you doing over here? You should go greet the fans first.”
“We have to go together with you, Coach!”
“That’s right! Without you, Coach, we never would have made it this far!”
The captain kid wheeled my chair in front of the fans.
A roar like thunder sweeps across the field.
The players and I raised our hands in response.
“Wow-!”
I’m happy.
And fulfilled.
Definitely so.
‘But this still isn’t it.’
A clogged part of my heart refuses to clear.
By now, I’m half convinced.
No matter what achievements I make as a manager, this knot won’t come undone.
“Congratulations on the win, Coach!”
“Thank you.”
“You took over a team rated as weak, led them to the Champions League in your first season, and then won it all the very next season. How do you feel about such a huge accomplishment?”
Accomplishment, accomplishment.
Sure, I did it. As a manager.
I briefly bowed my head and looked at the space where my legs should have been.
After the accident at fifteen, I’d spent my whole life in a wheelchair.
My dream of being a player was shattered then too.
“I convey my thanks to the players who trusted me and walked this difficult path together. I’m proud of them for never losing their fighting spirit, even through the harsh and difficult schedule.”
Even though I couldn’t stand as a player…
I wanted to stay on the field somehow.
The path I found was becoming a manager.
Of course, it wasn’t easy.
Who would want to hire a football manager with no legs?
And without a single line of player experience, at that.
This plain fact was a massive barrier, a trial.
Knocking wouldn’t get me anywhere.
I had to break it down.
To do that, I lived every day as if scraping the marrow from my bones.
“In the end, it’s the players who play on the field. All I did was add a spoonful to the achievements they built. It just means I was lucky.”
That’s a lie.
I had a significant share in this victory.
Of course, the players did well too, but it was an achievement that would have been impossible without me.
Yet, this lie is always on my lips.
A survival skill I developed to get by.
A manager with no legs had to be this way.
“But if luck repeats itself, doesn’t it become inevitability?”
Right.
Of course, I denied it with my mouth.
“No. I truly am just a lucky manager.”
In the past, I sincerely denied my own ability. I genuinely believed I was just lucky.
I had no choice.
The moment I admitted it, my resolve would crumble.
‘If I could have played as a player, what would I have been like?’
As I built my career as a manager…
And felt my capabilities grow…
‘Could I have been the best?’
My regret only grew larger and larger.
“Just looking at today’s match, there’s no doubt about your ability, Coach. The way you responded to the opponent’s tactics in real-time was truly impressive.”
“That’s also thanks to the players and coaching staff. It’s a victory completed by our squad, who executed complex and varied instructions with precision.”
No. That’s a lie.
The players are stupid.
Precise instructions? They couldn’t realize them.
Because no one else sees the game with the same vision as I do.
Not a single player could execute the movements I truly wanted.
It’s not like I was asking for difficult maneuvers.
Just take your position where you should be.
And decide where to play the pass.
That was all.
‘Is that so hard?’
I understand.
Football is, after all, a sport of constant running. Your brain is screaming for oxygen, so your judgment is bound to get cloudy.
Plus, the field is an environment where the cheers of tens of thousands of spectators pour in from all sides. That pressure must be considerable too.
It can’t be easy to clearly assess the situation and execute precise plays according to instructions.
But.
Even considering all that!
‘There are just too many mistakes! Today’s performance was a mess too!’
The players are utterly incompetent.
Our team.
The opponents.
And even other players called world-class. All of them.
No exceptions.
I had to devise tailored tactics to suit them.
You can’t teach advanced mathematics to an elementary school student, after all.
“Both teams showed brilliant performances worthy of the Champions League final stage. What is your evaluation of today’s match, Coach?”
Without a doubt, it was a mess.
“It was excellent. Both technically and mentally, there was nothing to fault.”
Well. It wasn’t abysmal, at least.
The quality of both squads was good.
Still, it was the Champions League final.
But the dominant emotion in the end was ‘frustration’.
‘How many situations were there where we could have gone straight for it?!’
It was full of frustrating situations.
A defensive midfielder who, when there were clearly at least three forward passing lanes open at a glance, would stubbornly turn back and dump the ball to a center-back or full-back.
A winger obsessed with dribbling as if he’d forgotten how to change direction.
Even though I set clear, simple, situation-specific instructions, the squad couldn’t properly follow them.
It was a game where we could have scored 5 goals. But we only scored 3.
And according to the plan, we shouldn’t have conceded at all. Yet we allowed two goals.
‘Physical capability. Technical gaps. I can understand and accept those. I can’t blame a player’s talent.’
But.
‘Consistently picking the obvious wrong answer is something I cannot tolerate!’
My blood pressure surges.
My regret only grows.
‘If there had been even one player who saw football with the same vision as I do…’
How much broader would our options have been?
‘Lionel Messi? Cristiano Ronaldo?’
If I had worked with the greatest players of all time, would my perspective have been a little different?
It’s not just about the players.
They, too, might not meet my standards.
No.
They probably wouldn’t.
‘No, if only I had been the player!’
There wasn’t a single player who met my standards and vastly expanded our tactical options.
Even after over 30 years as a manager.
Such a player was rarer than a world-class star.
Couldn’t I have been that player?
‘Why did God take my legs?’
A wave of anger welled up.
I didn’t even get a chance to test my potential as a player.
Just then, I felt something snap somewhere in my head.
“Coach? Coach? Are you alright?”
The back of my neck stung sharply.
My head spun.
My eyes grew heavy.
It was like falling into a deep sleep.
“Coach!”
And so, I collapsed.
And didn’t get up again.
“Patient down! Ambulance!”
Albert Spencer, called the greatest manager in football history.
Died of pent-up anger after his 14th Champions League victory.
I opened my eyes.
‘What the…?’
It was an unfamiliar space.
A dimly lit room with a faint musty smell.
I slowly looked around.
It was also a familiar space.
Various football gear was strewn about haphazardly. Also, one wall was lined with narrow lockers, packed tightly together.
A clubhouse.
Specifically, the locker room.
‘It’s so run-down.’
What professional team in the world uses facilities like this?
If this were my team, I would have turned the club offices upside down from the start.
The faint, rising smell of sweat was unpleasant too.
‘It means players are actually using this.’
This level is almost unmaintained.
I can’t believe it. Really.
‘Huh?’
Only then did I notice something strange.
I was sitting.
Not in a wheelchair, but on a bench in front of a locker.
With two perfectly good legs.
‘W… what?’
Only then did I realize the situation was unusual.
Come to think of it, it was.
I was clearly in the middle of an interview. Then I felt the anger I’d been suppressing for so long surge up, and my head spun.
After that, I came to my senses and was in this dilapidated locker room.
Let’s say that’s all fine.
‘But why do I have legs? What is going on?’
Is it a dream?
Or the afterlife?
Whatever it is.
‘This is good. Should I try standing up?’
I boldly put strength into my legs and tried to stand.
‘……It works?’
I could stand up without any restriction.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
‘Was it this easy all along?’
How long has it been since I stood on two legs?
Must be about 40 years.
Just as I was caught in a tidal wave of emotion, someone roughly pushed the locker room door open from the outside.
“Seo Jae-woo! Hey, you, is now the time to be slacking off here?”
Startled, I turned to look.
‘An Asian?’
It’s someone I don’t know.
But I feel like I know who he is.
Similarly, it’s a language I don’t know, but I understand what he’s saying.
‘Coach?’
He’s this team’s coach.
“It’s about to start, so get out here quickly! This is your last chance; if you get cut because you were dawdling, how pathetic would that be? Huh?”
He left immediately after saying that.
Seems busy.
Meanwhile, my head was spinning faster than ever.
First, I organized the information I had gathered so far.
-
I am currently being called Seo Jae-woo, not Albert Spencer.
-
It seems this person named Seo Jae-woo is a football player.
For now, those two things are certain.
And there was one word that caught my attention.
‘He said it was the last chance, right?’
There’s still too much I don’t know.
I need more information.
But it seems I don’t have the leisure to leisurely gather information.
I slowly walked outside.
Simultaneously, a flood of information came in.
“One- two! Three- four!”
Players were scattered here and there, warming up.
‘It’s a youth team.’
They were all young.
Doesn’t seem like the U-15 team.
‘Is it U-18? U-21? It’s hard to tell the age of Asians.’
I could also tell from the flag on the pole on the opposite sideline which country this was.
‘Korea.’
A country I remember.
Players from this country were uniformly diligent, like oxen.
It was a football backwater, but a strange place where world-class players occasionally popped up out of nowhere.
I briefly frowned at the 100% artificial turf.
“Seo Jae-woo! Don’t just stand there spacing out, warm up quickly!”
That coach from earlier shouts at me from afar.
Seeing the state of the field, I can guess what’s about to happen.
‘They’re preparing for a match.’
I don’t know who’s playing whom.
But the important fact was that I was supposed to play in that match.
‘There’s no time.’
I had to warm up first.
It wasn’t just a simple warm-up.
‘One, two! Huhu!’
I had lived for over 40 years without legs.
Even just standing or walking felt awkward.
I had to get used to the very sensation of moving my legs.
At the same time, I organized my thoughts.
‘I don’t know if it’s a dream or what, but I won’t think too deeply about it.’
It’s the life I’ve longed for my whole life.
A life of freely roaming the field on two legs.
For now, I should just enjoy it.
My experience and memories from my time as a manager were a great help.
I’m someone who spent decades watching how players warm up.
Many of them were called world-class.
Thanks to that, I could at least do the minimum preparation.
At least the basic movements became free.
‘Run, stop while running, receive the ball lightly, pass the ball lightly.’
Of course, that was all there was to it.
“Gather around slowly!”
I stood in front of the coach who had called me earlier, following his cue.
“You all probably already know, but after today’s Blue-White match, those being released will be finalized.”
Ah. So that’s why he said ‘last chance’.
They’re probably gathering the players whose standing in the team is shaky to play a match.
It seems I, Seo Jae-woo, am included among them.
“Especially you, Seo Jae-woo.”
Why call me out all of a sudden.
This is ominous.
“You know this too, but there’s no more time to wait. You need to show your desperation now. If you can’t show something different this time, the team won’t be able to postpone the decision about you any longer.”
Hey.
Mister Coach.
The other players are all listening too.
Saying something like that to my face, what do you expect?
