Became The Premier League’S Youngest Manager [EN]: Chapter 160

160. The Worst Start

The Puskás Aréna, located in Budapest, the capital of Hungary, stood ready.

This state-of-the-art stadium, completed in 2019, was rebuilt on the site of the former Ferenc Puskás Stadium, named after Hungarian football legend Ferenc Puskás. It boasts a massive capacity of 67,215 seats.

For the Europa League final, half of the stadium was awash in Tottenham’s white, and the other half in Burnley’s claret, as the fans’ passionate shouts and cheers echoed throughout.

And Henry Smythe, the official chairman of the Burnley Football Club supporters’ club, sitting in the center of the claret-colored grandstand, was struggling to maintain a composed expression.

*Ah, this was a trap.*

It was a mistake to jump at the offer when Burnley Football Club contacted the executives of the official supporters’ club to offer them tickets for the Europa League final.

*I should have realized there was some trickery involved when Burnley even offered to pay for the tickets…*

*I was a fool to sit next to one of Burnley Football Club’s legendary figures, and a member of the Burnley first team’s coaching staff who led their fairytale-like advance last season, after discovering him sitting right next to our assigned seats.*

Somehow, that little brat Henry Tyler went to the opposite end of the assigned seats as soon as he saw who was sitting there.

“…So, I told Kim! Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, I’m listening! Really! We were so lucky to have Senior Coach Brimlow last season!”

Henry Smythe answered in an exaggerated tone, as if he were performing on stage, but Arthur Brimlow, the former senior coach of the Burnley first team, who was sitting next to him waiting for the game to start, nodded as if satisfied.

“So I said! Let’s go with a full press!”

“Ah, I see!”

*My lines tend to be a bit repetitive, but I can’t help it.*

Henry Smythe, sitting in the best seat in the center of the grandstand allocated to Burnley, looked around with cold sweat trickling down his back.

*The game should start soon so that this British old man’s attention will be off me, but when will the game start? The pre-match entertainment is just going on and on.*

He desperately looked to his left for help, but his longtime friend Mitch Tyler maintained a strange posture, never turning his head more than 15 degrees to the right from the front, and was intently watching the stadium.

“…I really like the way that friend watches the game. In 1984, I… Are you listening?”

“Of course! I’m listening! Uh… So, in 1984…?”

“That’s right! In 1984, I was reminded of what happened in 1978…”

Arthur Brimlow, who hadn’t had a proper conversation in the past year, going back and forth between the hospital and home, continued to talk excitedly.

Henry Smythe, unaware that Clarissa Brimlow had cheered when she received Helena’s call, packed her husband’s luggage, sent him straight to Budapest, and then left for a vacation in Portugal, was sweating profusely and dragged into a journey that thoroughly examined Burnley Football Club’s history over the past 50 years, his position and role within it, and his experiences.

***

The space between the technical areas [the designated areas for coaches and staff] of both teams, located below the grandstand.

The two managers who would be competing in today’s final were facing each other in that neutral zone where only the assistant referee and game-related personnel usually moved.

“Ha, I was hoping it wouldn’t be you.”

“Well, so was I. But now that it’s like this…”

As Hyungmin warmly shook hands with Tottenham’s Antonio Conte, expressing both regret and anticipation, the hot-tempered Italian manager burst into a hearty laugh.

“Okay! I’ll make up for the two losses this season today!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Should I send you another bottle of wine?”

The young manager, whose expression turned slightly pale, hurriedly tried to break the handshake and escape, but Antonio Conte did not let go of his firmly held hand, but rather pulled Hyungmin closer.

“Let’s have a proper drink next time!”

“Ah, no!”

Helena, sitting in the director’s box above the grandstand, frowned as she watched the playful squabble between the two managers in the technical area.

The coaching staff of both teams were just watching with smiles, so I think I know roughly what kind of conversation is going on between the young Asian manager of Burnley, who is desperately trying to escape, and the Italian master of Tottenham, who is gesturing emphatically and not letting go of his hand.

“Hmm… I think I need to order another bottle of Kachacha [likely a high-proof spirit, possibly similar to grappa]?”

What Helena Cartwright is most infamous for among her family and friends is not her outstanding abilities, her ruthless negotiating power, or her terrifying metabolism that doesn’t allow her to gain weight no matter how much she eats.

The first is her fierce touch that seems like bones will break if you get hit even once.

There is a painfully learned reason why both her older brother and younger brother in the Cartwright siblings only try to talk to Helena from outside her punching range.

In the evaluation that she would have become a once-in-a-lifetime champion if she had switched to boxing or martial arts, Helena’s second most famous trait was her alcohol tolerance.

A tremendous ability to break down alcohol with a clear mind even after drinking, and no hangover the next day.

Metabolism and alcohol tolerance have nothing to do with each other, but since both are showing superhuman skills, there were surprisingly many friends who believed the rumor that food or liquid is sent to another dimension rather than the digestive system after passing through the throat.

Unaware that such a ruthless being was glaring at him from above, plotting to get him drunk, Antonio Conte finally let go of his hand after talking excitedly for a long time, and Hyungmin immediately fled back to his technical area.

A middle-aged man sitting next to Helena, who was still frowning, spoke to her with a tone of amusement.

“The two seem to be very close. Antonio isn’t usually the type to talk to the opposing team’s manager so happily.”

Helena smiled brightly at the words of Fabio Paratici, who scouted Antonio Conte from Juventus and became Tottenham’s football director after rejoining the hot-tempered manager at Tottenham.

“I know, right! Let’s arrange a dinner for everyone sometime. We’ll go to London!”

*Antonio Conte will have to be carried home.*

Fabio Paratici, who did not fully grasp the true meaning of her proposal, smiled and nodded at Helena’s subtle, almost bitter smile.

“Of course! Antonio usually praises Burnley’s manager Kim a lot. It’s a bit much that he gave us two losses this season, though…”

“Hahaha, well, what can you do?”

While Helena and Fabio Paratici exchanged smiles in the box seat, the players began to enter the stadium as the pre-match entertainment concluded.

***

“…I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

The moment when they entered the pitch, listened to the Europa League theme song, shook hands with each other, exchanged team pennants between the captains, and stood in their respective halves waiting for the start of the game.

As the cheers of the crowd grew louder and the players focused all their attention on the stadium, Karim Adeyemi approached his friend Nicolas Seiwald, looking at Tottenham’s pure white uniforms standing across the stadium, and complained.

“I know.”

“Ah, why did I bet on Matt Doherty! I should have thought that Lucas Moura would start!”

“It’s okay. Almost everyone bet on Matt Doherty.”

Whether Tottenham would score an early goal and defend deep, or defend deep early and look for counter-attacking opportunities throughout the game.

Nicolas Seiwald, who realized he’d chosen the wrong answer on the questionnaire given by the manager in the form of a bet, clicked his tongue, grabbed his head, and looked at his friend.

“You?”

“I bet on Lucas Moura.”

Karim Adeyemi looked at Nicolas Seiwald with a shocked expression at his friend’s calm answer.

“Why?!”

“The manager’s hunch is better than the coaches’ in these things.”

Looking at the technical area, the coaching staff, frowning behind the gleeful manager, were all sitting on the bench with their arms crossed, looking at the stadium gloomily.

“So how much did you bet?”

“100 pounds.”

Karim Adeyemi whistled softly.

“Then the odds were 1.5x…”

“I’ll earn about 150 pounds.”

“Hey, if that hits, you’re buying dinner.”

Nicolas Seiwald looked at his friend with an incredulous expression, sorted the priorities of what he wanted to say in his head, and decided to say the most important thing first.

“Hey, the game’s starting. Get back to your position quickly?”

“Ah, that’s right!”

***

“Aja! Aja aja aja! [A Korean cheer, similar to ‘fighting!’]”

“Oh!”

Hyungmin kicked the grass as he watched the opposing team’s manager, who was throwing punches into the air and performing a flamboyant celebration in the opposing team’s technical area.

The game started with Tottenham’s kickoff.

Harry Kane, Tottenham’s central striker, passed the ball back with the referee’s whistle to Rodrigo Bentancur, who was selected as a central midfielder.

The midfielder of the Uruguayan national team, who blossomed at Tottenham, immediately connected with Lucas Moura, Tottenham’s right wing-back, who was quickly penetrating down the right flank.

I expected them to try to attack quickly from the start, but the Burnley manager, coaching staff, and players were all caught off guard at the moment when they didn’t even have a preliminary exchange and immediately launched their first attack in the final with the kickoff.

Lucas Moura dribbled the ball forward and easily shook off Burnley’s left defender Abdou Diallo, who was rushing to intercept, and quickly advanced near the corner flag.

“Sonny!”

“Yeah.”

Lucas Moura, who reached the corner flag, shouted to his teammate and sent a low cross into the penalty box.

And Son Heung-min, who lightly shook off Burnley’s central defenders who were scrambling to block Tottenham’s central strikers, quickly approached the destination of the cross and secured a perfect shooting opportunity near the penalty spot.

“James!!”

At goalkeeper Nick Pope’s urgent shout, Burnley captain James Tarkowski threw his whole body to block Son Heung-min’s shooting angle, but Tottenham’s experienced striker had no intention of shooting through the physical defense blocking him and the goal.

The ace of the Korean national team, smirking, slightly pushed the ball to the left with the outside of his left foot, and the place where the ball arrived was another central striker, Harry Kane, who was already waiting.

They have already proven that they are the most formidable combination in the history of the Premier League, having played together for many years.

They didn’t even exchange a word, but as if they already knew that one would give the ball to the other who had a better chance in this situation, the ace of the England national team, who was already slightly lifting his right foot in anticipation, unleashed a powerful shot.

*Thud!*

The fierce shot pierced through the upper left corner of Burnley’s goal like a bullet and barely stopped in the wildly swaying goal net.

“Uwaaa!!!”

Cheers erupted from half of the grandstand towards the Tottenham players who flocked to the corner flag and celebrated all at once, and sighs of despair erupted from the other half.

The clock on the scoreboard had only passed 2 minutes.

Burnley’s first ever appearance in the final of a European competition.

The worst start.