MTL NOVEL Chapter 59: 59
There were five minutes left until kickoff.
The visitor's locker room still reeked of filth.
The starting players of the Southampton Stags couldn't wait to get out and stand in the player tunnel.
But Coach Carter remained completely composed, utterly unaffected by the disgusting environment.
"Pirate Ship has a strong home advantage. Their pressing is fierce, so when you're on the ball, you must protect it well. Do not let their aggression force you into mistakes."
"Additionally, our strategy for the first half will be defensive counterattacks. We're playing a 4-2-3-1 formation."
The players exchanged glances in confusion.
Their most familiar formation in training was 4-4-2, particularly the diamond midfield variation.
While they had practiced 4-2-3-1 before, they had hardly used it in actual matches.
Coach Carter continued, "Bohr, you're playing double pivot with Bread in midfield."
"Yes, Coach!" said Bohr, a strong, muscular player from the practice squad, his excitement barely contained.
Carter gave him his mission, "Bohr, your only job is to mark their number 10, Albert. Wherever he goes, you go. If he goes to the sideline for a drink, you follow him to the urinal! Understood?"
Bohr stood at attention, his expression serious. "Yes, Coach! I swear I'll shut that bastard down!"
Carter then turned to Temp, the left-winger. "Temp, your job is not attacking. Your job is defending. If they break through your flank in the first half, you're dead meat!"
Temp shuddered, nodding quickly. "I'll do my best, Coach."
Carter snorted coldly. "Do your best? You think effort is enough? I need you to run yourself into the ground! Sacrifice your stamina! If you're not exhausted by halftime, you didn't do your job!"
Temp gritted his teeth. "Yes, Coach! I'll give it everything!"
Turning to Bread, Carter continued, "Bread, I need you to cover the left side frequently. No need to push up for attacks, just focus on filling any gaps behind Temp and Bohr."
Bread nodded firmly. "Understood, Coach."
"Remember, in the first half, defense comes first. Only then do we counterattack! The moment the ball reaches our defensive third, don't hesitate—clear it to the opponent's half and let our forwards fight for it."
"If we manage to control possession, all attacks will go through Watergate."
"Watergate, you'll play as a false nine. You have 80% shooting authority. If you see a chance, take the shot."
Watergate beamed with joy. "Yes, Coach!"
Being a false nine was a big deal.
In football, certain jersey numbers had specific positional meanings:
#1 → Goalkeeper #2 & #3 → Fullbacks #4 & #5 → Center-backs #8 → Central Midfielder (Box-to-Box Role) #9 → Striker (Pure Finisher) #10 → Playmaker (The Star Player, Team's Best)
A false nine, or "9.5" role, wasn't about the jersey number but a tactical role that mixed a striker's finishing ability with a midfielder's playmaking vision.
The entire attacking structure revolved around the false nine.
Even the actual striker had to support them.
Yet, Gu Ran felt something off.
The strategy seemed way too crude for Coach Carter's level.
This was the coach who had led Southampton to the national Top 32.
Would he really rely on such a basic defensive setup to hold off the stronger Pirate Ship team?
Sure, a draw in an away match would be a huge victory for the Stags.
But this messy game plan didn't seem reliable for even that.
Could they really hold on? Could they even score?
Gu Ran frowned slightly.
Carter then turned to Glider, their second forward. "Glider, your job is to disrupt their box, create space, and only shoot when you're confident. If you're unsure, pass."
"Understood, Coach!" Glider nodded.
Finally, Carter fixed his gaze on Rusty.
"Rusty! You need to track back and help Temp cover the left flank."
Rusty pounded his chest confidently. "Coach, don't worry! With me here, the defense is rock solid! Can we go now? This locker room smells like sh*t!"
The other players eagerly agreed, wanting to escape the stench.
Carter scanned the room, his voice low but sharp.
"What, you can't handle this? Do you feel suffocated in Manchester? Do you feel angry? Do you feel wronged?"
The players fell silent, their heads lowering slightly.
Carter sneered.
"Good."
"Competitive sports aren't the glamorous fairy tales you see on TV."
"This world is full of hostility, full of discrimination, full of dirty tricks."
"Feeling wronged? Feeling angry? Feeling that it's unfair?"
"None of that matters."
"Your frustration won't change a damn thing."
"The only thing you can do is get on that pitch and fight!"
"Fight like real men! Crush your opponents with your bodies! Shut them down with your teamwork! Outlast them with your will!"
"This is what the Southampton Stags are about!"
"You need to step onto that field and shove their arrogance down their throats! Make them realize that we're not to be messed with!"
"Otherwise, shut the f*ck up and stop whining!"
His tone wasn't loud, but every word slammed into their hearts like thunder.
Eyes burned red. Fists clenched tightly.
Gu Ran forced himself to calm down.
Don't get caught up in it. Don't be a hothead…
This is just Coach Carter's psychological game…
Carter's sharp gaze swept across every single player, then suddenly shouted:
"TELL ME! ARE YOU A BUNCH OF COWARDS FROM SOUTHAMPTON?!"
"NO, COACH! WE ARE NOT!"
The locker room shook with their deafening roar!
"DID YOU COME TO MANCHESTER JUST FOR A F*CKING MEAL?!"
"NO, COACH! WE DID NOT!"
"DID YOU COME HERE TO ROLL OVER AND LET THOSE BASTARDS WALK INTO THE ROUND OF 16?!"
"NO!!! COACH!!! WE DID NOT!!!"
Carter smirked. "Good—then prove it!"
Captain Bread stepped forward, raising his fist.
"SOUTHAMPTON STAGS! F*CK THEM UP!"
"FCK THEM UP! FCK THEM UP!!!"
Their battle cries shook the entire locker room.
Even the metal lockers hummed from the vibration.
…This is way too dramatic.
Gu Ran complained internally.
But at the same time, his blood boiled as he roared along with them!
His veins surged with adrenaline. His heart pounded wildly.
This was football!
Both teams lined up in the player tunnel, ready for kickoff.
The Pirate Ship team stood to the left, the Southampton Stags to the right.
Despite being just a high school match, everything followed professional procedures.
The FA-assigned referees took their positions.
Leading the starting 11, they stepped onto the pitch.
Manchester students erupted in madness!
"PIRATE SHIP FOR THE WIN!"
"5-1! 5-1! 5-1!"
"ALBERT, I LOVE YOU!"
"SOUTHERN HILLBILLIES, KISS MY A!"**
The stadium roared, shaking the very ground beneath them.
The battle had begun.