Godfather Of Champions

Translator: Nyoi-Bo Studio Editor: Nyoi-Bo Studio

The paramount state of defensive counterattack was to play for eighty-nine minutes and fifty seconds under pressure from the opponent, to be totally battered during this period, constantly facing danger, looked like the goal would be conceded at any time and completely at an overall disadvantage whether in terms of the situation or technical statistics. But…

The "but" was the essence of the defensive counterattack.

But one would not concede the goal. Then one would fight back in the last ten seconds and launch a sneak attack to set the score at 1:0. Victory was secured.

Therefore, the defensive counterattack was always linked with the "doctrine of 1:0" and "conservative play" and was considered to be the representative of ugly football. It was the main target of the fans' hatred and critics' disdain.

But Twain liked it. Because it could bring victory to him.

※※※

"Gareth Bale! This was his first goal in the Champions League! And it came by so easily. He was not marked by anyone. He just had to set it up a little… and he did it!"

The little monkey, Gareth Bale had dreamt of the scenario countless times before he scored the goal: what would it be like for him to score a goal in an important game like the Champions League? He had also conceived his celebratory move after he scored the goal. He tried so many that he could not remember them all.

But after he scored the goal, he forgot the move he had prepared. He just knelt with open arms and looked up at the sky. The brilliant floodlights cast on him, surrounded by the night sky. There was only uproar and applause. At that moment, he was the main character on the stage.

A figure appeared in Bale's vision while he looked up at the night sky. It was his teammate, Eastwood, who leaped high into the air and crushed him under his body without waiting for Bale to react.

"Wow."

Soon after, more Forest players swarmed them and piled on top of the pair with them at the bottom. It was their favorite way to celebrate, whether it was to squash their teammates or coaches.

George Wood did not join in the fun. He stood outside the pile of people, clenched and pumped his fists.

The Forest team's substitutes' bench became a sea of joy, with everyone hugging each other. This score was indeed uplifting with the score of two away goals and leading Chelsea. The Forest team was in a good situation.

Contrary to the joyous atmosphere on this side of the Forest team, the Chelsea substitutes' bench and the coaches' area were silent. Mourinho bit his lower lip and closely watched the big screen, which was replaying the entire process of that goal from the Forest team.

George Wood's sudden insertion messed up Chelsea's defensive plans. Terry did not dare to ignore the man who had been active in this game, only to overlook another person.

Gareth Bale!

Mourinho furiously etched the name in his heart. He was truly the bane of his existence. The first goal of his career was scored against his team and his first goal in the Champions League was again entered in his team's goal… Damn it, Twain must have brought on this guy on purpose!

※※※

"Nottingham Forest's young players are developing. The talent who were brought from all over to the youth team and then promoted from the youth team to the First Team by Tony Twain are now currently key forces in a game. George Wood, Gareth Bale, Pique… We can expect even more from them in the future."

Little time was left for the game, and the commentator began to make concluding remarks. On the field, Chelsea launched a frenzied counterattack. The Forest team stayed parked in their endzone. With eleven players compacted within the thirty-meter area, they closed all the holes to block Chelsea's long shot.

The Nottingham Forest people off the field all stood and stood shoulder to shoulder on the sidelines to begin the countdown for the game.

Twain was squeezed in between Dunn and Kerslake. He glanced next door at Mourinho, who sat motionless on the bench. He could not see his face clearly, and had no way of knowing what his expression was… it had to be great?

Next to him, Kerslake had already eagerly raised his arms to celebrate their victory. Around him, a few people also acted the same as him.

Although the Forest team looked battered on the field, people were not worried because they had seen many such scenes.

The referee blew the whistle at full-time conclusively after Shevchenko missed his shot.

At this moment, the Stamford Bridge stadium were filled with the cheers of the visitor fans, but soon the cheers were drowned out by the boos from the Chelsea fans, who would not tolerate their opponent celebrating their victory on their territory.

They won and yet wanted to twist the knife? No way!

"Nottingham Forest won the first bout and it was a precious away victory! Although it's quite normal for either team to win, as both are a similar strength, it is still amazing to see the Forest team take down Chelsea in this away game. Mourinho continues his embarrassing record of being unable to defeat. In the contest between the two managers, Twain wins one round, but whether he can win in the end depends on the second leg at Nottingham's City Grounds stadium."

The people around him ran up to celebrate, and Twain turned around to walk toward the Chelsea technical area.

The handshake after a game was custom. And he wanted to get a closer look at Mourinho's expression.

Mourinho knew that Twain was not being gracious by walking over. He knew exactly what the other party wanted to do, and he would not give Twain this chance.

Twain grinned at Mourinho as he walked towards him. Halfway through, he discovered that Mourinho had turned around to head straight to the players' tunnel.

The smile froze on his face.

He had once given other people attitude. He did not expect to be treated the same by other people.

His outstretched hand awkwardly scratched his head and Twain shrugged before he turned back to the field.

"Little Monkey, you did a good job!" He said loudly at the incoming Bale with a smile. His mood lightened up again.

Suit yourself if you don't want to shake hands. By all means, don't let me see your expression. I've won!

Bale heard Twain's shout and stopped to smile at Twain. He did not know what to say.

Twain noticed that his stomach looked big. "What is this?" He asked as he pointed to Bale's rounded belly.

"Heheh… the football, chief." Bale carefully pulled the football out of his jersey and said, "the ball that I shot in. I grabbed it; I want to keep it. This was my first goal in the Champions League. I just saw the referee looking for it… Don't tell them, chief!"

Twain nodded. "Very well, I won't say a thing. Just bring it to the locker room and hide it quickly!"

Bale ran past Twain to the tunnel but was surrounded halfway by a swarm of reporters who had to interview him. Looking at Bale's self-conscious expression, Twain laughed.

※※※

Although he lost the game, Makelele still approached George Wood, hoping to swap jerseys with him.

"I've heard some things about you. Heard that you never accept the suggestion of swapping jerseys after you've lost the game." Makelele stood in front of Wood as he spoke in clumsy English.

Wood nodded.

Makelele took off his jersey and handed it to Wood. "You won today and may not necessarily win the next time."

Wood also took off his jersey and exchanged jerseys with Makelele.

He thought that was the end of it, but when he got ready to turn and go, he was stopped by Makelele, who said something in French to Wood, who did not understand.

Wood blankly watched Makelele turn and leave until Ribery suddenly appeared beside him.

"He said that defense isn't just dependent on the body," Ribery translated for Wood. When he saw Wood frown, Ribery patted him on the shoulder to reassure him. "He must be frustrated that he lost to you in the physical confrontation and that's why he said that, George. Come on, let's celebrate the victory with everyone!"

Wood was dragged to the middle of the crowd by Ribery.

Makelele had walked to the mixed zone, with Wood's number 13 red jersey over his bare shoulders. It stood out in the crowd.

"Well, this is that guy's jersey." Makelele nodded when he was asked by a reporter and added, "he's very good but still inexperienced."

※※※

Instead of celebrating the victory on the field like everyone else, Twain went straight to the press conference venue. It was empty, and he sat on the platform, waiting for the reporters in the mixed zone to finish the interviews.

Because there was no one, Twain put his feet up on the table and leaned against the back of the chair. He tilted the chair back, the full weight of his body only supported by two thin legs of the chair. There was no one there so he could relax.

A rattle came from the side entrance. He turned his head to look and found that Mourinho pushing the door open.

Mourinho looked up and saw him and the two of them met gazes.

Crash!

The two slender chair legs finally could not support Twain's full weight. Tilted to a side, the unprepared Twain was thrown out of his chair, and his head hit a sponsor's sign behind him.

When he saw this comical scene, Mourinho could not help but laugh.

Twain grimaced in pain and climbed up from the ground. He was a little mortified when he saw Mourinho still laughing.

"You're in a good mood, Mr. Mourinho," Twain said with some embarrassment as he picked up the fallen chair, only to find that the legs of the chair had buckled. He could not tell if it was completely broken or not.

After trying unsuccessfully to straighten the legs of the chair, Twain stood up and scanned the room. The reporters' seats were the same as the coaches' seats. They were identical blue chairs with backs.

Looking at this chair with the crooked legs in his hands, Twain stepped down from the platform and simply pulled out an intact chair from the press gallery and switched them.

He carefully put down the damaged chair in a row of seats and took a few steps to scrutinize it. When he saw that the flaw could not be discerned, he was satisfied and walked back to the platform

When he first saw Twain, Mourinho was going to turn around and leave, but now he stood on the side and watched Twain with interest.

After Twain had finished, he realized that Mourinho was still there. He was a little surprised and asked, "you didn't leave?"

"Why should I go? Is this your house?" Mourinho came over and sat in his own seat.

The two men sat side by side, waiting for the reporters to arrive.

"Didn't you run away when you saw me just now? I was going to shake your hand after the game, Mr. Mourinho. Leaving the field without shaking hands after the game was a very ungracious thing to do," Twain said, looking at the empty seats in front of him.

"It's more gracious than giving a silver medal to someone else after the final." Mourinho did back down and spoke as he looked ahead as well.

The two men were clearly engaged in a dialogue, but deliberately chose not to look at each other.

"I'm sorry to beat you at your home ground, Mr. Mourinho." Twain sprinkled salt in Mourinho's wound.

Mourinho did not even crease his brow and said, "No need for apologies, Mr. Twain. It will be my turn to beat you at your home ground in the next round."

"Don't say it with such confidence, Mr. Mourinho. Otherwise, it will be so hard to watch when it doesn't happen. You see, I never said we will be able to advance to the final, although it is the case."

Mourinho grunted. He did not want to talk to the thick-skinned fellow.

While the two men bickered, the reporters arrived at the press conference from the mixed zone in succession. The two men stopped talking and observed which unlucky bastard would end up sitting on the special chair in the middle.

Strangely, many reporters walked past the front of that chair, and someone even hesitated, intending to sit down. But in the end, no one stepped into the trap. It was a bit disappointing for Twain.

When the host saw that most people had arrived, he announced the start of the press conference. That was when the door was pushed open again and a fat reporter barged in, covered in perspiration. Twain glanced at his media pass, which had a striking "The Sun" on it.

He's from The Sun. That's awesome.

When they saw him barge in, Mourinho and Twain both turned their eyes toward the empty seat in the middle.

"I'm sorry," the reporter apologized as he laboriously squeezed through the crowd to the empty seat. Everyone who had been seated had to get up again to make way for him, otherwise he would not be able to squeeze through. He was too fat.

Mourinho raised his eyebrows, and Twain pretended to look serious.

Finally, after some difficulty, the reporter finally squeezed in. He wiped the sweat on his forehead, and then sat down right down.

Mourinho narrowed his eyes, and Twain whistled.

Crash!

The fat man looked up guiltily at everyone. He became everyone's focus.

※※※

"Hahahaha!"

On the bus back to Nottingham, Twain recounted this scene at the press conference to the players and everyone laughed heartily.

They had good reason to be so relaxed. The away win over their old rival, Chelsea, had convinced this group of people that the team which would eventually advance to the final this season must be them and no one else.

"Have a good rest, guys. Once you alight from the bus, you won't have time to relax." Twain stood at the front of the bus. "There are still five rounds left in this season. We have little hope for the league title, but we must make sure that we qualify for the next season's Champions League. We cannot relax until this is confirmed. Then there is the Champions League. We're now at the most critical juncture. The away win over Chelsea does not mean that we will definitely go to Athens, but our hopes are greater than theirs. I don't want to see a conceited Forest team that underestimates its enemy in one week. Do you remember what I said? We don't have the right to relax until we have won the Champions League title. The closer we get to the end, the more we have to brace ourselves. When we get closest to the victory, the tragedy should happen to our opponent, and definitely not us!"

"Yes!!" Everyone replied loudly in the bus compartment.

※※※

At London's Heathrow Airport, a slightly plump and gray-haired middle-aged man waited to board the flight in the departure hall. He was on the phone.

"Yes, I just watched the game. I can't say for sure. This was only the first leg. Just put together the information on both teams. No matter which team it's going to be, it will us who wins in the end. Istanbul will not happen again."

Ending the call, this man leaned back on his chair and closed his eyes. His mind was occupied with the semi-final game that had just ended.

He had initially been optimistic about Chelsea, who had played at home. However, oddly enough, Nottingham Forest was the most impressive one when he closed his eyes now.

Defensive counterattack?

That would be fantastic. AC Milan had enough experience to deal with a team that defended to the end. Playing defense in front of the Italians? Tony Twain, if you're lucky enough to make it to the finals, AC Milan will show what real defense is.