Chapter 40 40: What a Fucking Stupid Idea
In a small bar by the River Tawe, business was good.
In the room inside, several young people were playing pool.
Middle-aged men who had come here after work to relax with a drink sat in small groups around the tables.
On the ceiling-mounted television, Swansea's match against Peterborough United was being replayed.
It was the match that had ended two days ago, the second round of the Football League Trophy.
On the screen, James Cook sent in a forty-five-degree cross from the right wing.
The ball dropped toward the far post, where Villa arrived on time and met it with a first-time volley, sending it into the top-left corner!
It was absolutely brilliant.
Even watching it again, people inside the little bar still raised their glasses and cheered.
"Swansea are definitely getting promoted this year! Haha, look at these lads. Every one of them has something special. The players Lynn bought are such good value!"
A bearded middle-aged man happily drained his glass. Beside him, a man wearing a flat cap also praised them endlessly.
"That's right. Zlatan and David have already scored twenty-three goals between them. Those two strikers can score at least eighty goals in a season!"
"Hahaha, Doyle, you definitely bought a betting slip too, didn't you?"
"Of course. I put a hundred pounds on Swansea to get promoted. Look, the ticket's right here. Sixty-five-to-one odds. In another half a year, I'll be collecting six thousand five hundred pounds!"
Doyle took off his flat cap and showed his bearded friend the betting slip. It turned out he had sewn it into the inside of the cap.
But at the bar counter, someone suddenly let out a heavy cold snort, then stood up and walked toward the exit.
That snort drew the attention of the others. Someone recognized his face and immediately mocked him.
"Oh, isn't this the famous ITV Wales reporter? David Livingstone. Pah!"
As soon as he finished speaking, the man spat toward Livingstone, who also had a beard and now looked somewhat down and out.
Many people in the bar stood up and followed his example.
Although they did not truly spit on Livingstone himself, the gesture was still a deeply insulting one.
After spitting, everyone began heckling Livingstone, telling him to get out.
"This is a Swansea supporters' bar. You're not welcome here. Get out!"
"Out! Out! Out!"
Livingstone gritted his teeth.
A ferocious look flashed across his face, but in the end, he could only swallow his anger.
His war with Lynn had not lasted very long.
Once Swansea got on track and began sweeping through Division Three, Livingstone's columns no longer had any supporters willing to buy into them.
At that moment, Lynn added fuel to the fire.
During an interview program on BBC Wales, he crudely spat on Livingstone's column article.
That gesture was then imitated by many Swansea supporters.
ITV Wales very much wanted to repair its relationship with Lynn, because for quite some time, they had been unable to obtain exclusive news from inside Swansea!
Lynn had said only one sentence to the person in charge at ITV Wales:
"I don't want to see Livingstone again. That includes his writing."
And so Livingstone suffered a turning point in his career.
He was fired by ITV Wales!
When Livingstone went to Lynn to demand an explanation, Lynn did not even acknowledge him.
Walking out of the bar, with light rain falling from the sky, Livingstone wandered along the quiet street, feeling utterly lost.
It was as if he could see the waters of Swansea Bay flowing backward, flooding the city of Swansea.
And upon the water was an invading sailboat, with Lynn's name written across its sail!
His empty eyes no longer had any light in them.
He believed that he had lost a war to defend tradition and dignity.
He knew that Swansea had become Lynn's possession, and those fans in the city who had no bottom line and no principles had all betrayed their heritage!
They had all become Lynn's dogs, celebrating for Lynn, wagging their tails at Lynn, begging for his favor, and doing everything they could to please their master.
Livingstone's lonely figure disappeared down the bleak street.
Whether this blow to his career would leave him unable to recover, no one knew.
But Lynn had been ruthless enough.
Everyone in the industry knew why ITV Wales had fired Livingstone.
In other words, in order to build a good relationship with Swansea, now the hottest club in Wales, almost no media outlet would recruit Livingstone.
Besides, Livingstone himself did not possess any truly special talent. He was even less useful than something tasteless but too wasteful to throw away.
No one would feel any pity about abandoning him.
...
On New Cut Road in Swansea, Brunel was waiting outside his house for department store staff to deliver goods to his door.
His two younger brothers stood beside him, unusually excited. The rainy weather did not affect their mood at all.
Inside their new home, Brunel's parents were proudly praising his achievements this year to their relatives.
They had just moved into a new house.
Although they had not bought it outright, Brunel felt no pressure at all about paying the mortgage.
A van pulled up in front of Brunel's home.
The driver got out in the rain, saw Brunel, and without needing to ask anything, said, "Sorry. It's raining today, and there was traffic near the New Bridge. The delivery's a bit late."
Brunel smiled. "It's fine."
His two brothers, both a little over ten years old, ran into the rain and helped the delivery driver move box after box from the van into the house.
A new color television, a refrigerator, a microwave, a computer, and the game console his two younger brothers could not wait to open and play with.
Brunel said goodbye to the delivery driver and generously gave him a five-pound tip. Then he turned and walked into the house.
Inside, his parents were smiling happily, while the relatives looked at the new appliances with envy. Brunel gently closed the door, then ran off to play video games with his two brothers.
East of Princess Street, beside Swansea's busiest commercial district, Lin Investment Company was located in an office building, occupying three entire floors.
Owen Glendower, dressed casually, arrived there.
After making inquiries at the front desk, he was arranged to meet an investment manager, who first took him on a tour of Lin Investment Company. Afterward, they sat down in the investment manager's office.
Glendower did not have any particular hobbies outside football. Despite being a nearly two-meter-tall giant, he was actually quite interested in investing.
He had made a request to Lynn, hoping that professionals in the industry could teach him a few things.
Lynn then contacted Lin Investment Company on his behalf.
Today, Owen Glendower had come here to study.
That filled him with anticipation and excitement.
Swansea's player dormitory had been completed half a month earlier.
Many foreign players had moved in. Evra, Grosso, Tobias Rau, and the others each had their own room.
Most of them saved their salaries.
From a long-term perspective, it was still uncertain whether they would remain in Swansea for years, so naturally, they could not easily decide whether to buy property there themselves.
The first floor of the dormitory was a sports center, complete with an indoor standard swimming pool.
At this moment, three people were competing in a 400-meter race across three lanes of the pool.
Charisteas, Nilsson, and Pedretti raced against one another.
Although Charisteas was tall and strong, he lacked some flexibility.
Naturally, his stroke frequency could not compare with Nilsson and Pedretti.
Although he finished last, he was still in a good mood. After joking with the others for a few lines, they all lay by the side of the pool and chatted.
In the indoor basketball court next door, Friedrich, Tobias Rau, Gabbidon, Grosso, and several others were playing a mixed basketball game with the dormitory management staff.
Another half of the players had gone to the club's training and rehabilitation center.
Inside the gym, Robert Bettenburg, Horatio Nelson, Kahlenberg, and Arthur Wellesley were sweating heavily on treadmills.
They were the team's substitutes, and their playing time was not especially high.
On one hand, they were indeed still young.
Most of them were only around eighteen.
But when they saw the first-team regulars improving at astonishing speed, it gave them a sense of urgency and crisis. Naturally, they had to strengthen their training.
Beside them was another inconspicuous figure.
Cristiano Ronaldo, whose body had become much stronger than it had been three months earlier, was silently running on a treadmill.
Every week, he would play youth league matches with the club's youth team.
His performances were always outstanding, but the youth team itself was not strong enough.
Their results fluctuated constantly, which made him very anxious.
Lynn had spoken to him privately and told him:
"Your future is not the youth team. The opponents you have to compete against will not always be people your own age!"
After his worries were removed and his family no longer had to worry about food and clothing, Cristiano Ronaldo became even more focused and serious.
On the second floor of the training and rehabilitation center, inside a small indoor pitch, Ibrahimović, Villa, James Cook, and Cromwell stood in the middle wearing training kits.
Ibrahimović crossed his arms and glanced at the machines placed around the little pitch.
He asked Cromwell curiously, "Oliver, what exactly are these things?"
Cromwell smiled mysteriously. "You'll know in a moment."
He picked up a remote control and pressed the start button.
Suddenly, a machine on the east side of the pitch fired out a football!
Villa was startled and quickly ducked down.
Ibrahimović, caught completely off guard, was hit in the back by the ball.
He immediately snapped, "What the hell is this?"
Cromwell quickly said, "It's a ball machine!"
Ibrahimović rubbed his back and looked back at the machine.
Around this small pitch, there were six ball machines in total.
Just now, he had thought the ball machine Cromwell was facing would be the one to fire.
He had not expected the machine behind him to launch the ball instead, ambushing him from behind!
Ibrahimović said irritably, "Why did the machine behind me suddenly fire the ball?"
Cromwell spread his arms and laughed loudly. "This is my genius concept! It trains our reaction ability. Just like masters in the movies training their reflexes in the dark. When we can't predict where the football will come from, we have to respond.
"I've divided it into three stages.
"The beginner stage: quickly judge the direction the ball is coming from and adjust your response.
"The intermediate stage: after adjusting, you must control the ball smoothly. Since the ball can come from every direction, the difficulty of controlling it will be very high, which will make our first touch even better!
"The advanced stage: hehehe, without stopping the ball, complete an accurate one-touch pass, or a shot. Or we add obstacles and complete a sequence of control, dribbling, and breakthrough movements!
"Isn't it amazing? Isn't this idea genius?"
Villa and James Cook stared at Cromwell as if they were looking at a monster.
Ibrahimović simply snorted in disdain. "You've watched too many sci-fi action films. Your idea is garbage! What player on the pitch doesn't know where the ball is coming from during a match? If you're not paying attention to the ball's position, what are you doing — turning your back to the play to admire the beautiful women in the stands?"
"What a fucking stupid idea!"