May, evening, London.
A fine drizzle fell as pedestrians woven through the streets like thread.
Old John’s Tavern, situated on the corner of a small street in East London, usually had lackluster business, but today it was packed with customers.
Because today was the day of the Champions League Final—the 2007–2008 season Champions League Final, featuring two teams from England: Manchester United against Chelsea!
All domestic league competitions in England had ended, and before the new season began, this was the only match to watch.
Consequently, it had attracted a large number of fans.
Whether they supported Manchester United or Chelsea, everyone was willing to grab a beer in the tavern, watching the game while chatting and boasting with friends.(TN: Yeah cause its only one of the biggest games of the year, especially in a year which does not have Euros or World Cup.)
Watching the game at a tavern is an English tradition.
Perhaps because there were so many viewers today, Old John’s Tavern was enjoying a rare day of booming business.
Since they were watching a match, the atmosphere in the tavern should naturally have been noisy and heated.
However, at this moment, Old John’s Tavern was as quiet as a high-end café—if one were to ignore the rusty doors and windows, and the pungent mixture of beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke hitting the nose.
The match hadn’t seen any major upheavals yet.
Chelsea was currently in possession, but the score was one-nil in favour of Manchester United.
That was thanks to a header scored by Cristiano Ronaldo in the twenty-sixth minute.
After Manchester United scored, the match began to seem dull.
Compared to their iron-blooded defence, Chelsea’s offensive capabilities weren’t as strong.
However, what kept the many fans in the tavern quiet wasn’t the lackluster Champions League Final, but a person.
A man dressed entirely in black.
The high collar of his large black coat obscured his face.
Beneath a thick head of black hair, one could only discern the silhouette of an Asian man.
Even with him sitting in a chair, the patrons could estimate his height—definitely over one hundred and eighty centimetres.
Several bottles of whisky sat on the table.
The man remained silent for a moment before raising his glass again.
Gulp, gulp…
As if drinking water, he downed a glass of strong liquor in one go…
This was high-proof whisky, which the British call the ‘Water of Life’!
The red-faced English brutes around him also swallowed hard.
Some looked at each other in surprise, whilst others had eyes full of respect or even admiration.
“Which bottle is this??”
“The seventh, right??”
“It looks like the eighth to me…”
The patrons’ attention was completely captivated by this man.
Compared to a tedious match, a man who could drink seven or eight bottles of hard liquor without batting an eye was far more interesting.
Clink, clink…
The sound of a bottle tapping against a glass.
Another bottle of whisky was empty…
The man turned around, and only then did the patrons see the face of this Asian man clearly.
Sword-like eyebrows, deep eye sockets, a high bridge of the nose, thin lips, and a sharp, resolute face.
His sharp gaze made people afraid to meet his eyes…
This was definitely not someone to mess with!
Most of the patrons who had been staring at the man quickly looked away.
“Isn’t that the Chelsea coach?!” a deliberately lowered voice whispered.
“Yes, yes, yes, I remember now.
It’s that Chinese coach from Chelsea!!” someone echoed with a boozy hiccup.
“A Chelsea coach?
Hey, mate, don’t kid me.
Chelsea’s coach is Grant now, and he’s in Russia with his team.
Besides, do you really think Abramovich, that Russian, would hire a Chinese man to be Chelsea’s coach??”
“Exactly!
I heard that Russian is a racist!”(TN: I don’t think thats true.
Officially at least.)
“I hate Abramovich, even though I’m a Chelsea fan!”
“I’m telling the truth.
His name is Gao Bo, he’s Chinese.”
“Just half a month ago, he led Chelsea U18 to win the FA Youth Cup title!!” A man with bloodshot eyes stood up.
He was wearing a Chelsea number eight jersey—a fan of Chelsea or Lampard.
The tavern quietened down slightly as people took another look at the man.
On the football pitch, whilst East Asian faces aren’t common, one or two can usually be seen in weekly matches.
There are several Chinese players currently playing in the English leagues, like Sun Jihai at Manchester City and Zheng Zhi at Charlton…
But as for coaches…
in the fans’ memory, they had never seen an East Asian serving as a coach in a major European league.
However, leading Chelsea U18 to the FA Youth Cup title was enough to prove this man’s ability.
In the arena of sports, the winner is king, so no one questioned whether this man was qualified to be a coach for the Chelsea youth team.
“Hey, mate, your news is outdated.
I heard Gao Bo got fired by Chelsea…”
“Oh…”
Inside the tavern, the fans cast sympathetic glances at Gao Bo.
So he was just an unemployed unlucky bastard.
“Didn’t he just lead Chelsea U18 to the FA Youth Cup title?”
“I heard Abramovich didn’t like him…”
“I heard he offended one of the Chelsea directors…”
“Firing a coach who just won a title…
England’s football traditions have completely vanished at Chelsea.”
“It’s all that damn Russian’s fault…”
“I heard Abramovich is a racist!!”
“Russians are always so barbaric…”
In the tavern, heated by alcohol, the English began to launch verbal attacks against Russians.
“Bartender…”
Gao Bo turned and snapped his fingers.
The bartender immediately brought over a bottle of whisky.
Under the admiring or sympathetic gazes of the crowd of Englishmen, another glass of whisky went down.
He drank whisky like it was cold water…
Even after a glass of strong liquor, Gao Bo felt nothing.
“Hey, man, aren’t you a coach?
Take a look at me, what position do I play?”
A round, chubby man wobbled over to Gao Bo’s side.
Gao Bo frowned and looked at the fat man in front of him.
A light screen that only Gao Bo could see appeared out of thin air.
Explosiveness: 20 Oh, how terrible…
Stamina: 22 Can someone with this kind of stamina even play football?
…Following the string of data on the light screen, Gao Bo looked through them one by one.
Even on an amateur pitch, this fat man would basically be useless.
He couldn’t run, dribble, or shoot.
His offensive and defensive skills were a total mess.
Regarding physical stats, everything besides weight was basically unwatchable…
Goalkeeping Skill: 55 !!!!(TN: The old fat guy we always stuck in goal during our school days.)
Gao Bo was shocked!
This useless fat man was actually a goalkeeper?
Gao Bo couldn’t help but take a closer look at this fat goalkeeper who was so drunk he was slurring his words.
Truly, appearances can be deceiving.
A goalkeeper with a skill rating of 55 is considered very excellent on the amateur stage.
It was just a pity this guy was so fat; otherwise, some lower-league teams would surely be interested in him.
“Seeing how fat you are, the only position suitable for you is goalkeeper.” Gao Bo looked away, and the light screen vanished.
Gao Bo hadn’t had time to carefully investigate the source of this light screen, but he knew it was an incredibly useful tool for a football coach—being able to see a person’s attributes.
For a coach, wasn’t this the same as playing FM?
Unfortunately, it could only be used once a day.
Using it on this fat man today was a waste.
Gao Bo raised his glass and drained it.
“You can tell just by looking?” The fat man scratched the back of his head.
“Nonsense, Old Kenny, you’re so fat you can only be a goalkeeper because goalkeepers don’t have to run…”
“Hahaha…”
The tavern erupted in laughter.
Kenny, the fat goalkeeper, didn’t mind the mockery.
“Then take a look, what will the result of this match be?” Kenny asked, pointing at the television screen.
“Chelsea is about to equalise…” Gao Bo raised his glass and drank it all.
It was already the forty-fourth minute of the match, and Manchester United was still leading Chelsea one-nil.
“Impossible, Manchester United won’t give Chelsea that kind of chance…”
“The half is almost over.
Players on both sides are probably already thinking about the second half…”
The fans in the tavern discussed animatedly.
English fans know their football well and wouldn’t change their minds just because of a professional’s judgement like Gao Bo’s.
Kenny grinned and took a few swigs directly from the bottle.
“Hehe, how about a bet?
If Chelsea scores before the end of the first half, your drinks today are on me.
If they don’t, I get to drink for free today…” The big man winked.
“Dare to bet, mate?”
“Hey, Old Kenny, that’s not very fair…”
“Isn’t this just bullying him…”
Some people in the tavern spoke up against the unfairness.
“Then I’ll thank you for the treat today…” Gao Bo grinned and raised his glass in a toast.
As someone who had lived through this, he knew exactly how this Champions League match would unfold.
Just then, the first half reached the 45th minute, nearing the whistle.
Essien took a long shot from outside the box.
Actually, he probably didn’t have much of a plan for the ball; he just wanted to let one rip to end the half, as he had been having a rough time facing CR7.
As it turned out, the ball hit Ferdinand’s leg, then bounced off Vidić’s back, and after two deflections, it landed in the middle of the box.
Van der Sar wasn’t close enough to the ball and couldn’t come out to claim it; he even tripped whilst trying to charge out.
At that moment, Lampard, who happened to be following up, ran into the box from outside and struck the ball, which flew smoothly into the net.
1-1, Chelsea had equalised.
A cheer erupted in the tavern.
This was London, after all, and Chelsea’s fan base in London was better than Manchester United’s.
Some fans also held their heads in their hands, clearly frustrated that Chelsea had equalised.
But whether cheering or frustrated, the fans quickly focused their attention back on Gao Bo.
Gao Bo had just said Chelsea was going to score, and then Chelsea actually scored.
Was there anything more miraculous than that?
Kenny was also among the cheering crowd; the old fat man was a Chelsea fan too.
“Coach Gao Bo, drink as much as you want, it’s all on me today!!!”
Gao Bo ignored Kenny, who was slapping his shoulder painfully hard.
He watched Lampard on the screen, who was pointing to the sky in celebration.
Next, neither side would score in the second half, then it would go to extra time, then Terry would slip, and after that, Manchester United would lift the Champions League trophy.
That was how the story would go!
Memories from 2018 and thoughts from 2008 became entangled.
Gao Bo stared at the television screen, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his glass.