Translator: Nyoi-Bo Studio Editor: Nyoi-Bo Studio
Forest arrived in Paris two days before the Champions League’s finals.
“Paris, the city of fashion. Anelka, how does it feel to come home?” Ribéry asked his comrade.
Anelka looked at the scenery outside the car windows and blandly said, “It’s not too bad.”
Anelka was not born in Paris, but his first professional football club was Paris Saint-Germain; he had stayed long enough in Paris. Even now, he still owned a flat here.
“Hey, hey. Don’t chat in French. We don’t understand what you guys are talking about,” Ashley Young said beside them, feeling gloomy.
“There are a lot of beautiful women in France…” Eastwood whistled at a fashionable beauty walking by on the streets outside with someone.
“Freddy. You’re a father with two kids. You’d better watch your image.” Tang En said jokingly from the front, prompting laughter in the car.
Everyone in the team looked very relaxed, except for one person.
As Tang En turned back to talk to Eastwood, he took the chance to glance at George Wood sitting in the back row. He was looking out of the windows in a daze, staring at the scenery of Paris’ streets and was seemingly unaware of what had just taken place in the car.
Tang En sighed internally.
Originally, as George Wood was unable to participate in the match, he did not have to come along with the team. But, Tang En insisted on bringing him along, hoping to use this to show George that he was still an important member of the team. This might seem like a form of consolation, but some consolation is better than having none. Wood must feel like an outsider; everyone could look forward to the Champions League’s finals, but he alone could not.
And most importantly, Tang En was unable to comfort Wood at this point. He could not, in plain sight of everyone, walk to Wood’s side and pat his shoulders, saying, “It’s okay, George. Even if you can’t be there, you’re still a member of the team.”
In that way, everyone’s focus would be placed on Wood, and that was precisely what Wood did not want.
There was nothing Tang En could do other than look at Wood from afar and sigh.
※※※
When the team coach reached the hotel they were residing at, there were already several media groups waiting there.
The finals had long been regarded by the media as “the finals between artistic football and utilitarian football.” Naturally, Barcelona represented the side of artistic football. Meanwhile, due to Nottingham Forest’s insistence on playing defensive counterattacks and a tendency to play soccer that looked terrible but had beautiful results, they were regarded as the representative of utilitarianism.
Tang En was extremely unhappy with that. He did not deny that his team was somewhat utilitarian. However, what he hated was how simply and brutally the media pitted the two teams against each other; they placed Barcelona on an altar and worshipped them while making Nottingham Forest a target of their condemnation both in speech and writing.
So what if they played in an ugly manner? Playing ugly got them a win. What could they get from playing artistically? Ignore how Barcelona was all glorious now; no one knew who the glorious one would be in a few years.
The first to get off the coach bus was Tang En. The moment his feet landed on the ground, countless microphones extended from both sides of the corridor to his mouth. The questions came at him one after another; there was nothing fresh about them, with the majority related to Wood’s absence from the match. As the match got closer, the topic of Wood’s absence in the finals only became hotter. Everyone wanted to see how Forest, who had depended primarily on defense to get this far, would deal with Barcelona after having lost the most important defensive player on their team.
“How we’re dealing with them? Won’t you know when the match starts?” Tang En curtly answered such questions as he squeezed his way forward.
“Mr. Twain, as everyone well knows, your team has only reached the finals by depending on defense. Wouldn’t Wood’s absence make you more active in going on the offense?” Someone from the crowd asked this at the top of his voice.
Tang En heard the question and paused in his steps, casting his gaze toward the direction of the voice. This question poked at his sore spot and lent an opportunity for him to verbally vent his feelings of annoyance in the recent few days.
“Who asked that question?”
A bald man stood forward. “I’m a reporter from Mundo Deportivo…”
He had intended on introducing himself but was interrupted by Tang En. “Catalonia’s media? No wonder. What, you despise defense? Do you think our reaching the finals by depending on defense is disgraceful? Barcelona is artistic, very offensive. If they’re so good, why don’t you suggest for Rijkaard not to put in any fullbacks or goalkeeper? They could go on the offensive all the way, be artistic all the way, right? How many years have you been reporting about football? Do you understand football? Where are you from?”
Tang En was a breath away from following up with “Who the f**k is your mother?” but managed to suppress his anger in that crucial moment, stopping himself from swearing.
“Do you know what defense actually is? Do you understand the role of defense in modern football? You aren’t happy that we “only” reached the finals because of our defense? Are you saying that because you feel that the team you support will have a hard time facing our defense?”
Tang En was on a streak. He might as well stay put. Placing his luggage on the floor, he pointed a finger at the Barcelona reporter and schooled him. “Look at what the media has been writing: the finals between artistic football and utilitarian football! We’re utilitarian? Let me calculate it for you. Since the beginning of round 16 to the end of the semi-finals, how many goals did Barcelona score? Six! How many did Nottingham Forest score? In just the eighth-final alone, we’ve already scored five!” He opened his palm in the poor reporter’s face. “Up until the end of the semi-finals, we’ve scored nine! Don’t you all like to judge a team’s attacking strength based on their goal count? We’ve scored nine, and Barcelona scored six. Who’s utilitarian? Who’s offensive?”
Someone amid the crowd whistled; the sound of someone gloating over another person’s misfortune while watching the fun. Everyone liked watching Tang En do something like this; it meant they would soon have some sensational news to report.
“My team isn’t a circus to provide entertainment. I don’t have any obligation to fulfill the hobbies you guys have. I only care about the evaluation of our supporters and our board of directors. The Champions League is my aim. Whether it’s entertaining or not, I don’t care. Artistic football? I’m not Picasso. I’m not Vincent van Gogh. Goodbye, sir.”
After venting all his grievances, Tang En lifted his suitcase and turned to leave the bustling hotel entrance.
“Wow. The Boss is cool…” Lennon watched, starry-eyed.
“I can already predict the headlines tomorrow…” Albertini said, somewhat helplessly, beside him.
※※※
The finals had yet to take place, but Nottingham Forest had already become a point of focus for the media. Or, more specifically, it was their main manager, Tony Twain, who had become everyone’s focal point. Due to Tang En’s words the day before at the front of the hotel, the Spanish media retaliated furiously, stating his lack of basic respect, his arrogance, and how he was full of nonsense.
On the other hand, Nottingham’s and even England’s media supported Tang En, putting in an effort to make him out to be a very characteristic manager, spreading the news that he said what he did because of his straightforward personality.
As for other neutral media parties, they maintained a gleeful attitude of watching the fun and fighting to report it. Some of the article titles were tastefully named, The war between Tony Twain and Barcelona.
Readers could read this as Tony alone challenging team Barcelona, or Tony going against the city of Barcelona like Don Quixote, as well as the challenge to Catalonia represented behind it.
Anyhow, due to Tang En’s moment of rashness, the limelight and the firepower of the opponent’s media became entirely concentrated on him.
David Kerslake found this quite incomprehensible. He knew that Tang En could sometimes be extremely short-tempered with the media. He also knew that his recent mood had not been good. Perhaps it was because of the big battle coming his way, that it made him nervous to the point of being a little oversensitive. But at that point, the question from the reporter was not nakedly bashing how reserved Forest’s strategies were. It was, in fact, much politer than the commentary from other media outlets. So, Kerslake did not understand why it had caused Tang En to flare up so badly.
The next day, Tang En especially called up an attendant and tipped him, asking him to buy all available sports publications. Then, he took the papers and flipped them to the page with his photograph and the report on him. He arranged them neatly on the bed.
Sunlight streamed in from the windows and shone on the bed. He understood neither French nor Spanish, but it did not prevent him from admiring his own pictures.
Just like how he would admire an art piece, he stood by the bed with his head cocked, looking at the newspapers emitting the scent of ink.
After David Kerslake knocked on the door and entered, he was completely mystified coming upon this scene.
“Tony, what are you doing?”
“As you can tell, I’m reading the newspaper.” Without moving his head, Tang En continued looking at the newspaper on the bed.
“Reading it like that?” Kerslake walked over and imitated how Tang En had his head cocked. Other than those striking photos, he could not read anything else.
“Can you understand this?” he asked.
“There’s no need to understand it. I can guess what they’re writing. Without a doubt, it’ll be the same old things… Do you want me to regurgitate it to you?”
Kerslake shook his head. “I’m here to ask you about this, Tony. There’s something odd about you losing your temper at the hotel front yesterday. I can’t figure it out. It’s very strange. Or really… I felt that your temper came too suddenly.”
“Venting one’s emotions isn’t like playing a match. There’s no need to warm-up beforehand…” Tang En walked over and pointed at the newspapers on the bed, saying, “Look at this. They’re all pictures of me and my name. They’re all discussing me. Whether they’re supporting me or cursing my mother, all their focus is on me.”
“You’re famous, Tony. But you don’t really need this kind of fame…”
“You think I did it for fame? Then I might as well climb up Eiffel Tower, take off all my clothes, and go bungee-jumping.” Tang En gathered up the newspapers and threw them off of bed before jumping onto it himself. He looked at Kerslake, who still stood by the side, and asked, “How are the players feeling?”
“They’re all pretty good.”
“Are they getting nervous?”
“Some of them are, but not all.”
“Is everything normal?”
Kerslake nodded. “I think so.”
“And those reporters?”
“They’re all thinking up ways to get an interview with you.”
Hearing the assistant manager say that, Tang En chuckled. “Let them try.”
“Hey, Tony. You haven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Why did you suddenly lose your temper?”
“No reason really… I only wanted the media to move their focus onto me and give the team some space. Looking at this now, I think I did a pretty good job. At least, there won’t be anyone asking about the damned strategy or Wood’s absence from the match.” Tang En turned over on the bed and sat up. “Let’s go, David. It’s lunchtime.”
※※※
During lunch, the team was discussing among themselves about Tang En’s flare-up with the reporter the day before. Tang En also announced another piece of news. During their free time in the afternoon, the players could go out shopping or do whatever else they chose. In short, they should not be cooping themselves up in the hotel rooms. Then, they had to return to the hotel by five-thirty and gather at Stade de France to conduct training for adapting to the field. Due to broadcasting factors, the finals had to take place at night. To allow the team to get accustomed to playing in the night, Tang En set training at the same time.
That decision was welcomed with cheers from the players.
Coming to the City of Fashion, Paris, where beautiful women were plentiful, no one wanted to coop themselves in their hotel room. All of the young people hoped to go out and enjoy themselves to the fullest.
Only Kerslake quietly reminded Tang En, “Tony, the match is on the day after…”
“I know. It’s exactly because of that we should let them relax. Being all anxious will not be something beneficial for the match. Now, it’s no longer the era of having a bland life with only three stops: hotel, training grounds, stadium. They all have their own ways of entertainment. We have to respect that.”
After lunch and a short afternoon break, Forest’s players found their respective partners to go out touring with.
Wood accompanied his mother to go shopping. Those with girlfriends or wives naturally went out with their own loved ones while the single bachelors got together in groups to go look for women.
Tang En was busy as well. He went out to meet Shania; they had prearranged it before coming to Paris.
Shania dressed like a normal girl. With her make-up removed, she was entirely apart from the icy beauty who walked on runways. The only thing she used to conceal her face and identity was a huge pair of sunglasses.
The two agreed to meet at the square in front of the Eiffel Tower. Today was a clear and bright day. It was very suitable for an outdoor meeting.
“It’s the Eiffel Tower again… Almost everyone who visits Paris comes here. You’re so basic, Uncle Tony.” Shania sighed as she observed the crowded Champ de Mars. The location was decided on by Tang En. When they were on the phone, he suggested Eiffel Tower without hesitation. It was the most famous structure in France. It had already become a sort of symbol for France and Paris internationally. However, because of the sheer number of people visiting the area, it could not be at all connected with the idea of “French romance”. While it may appear somewhat acceptable from afar, the mass of people, noise, and bustle became obvious once a person got closer.
“What of it? I’m a commoner,” Tang En answered, all the while snapping photos continuously with a digital camera.
Shania glanced at Tang En.
“Do you have to take so many photos of a single tower?”
“Who said I was taking pictures of the tower?”
“Eh?”
“Despite the beauty of the tower, it can’t be as beautiful as a person…”
Shania rolled her eyes. This square was so amassed with tourists, it had no lack of fashionable or rustic beauties walking past them.
“Shania, take off your sunglasses.”
“What for? The sun is glaring…” Although Shania complained, she still took them off. She squinted immediately after removing them, and then suddenly realized Tang En’s camera lenses were pointing towards her.
“Yes, yes. You look better without sunglasses on. Do you know what you look like when you have them on, Shania?”
“What?”
“A toad.”
“Uncle Tony!” Shania glared and tried making an angry face at him. Seeing the shutter in Tang En’s hands click even more quickly, she laughed instead. “Alright. I don’t like wearing sunglasses anyway… But who asked me…”
“Who asked you to become famous? Look at me, I don’t wear sunglasses out.”
“That’s because you wear them on the training grounds,” Shania retorted.
Tang En lowered his camera and shut it off. Then, he asked Shania, “Do you want to get ice-cream?”
There was a store selling ice-cream beneath the Eiffel Tower.
Shania hesitated and pouted as she shook her head. “I think not… I’m afraid I’ll get fat. Models always have to take care of their figures…”
Tang En suddenly shoved the camera into Shania’s hands. “Eating a tub of ice-cream won’t make you fat right away. I don’t want you to be like those models, dieting until they starve to death on the runway. Health is more important than anything. Wait here. I’ll go buy the ice-cream.”
Saying so, Tang En turned and strode wide steps towards the crowded ice-cream store.
Shania lowered her head and switched the digital camera on. Then, she flipped through the pictures just taken by Tang En. Unexpectedly, she did not see pictures of numerous unfamiliar beauties in the memory card. All the pictures had only one main lead: her, Judy Shania Jordana.
Pictures of when she was looking around with sunglasses on, speaking with furrowed brows, or those of small actions, such as when she pouted, tossed her hair, smiled, rolled her eyes, or when she was staring angrily. Where was the Eiffel Tower? She could not find any. There was not a single photograph that had even the shadow of the tall and beautiful “iron lady.”
As Shania looked through them, a smile grew on her face.
And then she lifted the camera and looked in the direction of the ice-cream store. Through the screen, she saw Uncle Tony holding up an ice-cream cone in each hand, struggling to squeeze out from amongst the crowd of people.
He did not look anything like the man who stood on the sidelines of the field to lead his team bravely into battle, or the one who engaged in fearsome verbal battles with the media out of the field; the daring and energetic, Europe’s youngest and hottest manager Mr. Tony Twain.
Shania focused the lenses on Tang En amid the crowd, zoomed in, and then pressed the shutter.
