Josep Guardiola, commonly known as Pep Guardiola.
This commander from Catalonia, who had begun his playing career as a midfielder for Barcelona and his managerial career as the coach of Barcelona B, was now widely regarded as one of the greatest managers of all time.
Of course, there could be fierce debate over whether he was the greatest of all time, but few would deny that he was at least one of the strongest candidates.
His journey and the achievements he had built up were nothing short of extraordinary, and in terms of modern tactical trends, Guardiola was a figure of such immense influence that he could not be left out of the conversation.
Indeed, setting aside intangible influence, it was hard to deny that he was a great manager based solely on his visible accomplishments.
He had led the Barcelona of around 2010, called the greatest team in history, to two Champions League titles, a Treble, and the unprecedented feat of back-to-back sextuples.
After passing through Germany's Bayern Munich, he took over Manchester City in England and claimed four league titles in seven seasons, placing Man City upon the throne.
It was only natural that the word 'great' effortlessly came to mind when judging by his visible career alone.
He was undoubtedly a great manager.
However, there was one thing.
Just as there could be no perfect being in this world, even he had areas he could not escape criticism for.
This was also one of the main arguments of those who claimed he could not be the greatest of all time: that he had built his career only at prestigious or wealthy clubs.
Put more simply, he had achieved such a career only because he had taken charge of strong teams.
Put even more childishly, he was a manager who had built his career on the backs of his players.
But to say this criticism was entirely unfounded was not quite true either.
The truth was, the name value of the teams he had managed and the caliber of the players he had coached were indeed dazzling.
Bayern Munich was not just Germany's but one of Europe's most prestigious clubs, and Manchester City was a team packed to the brim with the very best players.
Above all, the Barcelona that Guardiola managed was a team whose explanation ended with the fact that it had Messi in his prime, alongside Xavi, Iniesta, and others.
Since he had never managed a relatively weak team outside of these glittering sides, he could not be entirely free from the accusation of being a manager carried by his players.
So no, this was not about debating whether he was the greatest of all time right now, or whether he was carried by his players.
The important thing was that for over a decade, he had looked at nothing but world-class players.
To use food as an analogy, it meant his body had become so accustomed to gourmet cuisine after eating nothing but the finest dishes for over a decade that ordinary food could no longer satisfy him.
That man's gaze settled firmly on a single player on the pitch.
“···”
The match began with a sharp whistle.
The Man City players, having taken the kickoff, began slowly exchanging passes to read their opponents, just as they always did.
Their opponents responded by lining up neatly in front of the box and fortifying their defense.
It was a typical sight anyone watching Man City would see dozens of times a year, with nothing particularly noteworthy about it.
Even so, Guardiola's eyes flickered as if watching something very interesting.
Fiorentina's number 10.
A boy with an appearance that exuded a somewhat languid feeling was the target of that gaze.
“···”
In truth, all the boy was doing was looking around his surroundings.
He wasn't moving conspicuously busily or shouting at his teammates; he was simply standing in the center of the pitch, scattering his gaze left and right.
He looked so relaxed that there seemed to be nothing about him to draw the eye.
Yet the eyes of the master who had coached only the world's greatest players could not look away, as if seeing something different.
In fact, this was not the first time Guardiola had learned of the boy's existence.
It had been over a year ago.
Guardiola had received a report from Manchester City's global network that an incredible boy had been discovered in Florence, Italy.
The scouting system was so extensive that reports and data flooded in several times a week.
It was nearly impossible for the manager to check every piece of data himself, so most were reviewed at the team level as a matter of course.
The reason the news from Florence had no choice but to rise to the top was because of the report's striking title.
That title was: They had found David Silva's replacement.
For Guardiola, who had coached David Silva in the past, this was a headline he couldn't have resisted clicking even if it were just an internet article.
He had no choice but to review it immediately.
Naturally, his initial view was pessimistic.
Who was David Silva?
He was a living legend of Man City, their very identity and heart.
Even setting aside symbolism, his talent and skill were not easily replaceable.
No, he was a prodigy so gifted that replacing him seemed nearly impossible.
Therefore, the claim that his replacement had been found naturally sounded like the height of exaggeration to Guardiola, leaving him with no choice but to take a stance of 'I'll take a look, but someone will pay if this is nothing.'
It was a cruel thing even to imagine.
A perfectionist master who had coached only the best players was going to compare the boy to the genius that was David Silva.
In short, the boy had unwittingly been placed on the cruelest scale in the world.
Yet, surprisingly, after reviewing the footage himself.
Guardiola's reaction was not cynicism or dismissal... but a nod of assent.
Even in his eyes, David Silva's replacement was playing for Fiorentina.
Vroooooom-!
From the feet of Man City's right-sided defender, Manuel Akanji, a long pass fired toward the left front flank.
Thwack-!
Jack Grealish, who had been waiting for it, took the ball and immediately began approaching the defender blocking his path.
Tat-tat-!
Though he seemed to be going left, the direction he chose was the center.
With concise dribbling that snatched away the tempo, he shook off the defender and cut inside toward the center. At the same time, the defensive line wavered due to the blonde monster penetrating into the box.
Thwack-!
Grealish pushed a pass against the grain toward the open space on the right.
Swoooosh-
Waiting on the right was Bernardo Silva.
From that position, if the pass connected, he could immediately take a shot.
Thinking it couldn't happen this quickly, the away fans' hearts sank.
Swoosh-
Thwack-!
Someone flew in like Superman to intercept the pass: Cristiano Biraghi.
Having stolen the ball a step ahead with a clean sliding tackle, he immediately rose and sprayed a pass forward.
Thwack-!
The timing of the pass was so fast that at first glance, it might have looked like a desperate clearance.
But it was unmistakably a pass intended for a teammate, and the reason it could be so quick was simply because it had already been decided who to give it to in such a situation.
Among Fiorentina, there was only one player who could take possession against Manchester City's monstrous players and turn it into a counterattack...
Thwack-!
Ijian, who had moved from the center to the left flank before anyone knew it, smoothly trapped the pass.
Since Man City's attack had started from the left just moments ago, that space was wide, and he had moved there having read it beforehand.
However, it didn't look like he could easily turn around.
Because the Man City players' response was so quick.
Tat-tat-!
Players who closed the distance in an instant took up defensive positions and drove Ijian toward the touchline, as if chasing away a wolf that had intruded into a pasture.
Though he wasn't dispossessed in the process, Ijian, cornered one against two, drew closer and closer to the touchline.
But by coincidence... that location was right in front of Man City's technical area.
In other words, Ijian stood with the ball at his feet right in front of Manager Guardiola's nose.
Tap-!
Since a couple of steps back would put him out of bounds, Ijian—with nowhere to retreat—stood his ground with the ball.
Tat-tat-!
At the same time, two defenders rushed in from both sides.
It was standard to close down a player with good dribbling, but now that there was nowhere to run, it was a sensible choice.
But the next moment.
Right in front of Manager Guardiola, something magical unfolded.
Bang-thud-!
In the brief moment between closing and opening his eyes, two popping sounds rang out, and all that remained before him were Man City players.
Ijian, who had been trapped in a dead end just moments ago, was already further up the pitch behind them, still with the ball at his feet.
Because he had drawn the two defenders near the touchline, he was now moving into the expanded space on the left.
Tat-tat-!
The Man City players, quickly grasping the situation, turned and frantically chased after him.
Under normal circumstances, Guardiola would have berated those players or shouted at others.
But now, he simply remained silent,
“···”
following Ijian's retreating figure with nothing but his eyes.
*
“Hoo, hoo.”
While the game was briefly stopped as the ball went out of the touchline, he placed his hands on his hips and caught his breath.
Even though this wasn't a match with incredibly fast transitions between attack and defense, he strangely felt short of breath.
Could simply facing a high-level opponent drain more stamina?
He thought that the psychological pressure was surely enough to make it so.
“Focus, focus!”
“We're too quiet out there! Let's talk more!”
Listening to the voices of his seniors coming from behind, he raised his head and looked at the scoreboard.
At the point where over 30 minutes had passed in the first half, the score was 0-0.
Before the match, the manager's goal for the first half had been to end it as a draw.
There were only about 15 minutes left until achieving that goal, but even so, it did not feel easy.
They were holding on without conceding, but that didn't mean there hadn't been crises.
Because the match itself was one-sided.
They had been dragged around the entire time.
To express just how much they had been dragged around in a single sentence: the player who had touched the ball the most on their team was the goalkeeper, Terracciano.
Even he himself had only touched the ball two or three times, and he was better off than Romero on the right, whom he could barely remember seeing.
If he had to guess possession, it was probably around 20 to 80, and if he looked at a heatmap, their own half would be colored red.
Thanks to that, it was hard to boast that they had done well to hold out for 30 minutes without conceding.
It was precarious; rather, describing it as a miracle seemed more appropriate.
Beep-!
Suddenly, the chance they had earned in the early first half kept circling in his mind.
The captain had cut out an opponent's pass, connected it to a counterattack, and they had found an opportunity on the left flank.
He had carried the ball up near the left corner of the box, seen Senior Saponara penetrating toward the goal, and floated a pass over to him.
He could have attempted one more dribble breakthrough if he had wanted, but he judged that the pass was the more likely option.
But the pass had failed to reach its target, so it had been the wrong choice.
That was why regret lingered and disappointment wouldn't leave him.
What if he had been a bit bolder?
The so-called 'more likely option' had really been self-justification. Had he just been scared for no reason?
Because he had been overly conscious that the opponent was Man City.
Thwack-!
Thwack-!
But unless the universe spun in reverse, past opportunities did not return.
So there was no use regretting it.
He was simply enduring the punishment of being trapped inside the opponent's passing play for thirty minutes straight.
Still, he had expected it, but the opponent was too strong.
A genius here, a genius there.
And a genius over there too, and a genius way over there.
Watching such opponents' movements, he felt as if everyone was looking one move ahead, leaving him breathless.
That was largely why he hadn't been able to be bold during that earlier chance.
If there was any fortune, it was that the opponent's striker, that blonde human weapon, didn't seem to be in the best condition, and conversely, his own condition was near peak.
...He knew it was shameless to say something like this, but if a chance like before came again.
He felt like he could do it differently then.
It seemed too much to expect such a flawless team to give them two chances.
To that extent, they were slowly suffocating under the suffocating pressure.
He had predicted earlier that possession would be 20% to 80%.
Around the 35th minute of the first half.
Evidence that his prediction wasn't far off appeared before his eyes.
What did two to eight mean?
Couldn't it mean that when the opponent had eight chances, they could have two?
One of those two had been in the early first half.
And the remaining one...
Thwack-!
...might be the last chance right now.
Shoooooom-
A pass flew from their defender, who had successfully won the ball due to an opponent's mistake.
And confirming that it was coming his way, he made a vow inwardly.
This time... I'll be bolder.