16: UK Championship

The EFL Trophy, humorously dubbed the “John Stone’s Paint Trophy,” is a competition often dismissed by top clubs.

Its prize money is meager, its schedule inconvenient, and its viewership pitifully low.

However, for teams like Hartlepool United, struggling in the lower Leagues, it represents a crucial avenue for earning honors and generating additional income.

Each victory not only brings a substantial bonus but also significantly boosts the team’s national exposure.

This money could help the club endure for a longer period and contribute to Lin Feng’s ambitious plan to build the Phoenix Training Center.

He demanded that the team give this match the highest level of importance.

In the office, Old John Mcdonald, fresh from training and still sweating, sat respectfully opposite Lin Feng.

He opened his notebook.

“Boss, we narrowly won the match against Rochdale.”

Old John’s voice carried a hint of lingering fear, but more so, admiration for Lin Feng’s tactical foresight.

“In the first half, they played a compact defense, and we were stuck in a stalemate for a while; the players were getting a bit anxious. It was your instruction at halftime to intensify our attacks down the flanks, especially having Vardy work the wings more, that allowed us to equalize so quickly in the second half.”

He recalled Vardy’s brilliant cross from the byline and the subsequent chain reaction, his heart still pounding with excitement.

Lin Feng’s gaze returned from the window, settling calmly on Old John’s notebook.

His eyes were deep, as if capable of piercing through all mist, directly reaching the essence of things.

“Rochdale was just the beginning, John.”

Lin Feng’s voice was soft, yet every word was clear, carrying an undeniable calm.

“Our tactics, especially Vardy’s speed advantage and our quick counter-attacking ability, have already been noticed by opponents.”

“In the upcoming matches, they will be prepared and won’t let us have our way so easily.”

“Our next opponent, Bradford City, is also a League Two team, but they are mid-table with a relatively solid defense; they won’t be easily overwhelmed like Darlington.”

Lin Feng did not consult any data; in his mind, the [Future Tactics and Simulation] system clearly displayed all of Bradford City’s tactical data.

He could even “see” the opposing center-backs’ habitual positioning and the hesitation of their full-backs when providing defensive support.

“Their midfield lacks control; that’s their Achilles’ heel.”

Lin Feng stood up and walked to the tactics board in the corner of the office.

He picked up a pen and outlined Bradford City’s defense on the board, using red magnets to represent their players.

“You see, their defense looks seamless and impenetrable.”

His finger gently tapped the tactics board, as if touching real players.

“But as soon as we find that crucial node, that gap between their defensive midfielder and center-back, a gentle push, and the entire structure will collapse.”

His finger landed precisely between the magnets representing the core defensive area of the opponent.

“Therefore, we must both use crosses from the flanks to stretch their defense, allowing Vardy and Boyd to create chaos on the wings, and also encourage midfielders like Sigurdsson and Tinkler to boldly attempt central penetration and through balls.”

Lin Feng’s gaze was sharp, as if it could pierce through the tactics board and reach the pitch.

“We must use the sharpest knife to cut through their weakest link, delivering a fatal blow.”

Old John was engrossed, feeling every cell in his brain greedily absorbing these unprecedented tactical concepts.

He felt as if every move of the opponent, every breath and heartbeat of each player, was within his calculations.

He even began to wonder if the boss possessed some ability to foresee the future, otherwise, how could he analyze the opponent’s weaknesses and their own strengths so thoroughly?

Just then, there was a knock on the office door.

“Come in.”

Lin Feng’s voice was calm.

John Stone walked in quickly, his face flushed with barely suppressed excitement, and a fine layer of sweat had even beaded on his forehead.

“Boss! Good news!”

Mr. Stone’s voice trembled slightly as he handed a fax document to Lin Feng, the edges of the paper slightly curled, clearly having been reviewed multiple times.

“Livingston Football Club in Scotland, they agreed!”

He excitedly waved an arm.

“Due to severe financial pressure, they agreed to sell Robert Snodgrass for fifty thousand pounds!”

He paused, took a deep breath, and added.

“Moreover, the player himself has expressed a strong desire through his agent; he is eager to come to England immediately and join us! It is said that he is full of longing for English football culture and has always dreamed of playing here.”

A glint flashed in Lin Feng’s eyes.

The first breakthrough had been made.

“Very good.”

His voice was calm and decisive, without a trace of hesitation, as if this transaction had long been within his expectations.

“Finalize the contract immediately, complete all procedures, I hope he can join the team as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Boss!”

Mr. Stone took his leave, his steps lighter, as if he had shed ten years.

The next day, the day before the EFL Trophy match, a young Scot with a backpack, freckled face, and eyes full of curiosity about his new surroundings appeared at the entrance of the Phoenix Training Center.

He was Robert Snodgrass.

Under the gloomy Hartlepool sky, he seemed a bit reserved, but his eyes were full of anticipation for the future.

Old John personally welcomed him and took him to the afternoon joint training session.

When Snodgrass, for the first time on the training ground, delivered a cross with his golden left foot—a cross with a strange curve and precise landing—Old John’s eyes instantly lit up.

The ball, as if enchanted, arced over the defenders’ heads and landed precisely at the striker’s feet, almost allowing for a direct shot without adjustment.

This kid is a treasure!

He was technically sound, had an excellent feel for the ball, and especially that cross, it was as precise as if measured with a ruler, carrying a unique Scottish flair.

Vardy and Boyd, after receiving his passes, couldn’t help but exchange glances, their eyes filled with undisguised surprise.

After training, Old John excitedly reported to Lin Feng: “Boss, that Scottish kid is amazing! His left foot is definitely top-tier in League Two! With him, our attacking plays will be much richer!”

He felt the team’s strength had improved by another level.

Lin Feng merely smiled and nodded, a hint of subtle satisfaction in his eyes.

“John, for tomorrow’s match, let him sit on the bench first.”

Lin Feng’s tone was very casual, as if stating the most ordinary thing.

“Let him first experience the atmosphere of English football and see our match rhythm.”

“After all, the intensity of League Two is different from the Scottish League; let him adapt first.”

“In the second half, if we need to open up the game, then send him on, giving him a chance to surprise the opponent.”

Old John understood perfectly; he increasingly felt that every decision the boss made was full of profound meaning, full of control over the overall situation.

This was not just about acclimatizing a new player, but also a clever move in Lin Feng’s tactical arrangement.

Meanwhile, in the Hartlepool Mail office, Sophie Green was organizing her interview notes.

Her fingers tapped the keyboard, and the screen displayed dense drafts of reports.

Hartlepool United’s strong performances in the League and League Cup, as well as their unusual activity in the transfer market, made her feel that some unknown “secret weapon” must be hidden within the club.

She heard fans discussing the mysterious new owner, Lin Feng, and also sensed the renewed spirit emanating from the team, from top to bottom.

She decided that the focus of her next report would be on this mysterious weapon; she wanted to uncover the truth behind Hartlepool United’s rise.

On the evening of August 15th, Victoria Park Stadium was brightly lit, enveloping the entire pitch in a brilliant white glow.

Fans in the stands gradually entered, waving their scarves and singing team songs, anticipating another victory.

EFL Trophy First Round, Hartlepool United hosted Bradford City.

In the commentary box, Andy Gray and Martin Tyler were already in position, their microphones gleaming with cold metallic luster, ready to describe another performance by this miraculous team to all fans following the match.