93: Plan B

Lin Feng looked at Old John's face, unable to hide his worry. The starting lineup, filled with young names, felt incredibly heavy.

"Boss, Smalling and Hartley... they're only thirty-eight years old combined," Old John whispered, pointing to the center-back pairing on the list. "Plymouth's striker is Paul Galloway; that guy is a runaway truck in the box. I'm afraid..."

"John, the League is our foundation; it determines how high we can climb," Lin Feng interrupted him, his voice calm. "But cup competitions are our best proving ground. It's time for these little wolf cubs to see some blood."

He turned and walked towards the large white tactics board, picking up a black marker.

This time, the formation he drew was no longer the aggressive 4-3-3.

A disciplined, compact, and slightly classical 4-4-2 formation appeared on the tactics board.

"This is our B plan."

Lin Feng's pen drew a severely compressed, narrow space between the defensive line and the midfield line.

"Plymouth is a Championship team, and their pride is our best weapon. They will underestimate us, push forward to attack, and try to crush us with their perceived physical dominance."

He tapped his own half of the field heavily with the marker.

"Our formation will collectively retreat, like a slowly tightening fist."

"And Vardy and Maloney." His pen jabbed forward, pointing to the position representing the opponent's goal. "They are the sharpest, most lethal knuckle dusters at the front of this fist."

In this tactical system, the young center-back pairing of Chris Smalling and Peter Hartley became crucial.

They needed to withstand immense, overwhelming pressure in the penalty area under the continuous onslaught of the opposing strikers.

Liam Bridcutt, on the other hand, was given a new and most brutal role - a midfield sweeper.

Before training began, Lin Feng met with Smalling, Hartley, and Bridcutt individually.

He looked at their three young faces, stiff with nervousness, and offered no lengthy motivational speech.

"Chris," he looked at Smalling, "your positional sense is good, but not yet ruthless enough. In this match, I want you to remember every breath the opposing striker takes."

"Peter," he turned to Hartley, "you're brave, and physically strong, but you tend to get carried away. Remember, your partner is Smalling. Trust him; you are one unit."

Finally, his gaze fell on Bridcutt.

"Liam, your job is the dirtiest and most tiring. If they want to get past, they'll have to shed a layer of skin on you first. Understand?"

The tension in the young men's eyes was instantly replaced by a burning fire. It was a determination, ignited by absolute trust, to give their all.

"Yes, Boss!"

In the subsequent training session, the entire Hartlepool United team began repeatedly practicing this new defensive counter-attacking tactic.

In one practice match, Bridcutt made a fierce but clean slide tackle, dispossessing Henderson, and immediately played the ball. The ball found Vardy, who, like a unleashed hound, sprinted fifty meters alone into the wide-open space behind the opposing defense, easily scoring.

After scoring, he didn't celebrate, but jogged back to his own half, grinning as he passed Smalling and Hartley.

"See that, lads? You lock the door at the back, and I'll take care of the rest. It's that simple!"

Meanwhile, the commercial effects of the victory over Leeds United began to ferment.

The club's commercial department office phone became busy for the first time. Several national fast-moving consumer goods brands, and even a German car brand known for its meticulousness, proactively contacted the club, hoping to discuss sponsorship cooperation.

Sophie Green's email also arrived punctually in Lin Feng's encrypted personal inbox. She hoped to conduct an in-depth exclusive interview with Lin Feng on "Hartlepool United's Management Philosophy and Future Blueprint."

Lin Feng agreed. He needed a professional, influential window to convey the club's image, which he personally shaped, to the entire England football scene.

He had his assistant reply: "Interview is possible. Time: after the League Cup match. Location: Plymouth's home team changing room."

The night before the team departed for Plymouth.

An encrypted email from London silently slipped into his inbox. The sender was Puma's Marketing Director for the UK region.

In the email, the sender expressed high praise for Hartlepool United's impressive opening match at Elland Road and explicitly stated their desire to initiate preliminary negotiations for new season jersey sponsorship.

Lin Feng forwarded the email to the club's Commercial Director, attaching only one sentence.

"Stall them. We'll talk to them after we beat Plymouth."

The team bus drove smoothly on the M1 motorway, with England's green countryside rapidly receding outside the window.

Inside the bus, Chris Smalling, Peter Hartley, and Liam Bridcutt, who were about to get their first significant starting opportunity in their professional careers, had faces filled with undisguised nervousness and excitement.

Smalling's fingers tapped rapidly and unconsciously on his knee.

Jamie Vardy leaned back in his wide seat, meticulously wiping his bright yellow Nike Mercurial boots with a soft cloth. He looked up, glanced at the restless Smalling, and smiled.

"Hey, Chris."

"Huh? Jamie?"

"Nervous? Don't be afraid, they're Championship, not aliens." Vardy pointed forward with his boot. "Later, just kick the ball fifty meters in front of me, and then you can make tea and watch me perform from the back."

The bus arrived in Plymouth.

On the hotel room television, the local sports channel's news was playing. The presenter, with his slicked-back hair, reported on the upcoming League Cup match with a clear tone of disdain.

"...Hartlepool United, from League One, spent a lot of money this summer, like a nouveau riche who just won the lottery, splurging everywhere."

"However, football isn't built just with money. Tomorrow, our mighty 'Pilgrims' will teach these young men from the North a good lesson and make them understand the vast difference between the Championship and League One."

Smalling's face instantly tensed, and his fists involuntarily clenched.

On the bed next to him, Vardy didn't even lift an eyelid, just uttered two words.

"Asshole."