"José, you're really giving no face at all. You know Málaga is my favorite team, yet you still went ahead and beat them by two goals. Couldn't you have taken it easy? Both teams staying up would have been great," complained a slightly chubby young man, about the sa age as José, seated across from him.
José sipped his tea slowly, a faint smile on his face but offered no response.
"Strange. You used to love drinking cola. Two years in the U.S., and now you're into tea? What's so great about it? It's not as energizing as coffee or as satisfying as cola," the chubby young man grumbled, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Juan, you should drink less cola. Carbonated drinks aren't great for the body. Besides, cola is high in sugar. Just look at your figure. Aren't we the sa age? And yet you're so much bigger than ," José teased, setting his cup down with a grin.
Juan glanced down at his slightly protruding belly and sighed, shaking his head. "What can I do? It's God's will that I carry so extra weight. Who am I to resist? Besides, I'm not an athlete. What's the harm in drinking soda?"
"Let tell you a little secret," José said, feigning mystery. "Cola reduces sperm count."
"Pf—!" Juan nearly spat out his coffee, choking and coughing for a while before gasping, "You're... joking, right?"
"Of course, I'm joking." José shrugged, laughing heartily. Seeing Juan's helpless look, he added, "But seriously, less soda is good for you."
"Fine, I'll cut back," Juan relented with a resigned shake of his head. "But you still haven't answered my earlier question."
"As Mallorca's sporting director, such comnts are highly inappropriate," José said, not missing a beat. "And as the son of Antonio Asensio, Mallorca's largest shareholder, Juan, your words bring sha to the Asensio family."
Juan Asensio, sporting director of Mallorca and eldest son of the club's largest shareholder, Antonio Asensio, was left speechless, looking utterly defeated.
José resud savoring his tea, paying Juan no further attention.
"Alright, I can't argue with you. Honestly, though, if it were up to , my old man should have bought shares in Málaga instead. After all, we're not even from Mallorca," Juan sighed.
"Mallorca has made a decent profit for your family over the years, hasn't it? Mr. Asensio has sold quite a few players each season," José remarked casually.
"Not that much—just a few million each year. But this year, we might not see any dividends. The team perford terribly in the Champions League, so we didn't earn much there. I'm afraid the shareholders will be pretty upset at the end of the season," Juan said, shaking his head. "Oh, by the way, José, you should brace yourself. The shareholders might push to sell so key players after this season."
"I'm just an acting head coach," José replied, shrugging. "I'm not even sure if I'll still be here next season. My contract with the first team is only for six months—it ends after the season."
"That's impossible. The managent loves you. With your results, how could they not renew your contract?" Juan reassured him.
José smiled faintly—managent loves ? Unfortunately, I don't feel the sa about them...
José had long anticipated that Mallorca's finances would barely break even this season, with no profits to show. The club's broadcast revenue in La Liga was already limited, and their earnings from matches and bonuses paled in comparison to those of the top teams. Their pre-season transfer spending wasn't high, but the players' wages were adjusted with the expectation of competing in the Champions League. Failing to make the group stage ant losing over ten million dollars in broadcast fees, ticket sales, and bonuses—a massive blow to a club like Mallorca. While they still had the UEFA Cup, its financial rewards were minuscule compared to the Champions League.
For now, José saw no reason to reveal his thoughts. If Antonio Asensio, the shrewd businessman, sensed José's ambitions, he'd likely drive up the price of the club's shares.
"Why don't you co to my place tonight? We can have so beers while watching the UEFA Cup quarterfinal draw," José invited.
"Sure, my old man's in Málaga, and I've got nothing else to do," Juan readily agreed.
"Arsenal, Leeds United, Galatasaray, Lens, Celta Vigo, Werder Bren, Slavia Prague... and us, Mallorca. No Italian teams in the mix, but this won't be easy. If we could face Slavia Prague, that'd be ideal—they're a bit easier to handle. Then again, they did eliminate Udinese, so maybe not," Juan comnted while sipping his beer.
"None of these teams are pushovers... but we're not an easy team to face either. No matter who we draw, we'll have to find a way to win," José said, downing a swig of beer.
"Yeah, you're right. You're the coach, after all—confidence is key," Juan laughed.
"Here cos the draw," José said.
The UEFA Cup quarterfinal draw, the final draw of the tournant, would determine both the quarterfinal matchups and the semifinal brackets. UEFA hadn't given this newly formatted competition much fanfare; unlike the previous draw, which invited team managers, this one did not. José was happy to avoid the hassle.
As the draw unfolded, the matchups were revealed.
"Bottom bracket..."
Seeing Mallorca placed as the ho team in the third quarterfinal match, José nodded. They would play the first leg away and the second leg at ho, and if they reached the semifinals, they would play the first leg at ho and the second leg away.
The top bracket pairings were soon announced: Arsenal would face Werder Bren, and Celta Vigo would take on Lens. Then it was ti for Mallorca's opponent to be revealed...
"Galatasaray," the announcer said calmly.
"Not Slavia Prague, huh... Well, better than facing Bren," Juan muttered, looking both disappointed and relieved. To him, a Turkish team seed manageable. Galatasaray might dominate their league, but coming from a lesser-known competition, they should be easier to deal with than mid-table teams from the top leagues.
José, however, frowned—he knew Galatasaray would be no easy opponent.
Their squad boasted Turkish national team stars Arif and Hakan Şükür up front, the legendary Romanian playmaker Gheorghe Hagi pulling the strings in midfield, and a solid defense anchored by Bulent and Popescu, with Brazilian goalkeeper Taffarel between the sticks. Despite their age, these players carried imnse experience and talent.
José understood that Turkey's rise in football wasn't a fluke. Their strategy of importing seasoned stars had elevated both their league and national team. The upcoming challenges against Galatasaray would require every ounce of preparation and focus.
The next day, on the training ground, José addressed the players with a calm but serious deanor.
"Tomorrow, we head to Turkey for the first leg of the UEFA Cup quarterfinals. So of you may think a Turkish team is nothing special, but I'm here to tell you—we're in for a tough test."
Several players wore dismissive expressions, clearly underestimating their opponent.
Noticing this, José smirked. He knew their attitudes would change soon enough.
"Let's head to the eting room. I have sothing to show you. Don't worry, it's nothing complicated. Just so footage of the stadium where we'll be playing. It's called the Ali Sami Yen Stadium."
The players remained indifferent, but José's smile deepened as he added, "Oh, one more thing. This stadium has a nickna... It's a bit cliché, but it's quite fitting. They call it... 'Hell.'"
Despite the sunny weather on the training ground, José's ominous tone sent a shiver through the players.
Looking at their coach's sinister grin, the players couldn't help but wonder: Is that stadium really as terrifying as he says?
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