Football Card System

In May, on a rainy evening in London, pedestrians weaved through the drizzle.

Old John's Bistro, situated at the corner of a small street in East London, typically saw sparse business on regular days. But tonight, it was packed with patrons.

The reason? It was the UEFA Champions League final of the 2007–2008 season, featuring two English teams: Manchester United and Chelsea. With all domestic competitions in England concluded, this was the final spectacle before the new season, drawing fans eager to share beers and discussions in the pub while watching the match.

Watching football in pubs is a deeply ingrained English tradition. However, despite the large crowd, the atmosphere in Old John's was unusually subdued—resembling a high-end café more than a bustling pub. The rusty doors and windows, combined with the pungent mix of beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke, still reminded everyone that they were in a typical English pub.

The game itself wasn't overly thrilling at the moment. Chelsea had possession, but Manchester United led 1-0 thanks to Cristiano Ronaldo's header in the 26th minute. After that goal, the game had turned somewhat dull, with Chelsea struggling to create meaningful attacks against Manchester United's ironclad defense.

However, what silenced the tavern wasn't the game—it was a man.

Dressed in black, his tall coat collar covered much of his face. Beneath thick, dark hair, only the angular outline of his features was visible. He was clearly over 180 centimeters tall.

The table in front of him was lined with empty whiskey bottles, and the man sat in silence, raising a glass in his hand.

Gulp, gulp, gulp…

He downed the strong whiskey in one go, as if it were water—this wasn't just any whiskey but a high-proof type often called the "water of life" by the British.

Even the red-faced Englishmen around him stared in awe, some exchanging looks of amazement or admiration.

"How many bottles is that now?"

"The seventh?"

"No, I think it's the eighth…"

The attention of the patrons shifted entirely to this man. A man capable of drinking seven or eight bottles of whiskey without so much as flinching was far more captivating than the slow-moving match on screen.

Clink, clink…

The sound of a bottle knocking against a glass echoed again. Another bottle of whiskey was emptied.

The man turned slightly, revealing more of his face to the crowd.

Sharp eyebrows, deep-set eyes, a high nose bridge, thin lips, and a chiseled, resolute face. His piercing gaze made it hard for anyone to meet his eyes directly.

He was not someone to be trifled with.

"Isn't that Chelsea's youth coach?" a hushed voice broke the silence.

"Yeah, it's him! Gao Bo, the Chinese coach for Chelsea's U18 team!" someone else whispered excitedly.

"You're kidding! Chelsea's coach is Grant, isn't it? And he's in Russia with the team. Besides, do you think Abramovich would hire an Asian to coach Chelsea?"

"Yeah, Russians are supposed to be racists."

"I hate Abramovich, even though I support Chelsea."

"I'm telling you, it's true! Gao Bo just led Chelsea's U18 team to win the FA Youth Cup two weeks ago!"

The pub quieted slightly again as the patrons turned their attention to Gao Bo.

While East Asians were rare on European football fields, they weren't unheard of. Players like Sun Jihai (Manchester City) and Zheng Zhi (Charlton) were already plying their trade in England. But a coach? That was practically unheard of in top-level European leagues.

Even so, leading Chelsea's U18 team to win the FA Youth Cup was no small feat. It silenced any doubts about this man's capabilities.

"Hey, I heard Gao Bo got fired by Chelsea…" another voice piped up.

The crowd's mood shifted. Sympathy filled their gazes as they looked at Gao Bo.

"He was fired? But he just won a title with the youth team?"

"I heard Abramovich didn't like him."

"Or maybe he offended one of Chelsea's directors."

"Firing a champion coach… the traditions of English football are being ruined by Chelsea."

"It's all that Russian's fault."

"I've heard Russians are all racists!"

Fueled by alcohol, the English patrons began directing their frustrations at Abramovich and Russians in general.

"Bartender…" Gao Bo snapped his fingers.

Another bottle of whiskey was promptly delivered to him.

Ignoring the whispers and glances, Gao Bo poured another glass of whiskey and drank it in one gulp.

"Hey, Chinese guy, aren't you a coach? Tell me, what position do you think I should play?" A chubby, staggering man approached Gao Bo, his breath reeking of alcohol.

Gao Bo frowned and looked him up and down. Suddenly, a translucent interface that only Gao Bo could see appeared before his eyes.

Explosiveness: 20

Stamina: 22

Useless…

He scanned further down the stats. The man's attributes were abysmal—even for an amateur.

But then, one number caught Gao Bo's attention.

Goalkeeping: 55

What?!

Gao Bo looked at the man in shock. Could this overweight drunkard actually be a capable goalkeeper?

"You're only fit to be a goalkeeper," Gao Bo replied dismissively, the interface vanishing as he turned away.

The pub erupted in laughter.

"Then what do you think the result of this match will be?" Kenny, the chubby drunkard, pointed at the TV.

"Chelsea will equalize before halftime," Gao Bo said confidently, raising his glass again.

The game was in its 44th minute. Fans in the pub debated his prediction, confident that Manchester United wouldn't concede.

But just as halftime approached, Lampard capitalized on a chaotic deflection in the penalty area, firing the ball into the net.

1-1. Chelsea had equalized.

The pub erupted in cheers from Chelsea fans, while Manchester United supporters groaned in frustration.

Amidst the noise, the crowd couldn't help but turn their attention back to Gao Bo.

He had called it.