The summer heat in Japan was relentless, but inside the packed stadium in Osaka, the energy was electrifying. Manchester United's preseason tour had drawn massive crowds, eager to see the reigning Premier League champions in action. Their opponents, the Thai Lions All-Star Team, were a collection of the best talents from the Thai league. Yet, as far as Tiger King's squad was concerned, they were nobodies—a team barely worth their time.
From the first whistle, it was clear United's players were not taking the game seriously. They poured forward with swagger, suffocating their opponents in their own half. Possession was theirs, the chances were endless, and yet, there was no end product.
Anderson, sporting the No. 8 shirt, saw himself as the new midfield maestro, attempting audacious long-range strikes instead of linking up with his strikers. He danced through defenders, but his head-down, solo style meant that golden opportunities to break through were wasted.
On the flanks, Nani was showboating for the crowd—stepovers, flicks, and unnecessary tricks—delighting the spectators but frustrating his teammates. He forced a shot from the tightest of angles that smashed into the side netting, and instead of looking disappointed, he waved to the fans, acting as if he had just scored a wonder goal.
Rooney and Van Persie, isolated in the box, grew visibly frustrated. With no service coming their way, they dropped deep to pick up the ball, only to run into a wall of defenders who swarmed them immediately. Giggs, on the left, no longer had the legs to outrun full-backs, and without a clear passing lane into the box, his crosses were hopeful at best.
As the minutes ticked by, Tiger's frustration deepened. His team was playing for the cameras, not the score line. They treated the game like an exhibition rather than a serious test of their readiness for the season.
Then came the punishment.
With United pushing higher and higher, their defensive line stretched wide, leaving acres of space behind them. One moment of sloppy play was all it took. A long clearance from the Thai Lions sent their diminutive striker racing into the empty half, completely unmarked. Vidic and Ferdinand were caught too far forward, scrambling to recover. De Gea rushed off his line, trying to close the gap, but the forward calmly rounded him and rolled the ball into an open net.
1-0 to the Thai Lions.
The stadium erupted. The Thai players celebrated like they had just won the Champions League, while United's players looked at each other in disbelief.
On the touchline, Tiger King stood motionless, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched. They had been arrogant, careless, and now they were losing to a team they had refused to respect.
Even after throwing on Chicharito, Kagawa, Phil Jones, and Valencia to try and shift the momentum, nothing changed. The energy was low, the urgency missing. The final whistle blew, and Manchester United had been humiliated.
After the match, United's players exchanged shirts and smiles with their Thai counterparts, but Tiger was not in the mood for pleasantries. He stormed over to shake hands with the opposing coach, his voice tight with frustration.
"Sir, you win. Your team was fantastic today." The coach, smiling, responded graciously, but Tiger barely registered it. His mind was elsewhere. This wasn't just a loss. It was a warning.
If they continued like this, the new season would be a disaster.
When the Manchester United players trudged back into the locker room, still clutching the exchanged Thai Lions jerseys, they were caught off guard. Tiger King was already there, waiting.
He stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, his expression as cold as steel. The air was thick with tension, and the players, still slightly amused by the match, began to shift uneasily under his gaze.
A few of them, however, didn't see the big deal. It was just a friendly, after all. A minor slip-up, nothing to be worried about. They were Manchester United—they'd bounce back.
Then, Tiger King spoke. "Well done today," his voice was even, but laced with something unsettling. "You fought hard. A solid 1-0 win. Tremendous effort."
The room fell into stunned silence. Giggs furrowed his brows. "Captain.... we lost. 0-1."
Tiger King blinked in feigned surprise. "Oh? My mistake. I just saw all of you holding Thai Lions jerseys and assumed you were part of their squad."
His words sank like a stone in the room. Then, he turned to Anderson. "That was a beautiful long shot. Everything was perfect—except for the small issue that you didn't score."
Anderson clenched his jaw, looking away. Tiger's eyes snapped to Nani. "And you," he continued, voice laced with sarcasm, "your dribbling was truly breathtaking. You danced past three defenders, then past the corner flag, and even past the lineman. Maybe I'll send a formal request to FIFA—perhaps we can start awarding points for passing the wrong people!"
A few players shifted uncomfortably. Some lowered their heads. Others glanced at each other, realizing how badly they'd embarrassed themselves.
Nani, for all his usual bravado, stayed quiet. Even he knew he had overdone it today. But then Anderson, still stewing, muttered, "Boss, didn't you tell us that we need to 'enjoy football' to play our best?"
A ripple of shock passed through the room. A direct challenge. Scholes, standing nearby, visibly tensed. He had seen players argue with managers before, but no one dared to push Tiger King. He glanced at his old teammate, wondering how he would react.
Tiger King's gaze hardened. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled—a slow, cold smile. "Anderson, I'm impressed. Your memory is excellent. Truly."
He took a step forward. "Tell me something—what do you think 'enjoying football' means?"
Anderson, still emboldened, replied, "It means playing with my own mind, my own style, my own way."
Tiger King shook his head, his expression darkening. "No. You're wrong."
His voice rose, cutting through the silence like a knife. "'Enjoying football' does not mean doing whatever you want. It means experiencing the real joy of football."
He turned to the rest of the team, his voice gaining strength. "Tell me—what is football truly about?"
Scholes, steady as ever, answered in a quiet voice: "Toughness. Hard work. Teamwork. Dedication. Responsibility."
"Beautifully said!" Tiger suddenly roared, making a few players flinch. His face was flushed with passion. "Only through toughness can you enjoy the thrill of conquering your opponents! Only through relentless effort can you experience the satisfaction of a hard-earned victory! Only by putting the team above yourself—by sacrificing, by committing, by bleeding for your brothers—can you earn the respect and admiration of the football world!"
He paused, his gaze burning into each of them. "And only when you take responsibility—when you fight until the very last second, when you leave everything on the pitch—will you walk off with your head held high, win or lose."
A deep silence followed. No one dared speak. Tiger took a breath, his voice lowering. "That is the meaning of football."
His final words hung in the air like a challenge. Then, without another glance, he turned on his heel and walked out.
The locker room remained frozen. The players sat, stunned, as if they had been collectively struck by a bolt of lightning.
After a long moment, Scholes broke the silence. "Get in the showers. We've got two more games ahead. Play like men next time. Don't let the boss down."
One by one, they moved—quiet, thoughtful, and for the first time in a long while, humbled.
When they boarded the bus back to the hotel, Tiger King sat alone in the front row, notebook in hand, scribbling furiously. Nobody dared disturb him.
But every single one of them knew—this was not just another friendly loss. This was a warning.
Tiger King didn't look up. His pen moved swiftly across the pages of his notebook, the ink pressing deep into the paper with each stroke. His jaw was tense, his brows furrowed in deep thought.
Scholes waited for a response, but when none came, he spoke again—this time, a little softer. "Captain?"
Tiger finally sighed and closed the notebook. He glanced at Scholes and tapped the cover lightly. "Notes. Observations. Weaknesses." His voice was low, controlled, but filled with quiet frustration. "Everything I saw out there tonight that needs fixing."
Scholes nodded. He had seen this before. Back when they played together, Tiger King was always the first to analyze mistakes, always the one to dissect every misstep. Even after victories, he was searching for ways to improve.
"And?" Scholes asked, gesturing toward the notebook.
Tiger exhaled and leaned back against his seat, staring out the bus window as the city lights flickered past. "We played like tourists, Paul." His voice carried the weight of disappointment. "No hunger. No urgency. No discipline."
Scholes stayed quiet. Tiger ran a hand through his hair before continuing. "Some of them think this is just a preseason joke. A friendly. A chance to show off. But this game? This loss?" He tapped the notebook again. "This was a wake-up call. And if they don't hear it now, they will soon."
Scholes studied him for a moment, then smirked slightly. "I don't think they'll be getting much sleep tonight."
Tiger King gave a dry chuckle. "Good. Because neither will I."
With that, he flipped open his notebook again and went back to writing. Scholes leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. Whatever was coming next—he knew Tiger King would make damn sure this team was ready.
Scholes closed the notebook and handed it back to Tiger King. He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Well, if that game wasn't a wake-up call, nothing will be."
Tiger King nodded. "We needed this. I'd rather they learn their lesson now than when it really matters."
The next few days were grueling. Tiger King pushed the board to cancel some of the remaining commercial activities, carving out more time for training. They set up camp at Osaka Sakura's training ground, where the team was put through relentless drills—high-intensity passing exercises, positional awareness training, and tactical discipline.
The message was clear: no more freelancing, no more playing for the crowd. "Play for the team. Play to win."
At first, the players were subdued, but as the sessions went on, something shifted. The passing became sharper, the movement more synchronized. No more flashy, meaningless dribbling. No more wild shots from impossible angles. The team was playing with purpose.
On the final day of training, Scholes stood next to Tiger King, watching from the sidelines. "They look different," he admitted.
Tiger crossed his arms and gave a small nod. "They're finally getting it."
Scholes chuckled. "Well, we'll see in the next game."
Tiger King smirked. "We will."