The Midfield Can Block Him, but No One Can Stop Su Dong!

The morning after Man City defeated Lech Poznań, Wenger arrived at Arsenal's Colney Training Base with bloodshot eyes.

Assistant coach Pat Rice was clearly surprised when he saw him.

The furrows on the Frenchman's face seemed deeper and more wrinkled, and his usual refined air had completely vanished.

What remained was a thick, inescapable anxiety.

That was perfectly normal. Being a head coach was an extremely high-pressure profession. Even Ferguson had a pacemaker in his heart.

"Couldn't sleep well again last night?" Pat Rice had worked alongside Wenger for many years and knew his daily routine very well.

The Frenchman was clearly the sort of person who worried easily. Whenever something was on his mind, he would have trouble sleeping.

Ferguson, on the other hand, was much better at this than Wenger. The Scottish old-timer plainly had the kind of big heart that could use the sky as a blanket even if it fell, so insomnia was practically unknown to him.

In Ferguson's view, there was no case of insomnia that a glass of red wine couldn't solve.

If there was, then two glasses would do it.

"It's not that I couldn't rest. I simply didn't sleep at all," Wenger said weakly.

Pat Rice wore an expression that said he had known this would happen. He walked over, poured a steaming glass of boiled water, placed it in front of Wenger, and said earnestly, "No matter what, you still need to get more rest. You're not young anymore."

Wenger was already sixty-one.

At that age, the most important thing for an elderly man was getting enough sleep.

Missing an entire night's sleep was practically the same as losing half one's life.

Just look at Wenger now. Wasn't he completely listless?

"How about I oversee the morning training? You can go