West Ham United (3)
Diver.
A word that usually means someone who leaps into water or from the sky—but in football, it means a player who flops theatrically inside the opponent’s penalty area, Hollywood-style, to win a penalty kick.
If you had to name the most famous of them, early Chelsea Didier Drogba would top the list. In the 04-05 season, freshly arrived from Marseille, he put in a solid Premier League debut campaign—ten league goals and regular starts. The problem was his diving. He went down at the slightest contact, and the fans tore into him for it. A beer company even made an ad that was basically open mockery.
That all changed in 06-07. Andriy Shevchenko—Ballon d’Or winner and one of the world’s top four strikers—joined Chelsea and threatened Drogba’s place. Shevchenko never settled, and Drogba, determined to shed the diver label, became the first African to win the Premier League Golden Boot. Diving still has its place, of course—but Philip Jonas took it to another level. Even while trailing 2-1 he kept throwing himself down inside the box, hunting for a penalty. The referee never blew the whistle.
“Ian!”
I took the ball in midfield and exploded forward, knocking it long and racing onto it—the classic knock-and-run—before the opposing full-back could recover. I glanced right. Striker Kang Seungwook was still charging up. Next I checked West Ham’s right centre-back. He was watching me, set to cut inside the moment I drove into the channel.
I eased off the gas and cut right. Just before the centre-back could stretch a leg, I laid it back.
Tak—!
Midfielder Lee Wonjun took it first time and struck.
Tang—!
A low, diagonal drive that cannoned off the post and dropped back into the box.
“@&%!”
West Ham’s sweeper bellowed something and smashed the second ball clear. It sailed over the left touchline. A few of us, myself included, flooded the six-yard box anyway—because of our left-back, Seo Jinyoung.
Whoosh—.
Even a simple throw-in left his hand on a high, looping arc that dropped right onto the goalmouth. The keeper claimed it, but the delivery itself was outstanding.
“What kind of throw-in flies in like a corner?”
“Pretty good, right?”
I grinned at the West Ham player who’d just muttered the compliment. Seo Jinyoung had that rare long-throw gift—Rory Delap at Stoke, Moussa Niakhaté at Nottingham Forest—the kind of weapon that turns a throw into a set-piece chance the moment he launches it high into the box.
No time to savour it. West Ham broke instantly. Daniel James opened the left flank wide; their left midfielder sprinted onto the ball and just about kept it in play.
“Namgi hyung!”
Baek Namgi stepped up to meet him. One simple turn and Baek was left on the ground; the West Ham man whipped in an easy cross.
Thump—.
Centre-back Joo Wonwoo headed it clear of the box—straight to a familiar face. Philip Jonas met the dropping ball on the half-volley and ripped it into the net.
An equaliser with barely ten minutes of the second half left. Philip Jonas celebrated and jogged back to his own half. Conceding that late hurt team morale, but a bigger problem had just exploded.
“Why the hell did you clear it there?”
“Where else was I supposed to put it? If I’d half-cleared it we’d have conceded!”
“So you just assisted them instead? No one was even contesting it! Seungmin could’ve taken it, or you drop off and I collect—basic!”
Our centre-back pairing, Joo Wonwoo and Lee Seungmin, were at each other’s throats.
“Calm down, both of you! We haven’t lost yet and there’s still time.”
“Yeah. Just cool it… no fighting.”
If the others hadn’t pulled them apart, something ugly would have happened. Joo’s clearance had been the final mistake, but Baek Namgi’s earlier lapse had started it—watching instead of tracking, arriving late when he still had time to recover.
Attack’s decent… defending’s a disaster.
He must have been a classic high-school dilemma: useful going forward, so leaky at the back that coaches eventually just left him on the bench. The cameras had already caught every bit of it.
Ten more minutes of end-to-end chaos followed, then four minutes of stoppage time, and the West Ham match was over.
“Hey. Can I get your shirt?”
Daniel James walked over while I was still wiping sweat, speaking English. I had a spare, so I peeled mine off and handed it over; he did the same. A Daniel James youth-team match-worn shirt… years from now it would be worth something. Not that I planned to sell it.
“Seong Ian!”
“Yes, PD-nim.”
Before we left for the next venue, the production team called me over while they were packing up.
“You already know scouts have been showing up at the grounds, right?”
“Of course.”
Through Ajax, Alletti, Valencia and now West Ham, scouts had been dropping in more and more. Originally they’d come to watch the home sides—transfer window was open, after all. They’d ended up impressed by us instead, and a few offers had already come in. The plan had been to hand them all over once filming wrapped and then stay completely hands-off about what we did next.
“They said it’s urgent, so they want you to know right now. Biggest club offer we’ve had so far.”
“Which one?”
“Arsenal.”
…Of all the London clubs, it had to be Arsenal?
“They’re in a rush and asked us to pass on a business card. Whether you join or not is entirely your call—we won’t interfere.”
“…Got it.”
I took the red-and-white card from the PD, barely glanced at the name, crumpled it into the pocket of my tracksuit bottoms, and pulled out my phone.
The person I dialled was none other than—
“Hey~ son~”
“Father.”
“What time is it over there that you’re calling now? You’re not ringing in the middle of the night, are you?”
“No. Seoul and here are only eight hours apart.”
“Really~? Good. Athletes need their bodies. You know that K League player I handle?”
“Yeah. Um… the reason I called—”
I scratched my head, still wondering whether I should even be asking this person right now. Then I just went for it.
“I think I need an agent now.”
“An agent? Did you get some kind of contract?”
“Nothing official yet, but there are clubs showing interest. I’ll give you the details when I’m back in Korea…”
“Alright. This dad should at least handle his son’s back-room stuff.”
“No. I’d rather someone else take the agent role.”
Football history is full of warnings: never let family be your agent. Look at Adrien Rabiot. Manchester United wanted him; his mother wanted a fortune; the deal collapsed. United went and signed Casemiro instead, and Rabiot never made it to Old Trafford because of his mother. Knowing that, I had to refuse my father as agent. On top of that, he mostly dealt with domestic players—overseas markets were still foreign territory to him.
“…Fine. I’ll put together a shortlist and send it over. Pick whoever you like.”
I hung up and started packing. Next stop: Manchester.