The Arrogant Striker's Mockery – City Fans Retaliate in Manchester Derby
The 20th-round Premier League clash at Etihad Stadium pitted Manchester City against Brighton & Hove Albion. In any other season this would have been a foregone conclusion—City, top of the table, facing a side languishing near the bottom. No one would have batted an eyelid.
But today the atmosphere was different.
Current City fans were rallying behind the very player they cherished almost as much as captain Mathias himself: Jung Tae-woo. The Korean goalkeeper had become a god to this stadium. A nobody—someone most people had never even heard of—had dared to challenge him. The rivalry of the Manchester Derby was fierce, yet this went far beyond it. After all, this wasn’t the historic Old Trafford venue; Etihad belonged to the City faithful, and the crowd was ours.
Jung Tae-woo stood tall and unyielding, chin high.
The City fans had rewritten the chants into something far sharper, turning the unknown Japanese striker’s arrogance into a target they could slice through.
“Those damn brats—”
“We started it first, idiot!”
“You want us to hold back? Not a chance! We told you to know your place!”
Between the two sets of fans stood the usual protective barriers installed for safety. Europe had seen its share of fan clashes, and the security team—hired by Manchester City—had their hands full calming the Brighton supporters.
If the City fans had simply watched in silence, they might have kept their cool. But the moment the words hit their ears, tempers flared. The supporters hurled insults back and forth across the barrier, voices rising as if the match itself were about to erupt. No one knew what would happen next.
Then the giant screen above the stands lit up.
The players’ conversation was inaudible, but the tension was impossible to ignore. Jung Tae-woo ignored Nakamura when the Japanese forward approached, his expression blank.
“Haha, right! Facing a 19th-placed Brighton doesn’t require any extra effort, does it? Come on, everyone—don’t go all out. We’re champions anyway!”
“Haha, exactly! Anger is what the weak show.”
These words came from men who had once known what it meant to be on the bottom rung. They felt invincible now.
The Brighton fans, watching from the other side, spat every curse they knew and cursed the City supporters with every breath. But the City faithful simply ignored them, eyes locked on their god—Jung Tae-woo.
“Those bastards!”
“Where the hell did you go, you cowards?”
“If I don’t smash those faces today, I won’t be able to sleep!”
Captain Oliver Harrison, leading the security team, tried to calm the situation and muttered under his breath.
No matter how hot a match was, a bottom-versus-top clash rarely turned into this level of passion. The security team knew the result was already decided.
“Still… the game’s about to start, so maybe we can settle down—”
His radio crackled.
“What? We can’t handle it?”
His mind raced.
“Today is not just a derby. I have to treat it like more than a match.”
“I’m heading there right now. Hold them back as best you can. And call for extra reinforcements!”
* * *
“Chikusyo!!”
I kept my laughter in check as I watched Nakamura from a distance. I had not forgotten the name of the Japanese striker.
Back then he had looked so defeated after the match that I had thought I would never see him again. Yet to have come all the way to Europe after recovering so quickly showed real determination.
Was it arrogance or delusion? Watching the interview, it seemed he believed that if he only reached Europe he could pull off something like this.
Without his special circumstances, the Premier League wall was brutally high. Even the brightest talents from their own league often failed and returned home in disgrace. So… ordinary… no, not ordinary at all.
Moving to the Premier League itself proved he had talent. Still, no promising player usually opened with such brazen provocation.
The Nakamura Kenji I had seen at the Olympics was, with a little more polishing, capable of surviving in the Premier League. But he would never become the ace striker of his team.
Yet the moment this kid stepped foot in the Premier League he had dismissed the top team—Manchester City—lightly.
This wasn’t just about his own squad. He had insulted every team that had fallen to City, including the experience-scarce, limits-clear Jung Tae-woo.
Calling him names would have been easier than admitting it. In a single day he had earned a place on the blacklist of every City fan and, worse, every Premier League supporter.
Was this talent? Maybe. But the anger wasn’t limited to the fans.
From the enraged Guerrero came a roar.
“Tae-woo, I’m going to break that arrogant bastard’s legs before the game even starts. Don’t worry.”
Castillo, eyes blazing with passion, added his own warning.
“Tae-woo, if you end up injured because you’re too angry, your image will suffer. Let me handle it.”
Sanchez, ever ready to deliver a tactical tackle from behind, stood ready as well. Even without the three of them, the rest of the squad was seething.
Our friendship with them wasn’t close, but they felt the insult the same way we did. An unknown Asian player had insulted our teammate, and that struck at the entire team.
Even our captain, Mathias, the “saint” of the squad, had spoken with rare fury.
He looked calm on the surface, but anyone who knew him understood the depth of his anger. ‘Will that kid survive the match today?’
I watched Nakamura from afar. The Japanese striker stared back, completely unaware of what the future held.
He looked almost… cute.
* * *
“Damn it, pass the ball!”
Twenty minutes into the first half, Nakamura still hadn’t touched the ball once. The young Brighton signing had never imagined his Premier League debut would unfold like this.
He had even planned to score a hat-trick on his debut—burying three goals into the net guarded by that arrogant Korean—marking the start of his legendary career.
He refused to believe it was his fault. The ball simply wasn’t coming to him.
“What the hell are you doing?! Connect the ball! You’re supposed to score!”
Joaquin Fernandez, the defensive midfielder who had joined the same winter transfer window, stepped in the moment the ball left his feet.
Nakamura Kenji was no clumsy striker. He had scored eighteen goals and eight assists in the J-League for a reason. But rage had blinded his vision.
“What? You’re supposed to give me the ball! I’m on the counter! What kind of stupid team are you—”
“Haa, finally. I thought we were never going to talk—”
Nakamura watched the back of Joaquin’s retreating figure and suddenly exploded.
“You racist!”
Joaquin ignored him and returned to his position without a word.
Manchester City’s dominance was inevitable. New signings could not instantly transform a squad. Those four—Guerrero, Castillo, Sanchez, and Mathias—were exceptions among exceptions.
And the match was perfectly controlled by the City. The scoreboard already read 2-0, courtesy of Guerrero’s spectacular long-range strike and Mathias’ header. Nakamura’s arrogant interview had become nothing more than a noose tightening around his own neck.