Miraculous Math
Turkmenistan. Japan. Iran.
The senior international friendlies against those three nations had wrapped up in resounding success. Taking into account that they had all been home fixtures, eight goals and three assists across three matches was an unassailable stat line for an international debut, and my overall pitch presence hadn't been half bad either.
Incidentally, despite it being the off-season, I had returned to England a bit early.
“It's great not needing a regular work permit, but having to go in for an interview every year is such a pain.”
“Hey, do you have any idea how much easier it is now compared to the old days? Ungrateful punk.”
At my grumbling, my agent, Wooseung-hyung, scolded me without taking his eyes off the road. True to his words, with Brexit, the pandemic, and various other complications piling up, lower leagues—even if the Premier League weathered the storm—had faced severe struggles in recruiting foreign talent. Selling clubs in particular had been hit the hardest.
In the end, money talked, and the English FA relaxed their regulations. As things stood now, any club in the EFL Championship—the second tier—and below could register up to seven foreign players under the Work Permit Exception, provided they met the Homegrown Rule quota of eight players. And the prime beneficiary of this regulatory shift was none other than me.
Luton Town FC had originally been languishing in League One, possessing far less pull than the bigger clubs. Over the past three years of transfers, they had finally managed to bring in some foreign talent, but before that, their numbers were far sparser. Even in my case, without the manager's fervent recommendation during my trial, I might never have ended up playing for Luton Town at all.
Honestly, when I first landed in England for open trials, I had steeled myself for the possibility of being rejected by over a dozen clubs. So when I passed on my very first try, there was a brief moment I legitimately wondered if it was some kind of elaborate scam.
Regardless, with the club's consideration and the manager's backing, I had secured Luton Town's designated work permit exception status without any real hitch. However, to reap the benefits of that clause, one had to sit through an in-person interview with an official sent down from the FA.
People said that as long as there were no catastrophic disqualifying factors, the interview was generally a breeze. Yet last year, the interviewer had grilled me so thoroughly on every trivial detail that it felt like a grueling interrogation. I thought I was going to lose my mind—and Wooseung-hyung had practically gone half-insane with stress. Word reached us later that the official happened to support a local rival club from the same area as Luton Town.
Apparently, he had been trying to keep Luton in check by playing hardball. Seeing someone prioritize sabotaging a derby rival's squad over doing his actual job was proof enough that England truly was a country mad about football.
At any rate, I only hoped today's interview would wrap up quickly. Those Iranian center-backs had clung to me so relentlessly that my body was sporting more than a few bruises, leaving me aching all over just sitting in the passenger seat.
Fortunately, the interview didn't drag on this time. My sensational performances during the recent international window seemed to have worked heavily in my favor.
“Alright, out you get. I've got to head back to Korea, so call me if you need anything. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Always so quick with the lip. Just nods and 'yeses.'”
Dropping the last remaining bag in my room, Wooseung-hyung closed the front door behind him and took his leave. Now, I was the only one left in the flat.
“...Time to get some rest.”
Of course, after completing my post-international medical checkup at the club tomorrow, I would be free to rest again. Still, tomorrow was tomorrow; I wanted to relax today. Mercifully, the moment I collapsed onto the bed, the exhaustion accumulated from traveling dragged me straight into slumber. For quite a long time.
The newly purchased medical equipment lived up to its price tag. Once Lee Han stepped out of the machine, the diagnostic results printed out with a faint whirring noise.
“...Physically, everything seems fine.”
Anderson Lane, Luton Town FC's chief team doctor, meticulously scrutinized the printout to ensure nothing was amiss with the young Korean star. To Anderson, who was not only the team physician but a passionate Luton Town supporter at heart, Lee Han was an absolute treasure.
Though Luton Town had once enjoyed solid days in the second tier, following their relegation they had spent nearly five agonizing years in League One, consistently falling just a breath short of promotion. Then, two years ago, this kid had suddenly walked into an open trial. Merely making his professional debut had been astonishing enough, but he had proceeded to tear the league apart from his very first season, practically dragging the club up by the collar into promotion.
Naturally, Manager Gordon's tactical brilliance had been paramount, and one could never dismiss the contributions of the rest of the squad. Nevertheless, Anderson was certain that not a single fan—himself included—would dispute that the lion's share of credit for that promotion belonged to this towering forward.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Ah, no, nothing wrong. It's just that your muscle tone is far too pristine compared to last time.”
It wasn't that the muscle architecture had changed, but for someone coming off three full international caps, the fatigue markers were eerily spotless. Ever since arriving at Luton Town, Lee Han's physique had always been rock solid, devoid of even minor niggles, but this defied basic sports medicine.
“I adjusted my training routine a bit during the international break.”
“...Hmm. Well, fast recovery is always a blessing.”
Lee Han nodded as if in complete agreement, pulling his socks back on.
“Still, just in case, let me know immediately if you feel even the slightest twinge. You know how the human body is.”
“Sure, will do.”
With that routine caution, the examination came to an end.
Stepping outside, I stretched out my limbs and headed straight for the training ground. After all, my time was limited.
“Han! Good to see you back in one piece.”
“Weren't you supposed to rest for another week?”
“That's why I'm not doing a full session today. Just getting a bit of light work in before heading off.”
Teddy Bennett, the captain of Luton Town, was already holding down the pitch. Alongside him was Dominic, slogging through shuttle runs. Captain Teddy was a notorious training ground workhorse and an exemplary professional, so his presence was no surprise. Dominic, however, loathed extra training, making their pairing an unexpected sight on the pitch today.
“How was the national team? Did your blood boil with passion and all that?”
Aha.
He was clearly burning with motivation after failing to make the Brazilian national squad. South Americans certainly had their fierce brand of national pride. Whatever his motives, training was never a bad thing, so I decided to play along with a breezy reply.
“Pretty much. So if you want that call-up too, quit whining and keep running.”
“I am running!”
Of course, passion was passion, but exhaustion was exhaustion; his effort was half-hearted at best. Not anymore, though. Because I wasn't going to let him slack off.
“Faster! I saw you turning down the shuttle run pace the second the captain looked away.”
At my snitch, Dominic glared at me in utter betrayal. Spotting his reaction, Captain Teddy checked the timer app on his phone resting on the grass and let out a heavy sigh.
“Dominic. Pulling cheap tricks like that? Your captain is deeply disappointed.”
“Y-you... you traitor! After all the assists I've dished out for you!”
“That was all thanks to my brilliance. Have fun, Captain.”
Leaving Dominic to be dragged off by the scruff of his neck by the captain, I strolled toward another pitch equipped with goalposts. Where they were was meant for basic conditioning; hanging around there wouldn't do me any good.
An hour or two slipped by, and the floodlights began flickering on across the training ground one after another.
“You're... still... practicing...?”
Half-dead from exhaustion, Dominic gasped out the words before collapsing onto the turf to catch his breath. Beside him, Captain Teddy, right winger Emir, and fullback Mick were catching their breath as well, worn out from their own drills. The moment they spotted me, they piped up as if their energy had miraculously returned.
“This is the perfect chance for cross-and-header drills!”
“Right? Using Dominic for aerial drills was hopeless height-wise, but this is spot on.”
Captain Teddy, Emir, and Mick were all considered tall within the league. As such, they made a habit of working on headers so they wouldn't squander any aerial chances that might arise during a match. Seeing me stroll over, they naturally assumed I would be the ideal aerial sparring partner. Under normal circumstances, that would have been true.
The trouble was that while practicing was all well and good, I didn't have the faintest clue how to attack crosses with a header, let alone link up play or pass with my skull.
Of all the times to get roped into this.
“Han, you won't be winning crosses easily today. The Black Jesus taught me how to dominate in the air.”
“Uh... right. I'm trembling with anticipation.”
Whenever Mick drilled with that guy—the other me—he was constantly outjumped and beaten in the air. Even as a fullback, it must have bruised his pride. Seeing how puffed up with confidence he was today, he must have picked up header pointers while away with Côte d'Ivoire during the international break. It looked like I was in for a total clinic.
He was already solid in the air, and now he'd learned from Drogba himself? How on earth was I supposed to beat that? Under the circumstances, I decided to frame this as doing Mick a favor by rebuilding his shattered confidence. Though in truth, no matter how hard I leaped, my heading ability was so pitiful that Mick couldn't help but regain his swagger anyway.
Regardless, we kicked off the cross-and-header drills. With only a handful of us present, we kept it simple: set-piece deliveries and a few crosses whipped in from near the corner flag after a quick dribble.
The outcome went without saying.
“He truly is Jesus! I'm the king of the air now, Han! You're buying dinner!”
“...Yeah, yeah. Good for you.”
Ten aerial duels, one success. That was my glorious tally for the evening. I knew it was coming, but it was still downright pathetic.
Just as Dominic had earlier, I flopped flat on my back across the turf, completely drained. My training kit was already caked in mud and grass stains—a direct consequence of getting bullied and tossed around by Teddy and Mick in every duel.
“By the way, Han... are you really alright?”
Teddy, clearly baffled that I could be so completely dominated in the air, walked over with genuine concern etched across his face. Understandably so. Even in the off-season, someone who had just torn up three international caps shouldn't have been getting dismantled so utterly.
The critical catch, however, was that the 'me' Teddy expected was not this me. I can't do that aerial stuff, dammit.
“Teddy.”
“What is it? Are you hurting somewhere? Is something wrong?”
“No, not that.”
“Then what?”
“If there are two players, the club pays each of them a separate weekly wage, right?”
“Sure. But why ask that out of nowhere?”
“Then shouldn't I get double the wages?”
“...What the hell are you on about?”
Teddy stared at me like I had grown a second head. He seemed to be trying his best to analyze the tactical subtext of my words, but sadly for him, I meant it quite literally.
“Did he hit his head or something? He's completely lost it.”
“Shut your mouth, Dominic. The adults are talking.”
The nerve of Dominic chiming in. A guy who had never even won a League One Golden Boot had no right to get cocky. Sure, my personal share of those goals was on the lighter side, but surely I deserved some credit, right?