UEFA Europa League (1)
Aside from the sheer reality of playing in the Premier League this season, the biggest change everyone felt was undoubtedly European competition.
Securing a berth in the Europa League thanks to last season's FA Cup triumph had catapulted the newly promoted club's stature overnight. Freshly promoted Premier League sides typically struggle to recruit players above a certain caliber, but having that golden Europa League ticket in hand had allowed Luton Town to lure in a level of talent that would otherwise have been far beyond their reach.
Yet for Malek, who ran one of Luton's most bustling pubs, the most dramatic transformation lay in the clientele.
"What the hell? Packed already?"
"How are you slower than the away supporters? Your office is right around the corner."
Luton Town supporters weren't the only ones who had the brilliant idea to wet their whistles before kickoff. Fren, slipping into the roaring pub late, let out a long, weary sigh at Malek's jab.
"You try getting your drafts rejected three times in a row, see how punctual you are..."
Not wanting to dwell on his misery, Fren slumped onto an empty stool at a single-seater table and ordered a pint.
"No tab this time," Malek warned.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
A chilled pint of draft beer arrived in a frosted glass. Grabbing the icy handle, Fren tipped it back and downed a hefty gulp in one go. Crisp carbonation fizzed across his tongue, followed by the clean, sharp bitterness of hops that cut straight through the alcohol and washed down his throat—a sensation that never failed to hit the spot.
"Aah. Now that's what I needed."
"Mate, you're a local, aren't you? Down that like a champion!"
A man in his forties with slightly accented English wandered over and struck up a conversation.
Luton Town's opening Europa League fixture was against KRC Genk from the Belgian Pro League. Perhaps because continental away fixtures required an overseas flight, the vast majority of visiting fans weren't traveling families, unlike regular domestic weekends, but solo supporters and hardcore diehards. There were so many veteran fans around that Fren, who was pushing thirty, actually ranked among the younger blokes in the room.
Still, as football fans often do, putting beer and football together melted away any barriers in minutes. It wasn't as if Luton Town and Genk had some fierce historic rivalry or bitter grudge, which made mingling all the easier.
"We can speak Dutch if that's easier for you," Fren offered.
Genk was situated in the Flemish region of Belgium, where Dutch was the predominant language. For the first time in years, Fren felt thoroughly vindicated for having dabbled in all sorts of European languages as an aspiring football journalist in his youth. Besides, this was Luton Town's maiden European voyage—their very first match, and on home soil no less. Capturing the raw impressions of the visiting supporters was well worth jotting down for a column.
"Then let's have a chat before heading in!"
"Sounds great! Let's talk about our squads."
A small crowd began to gather around Fren. Fans passionate enough to travel abroad for an away match were eager to glean whatever insight they could about today's opponents, and in that department, Fren had an endless fountain of knowledge to share. Before long, a lively debate unfolded across the bar counter as both sides bragged about their respective clubs: grand histories, recent silverware, proud milestones, and the infallible greatness of their squads. As with any football banter steeped in bias and rose-tinted pride, every argument inevitably boiled down to one simple conclusion: 'Either way, our club is the best.'
And Fren, whose devotion to Luton Town ran marrow-deep, was not the type to sit quietly and take it. Having memorized every granular stat under the sun as a journalist, he was itching to refute every exaggerated claim—and with alcohol fueling his veins, all restraint vanished.
"Your Belgian Pro League is sitting at eighth in the UEFA League Coefficient!"
"And you lot just crawled out of the second division!"
"Still a Premier League side, mate! Is there a law saying promoted clubs don't count? Our league is ranked number one in the world!"
Petty ranking wars quickly escalated.
"You lot haven't even won your country's top division once!"
"And Genk haven't touched a league title in nearly twenty years! Meanwhile, we just won the FA Cup, not to mention lifting the Championship trophy!"
Silverware posturing gave way to player bragging.
"You don't even have any famous players!"
"As if you can name a single household name in your own starting eleven! We've got Lee Han, we've got Dominic—"
"Never heard of them!"
"Then you must be living under a rock! How do you not know an Olympic gold medalist?!"
The big-screen televisions on the pub walls hadn't even tuned in to the stadium broadcast yet, but the room was already deafening.
"Alright, alright, that's enough shouting, gents," Malek stepped in, waving his hands.
"Come on, Malek, these clowns are—"
"One more word out of anyone, and I'll have you strolling the pavement until kickoff."
"......"
Having run the pub alongside his parents for well over a decade, Malek's veteran crowd-control skills were second to none. He deftly defused the heated bickering, taking care to toss in a free basket of bar snacks to smooth over any lingering grumbling.
"Now that I think about it," said one Genk supporter sporting a blue jersey, stuffing his face with snacks between sips of beer, "I did hear Luton have an Asian lad who's been tearing it up lately."
"I literally just told you his name. It's Lee Han."
"Right, right, Lee Han." The Genk fan nodded, looking up from his smartphone. "I just looked him up. Sure, he looks monstrous in the air, but that won't fly against Genk. Our aerial dominance and set-piece defense are famous. And our backline can handle whatever dribbling he's got."
Like most passionate local supporters, they rarely paid close attention to players outside their domestic league and key rivals. The only way an overseas fan would know about a striker from a newly promoted English side—who wasn't even playing for the Big Six—was through brief highlight compilations. And in highlight clips, everyone looked like Lionel Messi or Cristiano Ronaldo.
Anyone could look like a god if you stitched together clips across three or four seasons, the Genk supporter reasoned. Too buzzed to notice the video description labeling the highlights as 'Recent Olympic Tournament Performances', he declared with supreme confidence:
"So just be happy you made it to Europe and cough up the points."
"...Every single team that talked like that ended up sucking their thumbs in defeat," Fren shot back with a dry smirk.
"We're different!"
Faced with the sort of baseless, blinding bravado that only hopelessly romantic supporters could muster, Fren simply chuckled and drained the rest of his pint. Not that he was keeping his temper in check solely because Malek was glaring holes through his skull from behind the bar.
"Excuse me... what about Dominic? Dominic Moss of Luton Town?"
An elderly Hispanic man, who had been quietly nursing a drink in the corner, approached Fren with a warm, gentle smile just as the commotion began to settle.
"Dominic Moss? He's phenomenal," Fren replied without hesitation. "Brilliant vision, pinpoint crosses, and he chips in with clutch goals too. What Luton supporter wouldn't adore him?"
Assuming the gentleman was a Brazilian fan who had flown in to support his countryman, Fren piled on the praise with only a slight touch of exaggeration—really, just a hair.
"His chemistry with our main striker is out of this world. He used to be a bit reckless, but nowadays his work ethic is spotless, never gets into trouble, and he's easily the number-one player we'd hate to lose."
Of course, rank 'zero' belonged indisputably to Lee Han in the heart of every Luton fan, but Dominic was right up there.
"...He's really doing that well?"
"Every bit of it. If you don't believe me, go see it with your own eyes. You've got a match ticket, don't you?"
"Of course I do."
The man reached into his jacket pocket, produced a ticket stamped with today's date, and waved it with quiet pride.
"Well, kickoff's creeping up on us. Shall we all head over together?"
Less than an hour remained before match time. It was time to make their way to the ground. Even with the stadium expansions, the surrounding residential streets were still the same narrow, congested lanes. Navigating the squeeze toward Kenilworth Road Stadium would take time, so leaving early was only sensible.
"Aye, let's go."
"If it's your first visit, just follow me—I'll lead the way. And you Genk lads better not be sobbing your eyes out when the final whistle blows."
"Keep dreaming, that'll be you!"
Fren knew in his bones there was zero chance of that. Luton Town were performing far beyond 'respectable' in the Premier League. Losing at Kenilworth Road to a traveling side from the Belgian league was something his mind couldn't even fathom.
It's quicker to guess how many goals Lee Han's going to bag, he thought merrily.
If Han averaged three goals a match against Premier League opposition, maybe he'd knock four past Genk today. Indulging in that blissful reverie, Fren led the procession of visiting fans toward Kenilworth Road. He knew it wouldn't be long before sheer horror washed over those Belgian faces.
"Oi! Pick before you walk out!"
"Pick what...? Ah."
Fren had actually paid his tab in full this time, so he paused, bewildered as Malek held the doorway. Then realization dawned on him.
"Head, today."
"Not foot?"
"They boast about their set-pieces, don't they? Gordon will blast right through their front door."
Knowing Manager Gordon's tactical philosophy, the answer was obvious. Today, Genk's defenders wouldn't win a single header.
Inside the Luton Town dressing room.
The players were gearing up with flushed, energized faces. Anticipation far outweighed anxiety—an atmosphere fueled by more than just the prestige of the Europa League.
"...So, you're saying if we top the group, the club's handing over the prize money straight to us?"
"Yeah. Paid out as performance bonuses. Every round we advance in the knockouts, we get the full cut too."
"Ooooh!"
Backed by their parent company and flush with lucrative new sponsorship deals following their Premier League promotion, Luton Town spared no expense on their squad. While Europa League prize money might not seem monumental compared to Premier League revenues, it was by no means a small sum. The club's pledge to distribute the entire payout to players and coaching staff served as an enormous shot of adrenaline for squad morale.
"How much is it if we win the whole thing?"
"Never mind lifting the trophy, how about we win today's match first?"
"Of course we're gonna win! I'm running myself into the dirt so we finish top of the group, no question!"
Having climbed his way out of the Brazilian favelas, Dominic was practically bouncing off the locker room walls, thrilled at the prospect of pocketing extra cash on top of his weekly wages.
"So Han, whenever I send in a cross today, you have to bury it! Got it?!"
"Do you have something big to buy?"
"I'm gonna bundle my assist incentives and buy a car! I've been wanting a massive SUV for ages."
"Where'd your weekly wages go?"
"Sent it all to my parents, obviously."
"......"
Suddenly, I felt like complete scum.
...Well, at least he's spending it constructively.
It was an undeniable upgrade from the days when he blew his entire paycheck on booze at nightclubs.
"Oh, and my dad's in the stands today, so I need some goals and assists. Back me up out there, alright?"
"...Why are you only telling us this now?"
"Did I not mention it?"
"No, you did not!"
Not just me, but the entire dressing room shouted in unison.
...Now we had another compelling reason to win. What parent would want to travel all that way just to watch their son lose?
We gave Dominic a firm nod before returning to our pre-match routines. An electric energy buzzed through the locker room, far exceeding ordinary competitive fire or pre-match jitters. Besides, seeing the fierce, manic blaze in Dominic's eyes, I had a feeling that missing even one of his crosses today would earn me an earful I'd never live down.
Make one mistake today, and I'm a dead man.
I always gave my all on the pitch, but today, the stakes had just gone through the roof.