Opening Day and the Derby
Opening day had finally arrived.
The compact ground, with its capacity of just 10,356, was packed to the brim with supporters, the air thick with tension and deafening noise.
“Welcome to Kenilworth Road, the historic home of Luton Town FC! As you can see, the supporters have packed every single seat in the house for this opening fixture!”
“There is an incredible amount riding on this match. It’s their home opener, of course, but above all else, it’s the fiercely contested M1 Derby against Watford!”
“And most importantly for our viewers back home, South Korea’s proud striker, Lee Han—who has officially taken over the number nine shirt for Luton Town this season—is in today’s starting eleven!”
“He had a bit of an inconsistent preseason, but manager Gordon Morton clearly places absolute faith in him.”
“Luton have lined up in their trusted 4-4-2 shape from last season, with Lee Han leading the line after his astonishing aerial displays in the promotion campaign.”
“Naturally, with both of Luton’s central midfielders being defensive-minded ball-winners, we’ll have to see how their tactics unfold over the ninety minutes, but—”
“And there’s the whistle! Dominic Moss kicks us off, and the M1 Derby between Luton Town and Watford is officially underway!”
Watford had managed to cling to life in the Premier League for several seasons before finally slipping down through the trapdoor last term.
In plain terms, they were far stronger than us on paper.
The parachute payments they received from the Premier League dwarfed our entire operating budget several times over, and their top-flight fanbase hadn’t evaporated into thin air overnight. Regardless of derby fervor, this was a contest between two entirely different weight classes.
“Win this at all costs!”
“Losing to Watford on opening day is completely unacceptable!”
“Smash those bloody Hornets!”
Supporters, of course, paid no heed to wage bills or squad depth. They cared only about victory—and when it came to a derby, that passion bordered on fanaticism.
So we simply had to win. What other choice was there?
To a footballer, the supporters were the ultimate arbiters.
“Teddy! Here!”
Barely three minutes had ticked off the clock when I checked between Teddy and Dominic before taking the pass. Watford, assuming our movement was a choreographed pattern, had their two center-backs—signed over the summer to plug the holes left by players sold after relegation—drop their line deep to anticipate Dominic’s darting runs.
The fortunate thing was that Watford had only just arrived in the Championship. Neither their holdover veterans nor their shiny new signings had ever shared a pitch with me.
Modern clubs might run tactical drills using virtual reality headsets, but simulated training could only prepare you for structural shapes. There was no way they could fathom my physical strength until they collided with me flesh-to-flesh.
Even the club’s medical staff had assessed my raw physical attributes as elite by Premier League standards.
Standing tall like a telegraph pole in front of their penalty box, exploiting the narrow gap between their two center-backs in our very first aerial duel was child’s play.
“Lee Han! He cushions the ball cleanly into the open half-space!”
“Midfielder Verma lunges in late, but he can’t stop it! What an exquisite nod-down!”
“Dominic receives Lee Han’s layoff! Center-back Yusuf Adler panics and charges out to meet him!”
Dominic, however, had no intention of pulling the trigger himself.
“He dinks it delicately over Yusuf’s head! And arriving right behind him is Lee Han again! The keeper’s reaction is too late! One-on-one—a header!”
Dominic looked for all the world like he was about to blast the leather off the ball, only to take the pace off his strike at the crucial second. The scooped pass floated over the center-back’s head and dropped perfectly onto mine.
Thud.
A measured flick of my forehead guided the ball over the stranded goalkeeper’s reach and across the chalk line.
Just like that, it was a goal.
Our very first goal of the season.
“YEEEEEES! You absolute beauty!”
“Just two more to go!”
“Screw two, let’s smash five past them and grind their noses into the dirt!”
The thunderous cheer from the Kenilworth Road faithful bordered on a collective roar. I wheeled away toward the home stand, dropping into a knee slide across the turf as the supporters surged toward the advertising hoardings, looking ready to spill onto the pitch in wild ecstasy.
“Dominic, brilliant ball.”
“Course it was! Who do you think I am? I’m Dominic Moss, the man who’s going to rule the Championship!”
I gladly accepted Dominic’s tackle-hug the moment he caught up, smiling at his overflowing swagger. When someone handed you an assist on a silver platter, you indulged them whatever they wanted to boast about.
Moments later, the rest of the squad piled in, vigorously tousling my hair.
“Outstanding, Han!”
“Is that the first goal across the entire Championship this season?”
“Who cares?”
“What do you mean, who cares? Milestones matter! Check the stats after the match.”
“Brilliant work, boys! Now get back into shape and stay sharp. Just look at their eyes.”
Spoken like a true captain.
Glancing toward the far end, a modest pocket of traveling Watford supporters was already raining furious abuse down on their team for capitulating so early. Hearing every vile chant loud and clear, the Watford players had fiery scowls etched across their faces.
It was precisely what I wanted.
I knew all too well how to exploit an opponent when anger clouded their judgment.
“Teddy, look for the long ball over the top like we practiced.”
The match was still in its infancy, and Watford’s defensive pressing lacked cohesion. With Teddy’s range of passing, finding me wouldn't be an issue. If anything, their hot-headed eagerness to hit back would work in our favor. Organized high pressing was something teams spent months refining; if one or two individuals broke ranks to press blindly, the entire structure fell apart.
“Don’t worry about a thing. Just make your run.”
“Wait, are we already trying the routine?” Dominic asked, blinking.
“No better time than right now. They’re wound up and rushing out of position.”
Watford restarted the match from the center spot. True to their pedigree, they tried to maintain an air of calm after conceding, but beneath the surface, the cracks were obvious.
“Watford on the ball—Leighton lines one up from distance!”
“Oh, that’s nowhere near the target! Miles over, and Luton will have a goal kick.”
“If he’d slipped a pass wide there, Watford could have manufactured a much cleaner look. A very wasteful sequence.”
Watford offered little genuine threat. Caught in two minds between our double pivot and the back four, they squandered their attacking phase with a rushed, over-hit strike.
The initiative promptly swung back to us.
Our goalkeeper, Mathias, rolled the ball out to Mick Colback. The left-back carried possession forward with measured composure until Watford’s winger closed down his channel, at which point Mick recycled it inside to Teddy, who was lingering in space behind him.
The instant Teddy took the touch, Dominic, Emir, Luke, and I surged forward in unison.
Faced with five attackers flooding their defensive third, Watford’s 4-1-2-3 shape buckled under the sudden overload. Their holding midfielder glued himself to Dominic, while the two center-backs squeezed tight, sandwiching me between them to ensure I had no corridor to slip through.
Naturally, that was exactly what I had baited them into doing.
The moment Teddy struck the ball across the halfway line, I spun on my heel and bolted back toward our own half. The two center-backs froze, utterly dumbfounded. A striker turning on the jets to sprint away from goal was something they had rarely witnessed outside of defensive set pieces.
Meanwhile, the holding midfielder occupied with Dominic hesitated, caught in two minds over which runner to track.
“Teddy! Lift it!”
Reaching the designated pocket near the center circle, Teddy sent a drilled, low-trajectory pass that barely skimmed above ground level, perfectly calibrated for my jump. Two Watford midfielders converged on me, but they were neither natural center-backs nor imposing in stature; evading them was straightforward.
With the ball arriving low and fast, I angled my forehead to cushion the impact and pop the sphere upward. As the two midfielders scrambled to contest the second ball, I bumped their shoulders mid-air, throwing off their balance just enough to leave them tumbling, before using the back of my head to flick the descending ball diagonally behind me.
The ball flew cleanly across the pitch, dropping right into the stride of Mick Colback galloping up the flank.
“Lee Han! Sensational ball control with his head! With a couple of sublime touches, he completely dismantles two Watford midfielders!”
“And Mick Colback drives forward into acres of green space down the right!”
My reverse run had left their defensive line disorganized, and having bypassed their midfield single-handedly, Mick had an expanse of open grass rolling out before him.
Taking short, aggressive touches, Mick pushed directly toward the box while I sprinted at full tilt to join the attack. True to our hours on the training ground, Mick delivered an early cross with pinpoint curve from the vacated flank.
Watford’s other center-back, Graham, hesitated between picking up Dominic or stepping to me before finally leaving Dominic to a retreating midfielder and stepping up alongside Yusuf Adler to close me down.
I wasn't about to stand around waiting for their trap to snap shut.
CRACK!
There was zero reason to give them time to adjust their footing. Leaping half a beat earlier than anticipated, I met the cross before they could react and redirected its flight path toward the top corner.
Unlike the cushioned finish from earlier, the net billowed with a violent rip as the ball buried itself into the mesh.
A textbook header from the center-backs' blind spot.
A goalkeeper left completely rooted, unable to twitch a finger.
Defenders who had conceded twice in a single half.
And our supporters, delirious with joy, sending pints of beer flying into the afternoon sky.
Surrounded by teammates mobbing me as I stood with arms outstretched in swaggering satisfaction, it made for a picture-perfect scene.
Tweet, tweet, tweeeet!
The final whistle sounded, and a thunderous roar from the home support rolled through Kenilworth Road.
“The referee blows for full-time! A commanding 3-1 victory for Luton Town, securing all three points at home!”
“Many predicted a grueling afternoon against a recently relegated heavyweight, but Lee Han’s first-half brace completely blew the contest wide open!”
“Indeed! After an uncertain preseason where questions were raised about his form, Luton Town’s talismanic striker answered every critic with a brace and an assist, decisively dictating the outcome!”
Having been substituted around the seventieth minute after notching another clinical finish in the second half, Lee Han had put on an absolute masterclass. Beyond the goals, his role as a decoy combined with his millimeter-perfect headed layoff in the opening period left no room for doubt: his quality was unquestionable.
“This is a dream start for Gordon Morton. Many pundits assumed Luton Town’s ceiling was merely surviving in the division, but anyone watching today will be forced to reconsider.”
“Despite earning promotion, Luton spent far less than their rivals over the past two years. Yet that continuity has allowed this squad to adapt seamlessly to the Championship’s tempo! We look forward to seeing how far Luton Town and Lee Han can go this season.”
“That concludes our live coverage for today. Thank you for tuning in!”
Back in the home dressing room, the players gathered in a bouncing huddle, belting out the chant the supporters had penned for Lee Han the previous season.
“Lee Han!”
“Can’t use his feet!”
“Can’t use his hands!”
“Brilliant with his head!”
None of them could carry a tune to save their lives, but for the fans watching the livestreamed clips circulating on social media, the unvarnished celebration was pure gold.
Meanwhile, the man of the hour was cornered by Gordon Morton, undergoing a detailed debrief on several tactical adjustments.
Knowing the manager’s fastidious temperament, the rest of the squad steered well clear of the two, terrified of getting roped into a lecture of their own.
“Well, that covers the essentials for now. We’ll go over the specifics tomorrow,” Gordon said, crossing his arms.
“Yes, boss. I’ll keep everything you said in mind.”
“Everything went well today, but having to take you off early every match for the foreseeable future is frustrating.”
“It’s frustrating for me too, but there’s no getting around it right now.”
“Is there truly no way to push it?”
“Han. Boss. I’ve warned you both repeatedly,” chimed in Anderson, the club doctor, who had been hovering nearby with a stern scowl. “I made it abundantly clear that pushing him past that threshold is flirting with disaster.”
Anderson wasn't exaggerating. In his current physical state, keeping Han on the pitch for full ninety-minute shifts would shave years off his professional career.
Lee Han and Lee Yeon had vastly contrasting styles of play.
That meant they engaged entirely different muscle groups. Entering the season without having fully harmonized that internal physical balance, even an unnervingly rapid recovery rate couldn't bypass the laws of physiology. Rigorous recuperation protocols and strictly managed minutes were non-negotiable.
Of course, Anderson was completely in the dark about the dual soul sharing a single vessel; to his eyes, the fatigue was merely the byproduct of a grueling preseason compounded by Han’s very first senior international call-up.
“I know, Doc. I’ll be careful this season.”
“Hmph. Very well. Nothing for it, then.”
Neither man was foolish enough to derail a burgeoning career for the sake of a single campaign, so both nodded along to Anderson’s reprimand.
Though looking at their sullen, half-hearted expressions, it wasn't hard to guess what was running through their minds.
‘Manager and player alike—neither of them has a single thought in their skull that isn't football.’
They were cut from the exact same cloth, and reining in the two stubborn workaholics was Anderson’s thankless duty.
‘Better to save my breath.’
There was nothing more he could do anyway.
Anderson banished the headache-inducing duo from his thoughts for the afternoon, deciding instead to embrace his role as an ordinary Luton Town supporter and savor the derby triumph.
And long into the evening, the laughter and chanting in the locker room showed no signs of dying down.