The Gift (2)
The Legacy Room.
It was the sacred space where Luton Town's history was etched into physical form, and like every proper football club, where the silverware won through blood, sweat, and tears stood proudly on display.
"Starting from that end, you can see them in chronological order: our fifth-tier National League trophy, followed by EFL League Two, League One, and right through to our Championship title."
At the tour guide's explanation, the children swarmed over in a flurry of excitement to gaze at the silverware, and truth be told, the players weren't much different. How many active professional footballers had ever laid eyes on an actual National League trophy? Aside from our captain Teddy and gaffer Gordon, there probably wasn't a single person in the entire Luton squad who had. In terms of pure novelty, it was well worth the detour.
"You know, even for lower-league cups, they actually look pretty sharp," someone murmured.
"Right?"
"Sure, but I feel way more attached to the ones down there."
"Well, obviously, mate. We're the ones who won those."
At the far end of the chronological procession of league titles and tournament cups sat our most recent triumphs: the FA Cup and the Championship trophy. Behind them, a massive photo mural of us hoisting the silverware blanketed the entire wall.
"Think I could ask them to retake that photo?" Dominic muttered.
"Pay for it out of your own pocket then," Emir shot back dryly. "I came out looking brilliant."
"..."
Dominic grumbled under his breath at Emir's barb, but he still turned around and gave the children in his group a vivid, player's-eye breakdown of what the FA Cup final had actually felt like out on the pitch.
Still, the silverware truly was magnificent. The radiant, lustrous sheen of the FA Cup and the Championship trophy seemed to command the entire room. Having the physical proof of what you had achieved as a footballer enshrined in the club's home was a profound honor. It felt surreal to think that just a few months ago, I was the one hoisting those very cups into the sky while roaring with the crowd.
...It sure would be nice to win something this season too.
Silverware was never handed out just because you wanted it, but every footballer dreamed of lifting another trophy. What would it feel like to layer an even brighter glory over what we had already built?
"Han, did you know that?"
As I stood there spacing out in front of the FA Cup, Joel chimed in beside me.
When I first met the group of kids, I had spotted a familiar face: Joel, Sienna's younger brother, whom I occasionally ran into at the greengrocer.
The kids attending today's Kenilworth Road tour and player meet-and-greet fell into two camps: ordinary young Luton Town supporters—or rather, parents using their children as an excuse to visit—and the club's U-9 academy prospects. Since I already knew Joel, and he seemed to command some respect among the academy boys, I had pulled him into my group thinking it would make herding the kids a lot easier.
Wrangling hyperactive kids wasn't exactly my forte, and doing a tour with middle-aged men was even less appealing. Dealing with innocent kids who shared a common passion for football was by far the easiest route. With Joel being the youth team captain, the tour was practically guaranteed to run smoothly.
Of course, I hadn't even needed to ask if he wanted to be in my group. Joel had darted straight to my side before anyone else could.
"See, that EFL trophy over there was won against Arsenal, and the FA Cup you just won was against Arsenal too! Don't you think that's crazy for a coincidence?"
"Yeah. Pretty crazy indeed."
The only thing I hadn't factored in was...
...he talks non-stop.
Sienna was always calm and composed when we spoke, but her little brother was the exact opposite. I supposed that bubbly energy was why he wore the youth captain's armband, but watching him rattle off Luton Town's historical trivia by heart inevitably reminded me of Dominic entertaining his group nearby. Still, having an academy kid show so much genuine love for the club was hardly a bad thing, so I didn't shut him down.
"All right, has everyone finished taking their pictures?"
"Yes!"
"Then let's make our way out to the center of Kenilworth Road!"
Catching the true meaning behind the upbeat guide's words, the children scrambled into line in record time. It was time to head out onto the pitch.
The tunnel at Kenilworth Road hadn't changed much, constrained by the structural realities of expanding an old stadium. It wasn't as if they could saw the ground in half and hoist it into the air.
Once you emerged from the tunnel and stepped onto the pitch, however, the view was completely transformed.
"Whoaaaa!"
"I've never been down here before!"
"I wanna sprint across it so bad!"
Never mind the stands, which had been renovated and expanded to meet Premier League standards; the children were utterly enchanted by the manicured green carpet of the pitch itself.
"Now then, this right here is the heart of Kenilworth Road—the pitch where our players battle it out."
"Mister, who are you...?"
"I'm Bob, and I look after the grass on this ground. Lovely to meet you all."
Bob bent down to meet the children eye-to-eye before nodding warmly in greeting to me, Dominic, and Emir. Showing the practiced touch of a groundsman with decades under his belt, he explained how the turf worked while gently slipping in a word of caution.
"And what happens if you go tearing up the turf?"
"The team plays badly!"
"So what are we going to do?"
"Make sure we don't hurt the grass!"
"Good. That's my clever lads and lasses."
They would still run around and play, of course, but none of them would mindlessly gouge into the sod. Every parent and child here held genuine love for Luton Town; nobody was about to ruin the pitch after a reminder like that.
"Well, I'll just stand off to the side and watch, so carry on, Barstow," Bob said.
"Thank you, Bob."
"Nonsense, thank you."
The old groundsman waved off the staff member with a genial laugh before ambling back toward the tunnel.
Meanwhile, Dominic—who could memorize complex match tactics in a heartbeat but had already wiped today's schedule clean from his brain—wandered over to Emir and me, whispering under his breath.
"Remind me, what are we supposed to do out here again?"
"The Crossbar Challenge."
"They told us the winning group gets to donate to the local hospital under their names, remember?"
"Ah, right."
The Crossbar Challenge was a charity event pooling the entrance fees paid by today's tour participants along with a dedicated fund prepared by the club. Since the three of us had already pledged to chip in regardless of who came out on top, the prize money didn't hinge on winning or losing. But the victory itself? That was an entirely different matter.
"...Wait, which one are you doing today?"
Dominic and Emir eyed me with deep suspicion.
"Head or feet?"
"Spit it out, Han."
True to their professional pedigree, neither Emir nor Dominic lacked competitive fire. But then again, neither did I.
"Who knows?"
"...I've got a bad feeling about this."
"Yeah, me too."
I had zero intention of losing.
In a live match, the home supporters would have been chanting behind the goal, but today the space between the posts was completely empty. Instead, everyone was clustered behind Dominic and me as we took our turns.
Clang!
With a resonant metallic ring, Dominic nailed his fourth consecutive attempt.
The score was level again.
Emir had shanked his third kick and crashed out early, leaving the two of us to rattle the woodwork with effortless precision.
"...This is going to take forever at this rate."
"I was thinking the same thing, but got any better ideas?"
"Hmm."
Both Dominic and I were striking the ball so cleanly today that we felt we could hit the frame all afternoon. I glanced over at the Luton Town social media team, who were practically drooling behind their cameras. Any disappointment over Emir's swift exit had vanished; they were filming our every move with ravenous intensity.
Even just the footage of Dominic and me hitting four in a row was enough to make a viral clip.
Still, we wanted a far more dramatic way to crown the winner.
"How about this: you have to hit the crossbar so the rebound comes right back to your feet. And each time, you take a step back by one mowed stripe of grass."
"...Wait, you don't mean that stupid trick from before, do you?"
Emir, who had been quietly watching from the sidelines since dropping out, grimaced as painful memories resurfaced.
I had demonstrated it once back during our Championship days over drinks.
How many did I hit back then?
At least three in a row, I thought. I had been fairly tipsy at the time, so the memory was a bit hazy.
Dominic, on the other hand, recalled that night just as vividly, but instead of groaning, his eyes ignited with fiery ambition.
"Now that's a proper contest! I'm taking you down this time!"
Dominic accepted without a second thought. It was the exact same wager we'd had before, and having lost that night, he was desperate for redemption.
With the rules revised on the fly, Dominic stepped up first. He placed the ball on the turf with meticulous care—looking even more focused than he did over a matchday free kick—and kicked off the modified challenge.
Thwack!
Laced with heavy backspin, the ball struck the bar and bounced cleanly right back to Dominic's feet.
Even that single strike was enough to drop the jaws of the watching crowd. Dominic followed it up with two more successful hits, backing up a stripe each time, making it three in a row before missing the fourth. The onlookers erupted into thunderous applause.
Now it was my turn.
"Think you can beat three?" Dominic challenged.
"I managed three while completely hammered, mate."
Snorting at his taunt, I set the ball down without much fuss.
Thump!
Clang!
With a crisp ring, the ball ricocheted off the bar and dropped neatly right onto the next strip of grass where I had already stepped back to wait.
"..."
Silence washed over the pitch.
Dominic had kicked the ball, received it where he stood, and then stepped back a stripe. I had calculated the bounce so that the ball met me at my next shooting position. Even an untrained eye could tell the degree of absurdity required to pull off a stunt like that.
Watching the ball settle at my boots, I struck it again.
In an actual match under suffocating pressure or with spent stamina, it would have been near impossible. But here? Free of opposition and fatigue, dialing in the right spin made a trick like this fairly straightforward up to a certain distance.
Clang!
Pinnng!
It wasn't until my sixth attempt that the ball struck the underside of the crossbar and deflected into the net instead of bouncing back.
A bit disappointing, perhaps, but once I had backed up past the halfway line, the margin for error was practically microscopic. I had no regrets.
"No bloody way! You're cheating!"
Dominic, who must have thought he'd put up a decent fight, looked like his soul had briefly left his body after being thoroughly dismantled.
"You watched it with your own eyes, Dom."
"Did you glue magnets to your boots or something?!"
"Should've put more hours in on the training pitch," I ribbed him.
"...If that could be learned in training, Dominic wouldn't be crying his eyes out right now," Emir muttered, offering his own unique brand of comfort.
Knowing that consoling Dominic would only make him feel more miserable, I turned toward the ecstatic kids in my group.
"That was brilliant!"
"I want to play just like Han!"
"Me too! Me too!"
I high-fived each of the outstretched little hands before walking over to Joel, who was grinning from ear to ear at our group's win.
"You know you have to tell her about this, right?"
"Tell who?"
"Don't play dumb."
"Yeah, yeah. Of course I will."
Joel flashed a cheeky grin and nodded eagerly.
To wrap up the challenge on a high note, club staff brought out a temporary podium along with a massive ceremonial cheque. It wasn't meant for ranking winners and losers, of course, but for everyone to gather together and pose for commemorative photos.
Five hundred thousand pounds.
Roughly over eight hundred million Korean won.
Glancing at the figure written on the oversized cardboard cheque, I borrowed a pen from Joel and casually scribbled over the '5', turning it into a '6'.
A round of applause broke out as the crowd realized what I was doing.
"Dominic, Emir, and I agreed to contribute an extra hundred thousand pounds," I announced.
At charity events like this, being stingy never looked good. And frankly, given our weekly wages, chipping in our share of a hundred grand wouldn't break the bank.
"Those two are pitching in thirty-three thousand three hundred and thirty-three pounds each, while I'm tossing in one extra pound—so I'd appreciate it if everyone remembers me just a little more fondly."
A hundred thousand didn't divide cleanly by three, after all.
Laughter rippled through the gathering as people caught on. Some might ask why the winner should pay more, but in wagers like this, it wasn't about the total amount—it was about making sure you contributed more than the guy standing next to you.
And for that petty satisfaction, an extra single pound was a bargain.