The Sunderland Three Musketeers: First Meeting with the Fans
“Han Shin, you said?”
“See? Told you these eyes of mine still work.”
“So this is the kid who won that game thing or whatever?”
“That’s right. I’m Han Shin, the one who’s about to take over the team. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I overheard your conversation. And for the record, I’m not Chinese—I’m Korean.”
“Oh yeah? Sorry about that.”
Looking sheepish, the man scratched his gleaming, completely hairless scalp.
Huh? That was surprisingly straightforward…
“And while you’re at it, how about apologizing for calling me ‘Chinky’?”
“Yeah, I’ll apologize for that too. Sorry, Manager Han.”
Just like that? And he even called me Manager Han?
“Then we’re good. No need for hard feelings. I’ll be on my way.”
The bald man raised his hand in triumph.
“Whoa…!”
The staff member flinched, thinking a punch was coming.
“What do you think you’re doing? Step aside.”
“Not a chance! You’re not getting away from the Sunderland Three Musketeers that easily.”
The “Three Musketeers” blocked his path.
Three Musketeers, though. The name sounded like something out of an ancient epic.
“Come on, sit down. We’re asking nicely.” His friend in the next seat urged him.
“You can’t cause a scene in here! Do I need to call the police?”
Bracing himself for a possible brawl, Han Shin shifted into a ready stance.
“What, you planning to break my legs so I can’t take the job?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
Under Han Shin’s blazing glare, they offered an unexpected proposal.
“Hey, you like coffee?”
Han Shin’s face went blank.
“Excuse me?”
“You deaf? I asked if you like coffee.”
The pot-bellied man pointed at his empty Americano cup, ice cubes all that remained.
“I do, actually.”
Still bewildered.
“You hear that?” The man turned toward the staff. “Miss, bring out the most expensive, best-tasting coffee you’ve got. Not that dishwater you served me—this is for the kid. Make it sweet and delicious, got it?”
“Pardon?”
“You hard of hearing too? Go make the coffee. Here’s the money.”
“I can make the coffee, but please don’t make a scene in the shop! He’s the manager, you know? Understood? I’m a fan of Mr. Han Shin myself.”
“Us? Making a scene? We’re all neighbors around here. Cause a ruckus and it’ll end up in the local paper.”
“I’m holding you to that!”
“Fine. Just bring the manager a cup of coffee.”
Manager?
The staff member nodded, flustered, and headed for the machine.
“James! This is still a café—keep it down a little.”
Whether they were all neighbors or the Three Musketeers were simply well-known, a few people inside the shop chimed in.
The bald man called James waved them off.
“Sorry! But look over here. See who just walked in! How am I supposed to stay calm? Our team’s manager is right here!”
“What? Han’s here?”
A freckled, high-spirited late-teen boy,
“I want to see the manager too!”
and a delicate-looking girl who didn’t seem the football type at all,
both shoved their chairs back and crowded around Han Shin, the whole place buzzing.
A low murmur filled the air.
“Over here, Manager. I’m Emily. Why did you pretend not to notice me earlier? I’m a huge fan! Could I get your autograph?”
Emily, the staff member, set down a macchiato crowned with a generous swirl of whipped cream and a heart of caramel syrup.
“Of course. I just didn’t want to cause a scene.”
A droplet of condensation slid down the coffee cup, the soft sound audible in the sudden hush.
Every eye stayed locked on Han Shin; a few people even snapped photos.
Just regular football fans, I guess. There are always the ones who watch just to trash the team, after all.
“What are you waiting for? Knock it back.”
I’ve already had way too much caffeine… but he bought it for me. Wouldn’t be polite to refuse, right?
After a brief hesitation he lifted the iced cup and drained it in several long gulps.
“Refreshing?”
“Yes.”
Emily, clutching the signed paper, flushed as she asked,
“Tastes good, right?”
“Yeah, cool and delicious. Haha.”
“Hold still a second.”
“Got a few questions for you.”
“What’s your first impression of Sunderland?”
“Sorry? I haven’t even been to the stadium yet, so I don’t really know.”
“No, I mean…”
The pot-bellied man cut in.
“What’s your impression of our city!”
“Ah—it’s nice. London’s crowded and noisy, but here it’s quiet, you can smell the sea, and it feels warm.”
“Boring little place, isn’t it?”
The bald man grinned, though a trace of bitterness lingered in the smile.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Be honest. There’s no duller town than this, right?”
“It is quiet, yeah. Compared to London, and compared to Seoul where I came from.”
“Exactly! Hahaha. This isn’t a big city—it’s the countryside.”
“But do you know why we love this place?”
“Because of football, I assume?”
“That’s right! Hahaha! Call it whatever you want, but we’ve been supporting this team for over forty years already, haven’t we?”
“Damn right. Han Shin, you know this? My father, my mother, even my grandfather who was a miner—they all supported this club. Now my son and daughter-in-law go every week too.”
“That’s really something.”
A burly, shaggy man who looked like a Viking planted both hands on Han Shin’s shoulders.
“You said you’re from Korea?”
“Yes.”
“How long’s the football history over there?”
Honestly, he had no idea.
He’d been kicking a ball around the playground since he could run, but still.
Had there been football in the Joseon era? He’d never seen it in any historical drama.
They were probably asking when the modern professional league started.
At least several decades ago…!
Suddenly he recalled an article about Korea’s consecutive World Cup appearances topping ten.
That was a record even football’s birthplace England and “art soccer” France hadn’t managed, and it had stuck in his mind.
Han Shin ran the numbers quickly.
World Cup every four years, so at least forty years.
2026 minus 40 equals 1986.
If they’d qualified every single time since first entering, the headline would have been something like World’s First—or Asia’s First—100% World Cup Qualification Rate.
He’d never seen such an article, so knock off another four years or so—roughly 1982.
Ten seconds of calculation later, he answered.
“Professional football’s been around for about forty-five years, give or take.”
“Oh, really?”
They looked quietly impressed.
“You know when our Sunderland was founded?” the pot-bellied man asked.
That one I memorized.
Han Shin answered with confidence.
“I do. 1876, right? Under the name Sunderland and District Teachers’ Association.”
“That’s right. Our Black Cats are a club with a hundred and forty-seven years of proud history.”
Black Cats—Sunderland’s nickname.
“Forty-five years doesn’t even come close. Hmm.”
Not perfectly accurate, but close enough.
The bald man spun his chair around and sat astride it, launching into a full interrogation.
“Listen up, young manager. You know any of our club legends?”
“Kevin Phillips? Never saw him play live, but I know he won the European Golden Shoe. Formed a famous big-and-small partnership with Niall Quinn, right?”
Big and small: the towering 190-centimeter Niall Quinn would win the aerial duel, then the 170-centimeter Kevin Phillips would latch onto it with his blistering pace and finish. Simple, effective, deadly.
That was how Kevin Phillips became Premier League top scorer at Sunderland and claimed the European Golden Shoe for the continent’s leading marksman.
“Kevin Phillips is a legend, all right. Niall Quinn too.”
The pot-bellied man nodded.
“Niall Quinn was a player and later the club owner, you know?”
“I didn’t.”
“When Sir Bob Murray’s era ended, Quinn—our own former player—took over the club. The manager he brought in was Roy Keane.”
“Those were good times. Keane came in and won the Championship straight away.”
“You know Darren Bent?”
“Of course—the striker who played for Tottenham.”
And Jermain Defoe too.
“Then you must know about the beach-ball goal in the ’09 season?”
“Yeah, I know it. Liverpool versus Sunderland, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“Someone threw a beach ball in front of Pepe Reina, Darren Bent’s shot deflected off it, and it still counted as a goal.”
“Hahahaha, exactly! This young fella’s watched some football after all.”
“It’s one of those goals that has to be in the history books. Especially since Park Ji-sung was playing back then.”
The legend who sparked Korean love for the Premier League and Manchester United.
“Three-Lung Park—a Premier League legend. Absolute legend. Ah, right—Park Ji-sung, Sonny, and now you. All Korean, eh?”
“Yes, I’m Korean.”
“Park… still remember it. That away day at Old Trafford when his goal beat us. Fresh as ever. Players like him are rare even now.”
“Right—devoted to the team, polite, linked up with teammates, always in the right spot for a pass, and defended too.”
“Even as an opponent you couldn’t hate Park. Ran all day long. We always said we needed a player like that.”
“Park should’ve come to us in his later years instead of Queens Park Rangers. Hahaha!”
“Exactly, exactly.”
“We had our own, you know—Ki and Ji.”
“Ki Sung-yueng was only on loan from Swansea for one season, but he was brilliant. The quality of his passing was different. Shame he left.”
The following year Gary Monk took over and Ki became Swansea’s Player of the Season.
Especially that opening-day goal against Louis van Gaal’s Manchester United—first Asian to score on the Premier League opening weekend. Hard to forget.
Yet Sunderland remembered him too. A strange warmth stirred in Han Shin’s chest.
“You still remember all that?”
The bald man folded his arms and shrugged.
“We remember every match we’ve watched—give or take a little exaggeration.”
“Ki was especially good.”
“Ji didn’t play much for us, but that winner that flattened Man City? Unforgettable. Ji is my hero~”
“But if Korean players have been here and you know so much about them, why were you calling me Chinese and Chinky behind my back?”
“We’re sorry. Really sorry. We’ll apologize properly. Honestly, when we heard some pretty-faced kid who’d never managed a pro team was coming, how could we not swear a bit?”
“On top of that—unknown, not even a former player, and ‘They’re picking a manager with some kids’ game? Are they serious?’ That’s what we thought…”
In a way, a natural reaction. If a complete rookie manager showed up at a club I’d supported for decades, I might have cursed him out myself.
“Most of all, we never expected the man himself to be sitting right there. We’re sorry.”
Well… even at work people enjoy trash-talking the boss. Complaining about someone you don’t like is universal. You never imagine the celebrity will actually appear in front of you, so even innocent stars get ripped apart.
Laughter bloomed as they all swapped Sunderland memories.
These people really love football.
In the brief lull between the older men’s questions, the teenage boy who had asked about posting their group photo on Instagram turned to Han Shin.
“Hyung! Hyung! Do you know Jermain Defoe too?”