The Stadium of Light
After catching his breath for a moment, Han Shin turned to the three men who had been peppering him with endless questions and asked,
“By the way, I still haven’t caught your names.”
Slap!
The bald man smacked his own forehead hard enough that the sound of skin against skin rang out with surprising clarity.
“Where’s my head at? I’m James. The chubby one’s Herald, and this here’s Robin.”
“Late introductions, but real glad to meet you.”
“Welcome to our patch.”
Han Shin shook hands with beer-bellied Herald and the Viking-looking Robin.
“I take it the three of you are friends, of course?”
“Friends? Aye, friends. We’re all locals through and through. Born here, never left. Grandad, dad, me, my lad—every last one of us a Sunderland man.”
What must it feel like, Han Shin wondered, to support one club generation after generation?
“Ha-ha-ha. Hang on, James—how many years have we known each other now?”
“Who keeps count of that?”
“True enough.”
Robin asked,
“Anyway, when’s your official start as manager? Aren’t we keeping a busy man too long?”
His accent… it’s getting harder and harder to follow.
Korea had its regional dialects, of course. But England, after centuries of invasions, divisions, and reunifications, had pockets where the accent could rival Jeju Island’s for sheer impenetrability. Coastal cities with busy ports—places where foreigners came and went—tended to develop the thickest local speech. And Britain being a society still steeped in class, even the vocabulary itself shifted depending on whether you were working-class, middle-class, or elite.
The three musketeers spoke pure working-class English.
I thought Liverpool was the final boss of accents, but Sunderland’s no joke either.
Liverpool had Scouse—so thick that even other Brits struggled. There was that famous clip of Liverpool legend Jamie Carragher interviewing Harry Kane after the striker’s move to Munich; Kane couldn’t understand a word, and the host and panelists lost it. Still one of the most-watched videos over here.
Right now, Robin was doing the same number on Han Shin.
“I’m really sorry—could you say that one more time?”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Robin’s face turned beet-red.
“This one’s thicker than the rest of us, eh? Robin’s ancestors were Vikings, you see.”
“Ah, that explains it. It’s not the accent—my English just isn’t good enough.”
“Nonsense. We never even noticed till you pointed it out. You came from Korea and you’re spot-on.”
“In Korea we start learning English almost from kindergarten.”
“That’ll be it, then. Half Yankee, half London.”
This is a place where London counts as a dialect?
“I’ll be living here now, so I’ll have to get used to the Sunderland accent.”
“We’re the experts—we’ll teach you.”
“Yes, please.”
Viking blood, though…
The beard, the thick reddish hair—even Han Shin could see it. Robin’s accent carried a clear northern European edge, while James and Herald had the classic North East England drawl: the Geordie accent that flattened vowels until “water” came out as something like “wo’ah.”
Robin slowed his speech to a deliberate staccato for Han Shin’s benefit.
“When. Is. Your. Manager. Start. Date.”
“Ah—I officially begin the contract in a week. There’s an inauguration and a press conference then.”
“How long you been in England?”
“A bit over half a year now.”
“Why?”
“It’s the home of football, isn’t it?”
“If you want to learn the game, you come to England. No two ways about it.”
“I’m joking, of course. Truth is, once I was selected as Korea’s representative for the Manager War, they covered my flight and gave me a bit of living money so I could come early.”
“Fair enough.”
“Glad you mentioned it. Tell us about the Manager War. You know Robin here never watched a single episode? Said football’s just kids’ games.”
“That’s not—!”
Robin scratched his orange-tinged hair, looking sheepish.
“I caught the gist earlier myself. Your voices carry. And James, you said it too—what’s some Chinese bloke who knows nothing going to achieve?”
“Han Shin, a real man doesn’t hold grudges.”
“But talking behind someone’s back is fine?”
“Urgh…”
“Young fella doesn’t give an inch! Ha-ha-ha-ha! That’s a manager for you!”
Herald lightly knuckled the top of Han Shin’s head.
“I get it, though. Half the fun of football is shouting at the telly, right? We do it from the other side of the planet too.”
Han Shin took a long pull of the cream-topped beer through his straw and swirled it thoughtfully.
“Easiest targets in the world—managers and players. Even a shut-in like me used to slag off the national team and pretend I was an honorary Englishman demanding the manager’s head.”
“Listen, Han—what we said was a joke. It’s not even half of what you’ll hear in the stands.”
“I noticed. Watched a United match at Old Trafford—the language was something else. But I’m the manager now. Comes with the job.”
James’s eyes lit up as brightly as his bald head.
“Old Trafford? So have you been to our ground yet?”
“Not yet. Schedule’s been packed.”
Han Shin had taken in matches in Manchester, Liverpool, and London, and even flown to Spain for Champions League. Honestly, who made time for Sunderland?
“Free this afternoon, then?”
“Course he’s busy—why even ask?”
“Season hasn’t started. Lads are all on holiday. What’s a manager got to do?”
“Fair point. Han—schedule clear?”
I’d love to say I’m busy. But I hopped on a train on a whim. And more than that…
Those three pairs of eyes were impossible to refuse.
“I’m free.”
“Right then—locals’ tour of the town. Let’s go.”
“A tour?”
“What are you waiting for? Come on—lunch is on us. Fancy fish and chips?”
“No.”
“Tch… shame.”
“Where’d you try it?”
“London.”
“That’s why, Han. You just haven’t been to a proper place.”
“It’s not that—I just don’t like fried food.”
“Pity. Next time for sure.”
The fish and chips he’d looked forward to in the motherland had been a disappointment. No—to be blunt, all British food was a disappointment. Anything tasty in Britain hadn’t been invented here.
Hands deep in his pockets, Han Shin walked the streets of Sunderland with the three musketeers.
“Fifteen minutes on foot. See it? That’s the stadium. And if you keep right from here, that’s the direction of Roker Park—our old ground.”
“All knocked down now, of course. But we used it for ninety-nine years.”
Just like the old folks back in rural Korea, they shared little scraps of local history—“this used to be such-and-such, now look at it.”
The four of them crossed the Wearmouth Bridge spanning the River Wear. A little farther on, murals of mines, miners, coal, and footballers decorated the streets.
“That handsome devil is Sir Bobby Gurney. Our club’s guardian angel.”
“I see. Still good-looking even now.”
James nudged him with an elbow.
“Oi, Shin.”
“Yes?”
Han Shin turned to find James pulling out a cigarette.
“You smoke?”
“Used to. Quit.”
“That so? Quit, eh? Tough lad.”
“You’ve got to be tough to manage. Aye, that’s the truth.”
James lit up and kept walking.
One of the first things that had surprised Han Shin about England: street smoking was basically free-range. Anywhere that wasn’t a designated no-smoking zone was fair game—even bus stops.
Thick clouds of smoke drifted skyward.
“Hoo… that interview where you swore you’d take us to the Premier League and win it—were you serious?”
“Yes. Completely. That’s why I came all this way.”
“Ha… 2017 already feels like forever ago. When we went down after ten years in the Premier League, we thought we’d be back in a season or two.”
“We all did. Who saw this coming?”
“When we dropped straight into League One I wanted to tear the whole club down and start over!”
James kicked a pebble hard into the gutter.
“There’s the stadium.”
“Aye. The Stadium of Light.”
The ninth-largest ground in the Premier League.
James drew a deep breath.
“My hair’s long gone and the years have piled up, but…”
He turned to face Han Shin.
“Walking this Millennium Way every week still gets me. The second the stadium comes into view, this heart of mine burns like a boy’s again.”
“Not just the fags and booze hardening the arteries?” Herald teased.
“Cheek!”
“Fans come in this way too, right?”
“Every week. Tens of thousands pour in for the match. This whole street fills up. You hear me, Han? Tens of thousands coming to cheer for you.”
“I can’t wait. Really looking forward to meeting them.”
Past the car park they reached the red-and-white painted stadium. Han Shin gazed up at its sheer scale and felt pure, unfiltered awe. The black cat crest fixed to the façade caught his eye.
“Wow. It’s huge—and beautiful. Holds its own against any ground in England. Perfect.”
Except Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.
In Han Shin’s private ranking, Tottenham’s new home was still the best in the country—top three at the very least.
Maybe I’m biased because this is the club I’ll manage.
Herald spoke with open pride.
“Right? This is our home—the Stadium of Light. Every time we come here we feel hope, despair, and joy. When Sunderland win, the whole week’s bright. When we lose, the entire city droops.”
So… the city’s been drooping almost every week, then?
“I still remember the first time my dad brought me here as a kid. He told me what this place meant. Football isn’t just a game to us. It’s our life. It’s everything.”
James nodded.
“I used to take my own boy. Now he brings the whole family. Years pass, but the love for this place never changes.”
Robin piled on, Sunderland devotion apparently bottomless.
“Ten years ago I watched us beat Manchester United right here with my daughter. Ten years already.”
He seized Han Shin’s hand.
“We stayed in the Premier League for ten years. We’ve been down nine now. If you take us back to the EFL after a decade, Han, I’ll die a happy man.”
“I’ll do everything I can to live up to that. I want to win here—and make new memories with all of you.”
The three older men nodded, rallying behind him.
“That’s the spirit, Han Shin—no, Manager. Whether you get us promoted or not, the three of us will always have your back. You’re family now.”
“Does that make me the fourth musketeer?”
“Ha-ha-ha! Manager and the Four Musketeers? Honour’s all ours!”
“Ha-ha-ha—then can we draw up the tactics for you?”
“That might be a problem. Ha-ha-ha-ha.”
“You’re the manager—don’t you want a look inside?”
“It’ll be my house from now on. I’ll explore properly later. If you’ve got time, how about a pint right out front?”
“Beer in the middle of the day?”
“You against it?”
“Brilliant idea. Best pub in town is just ahead. Introduce you to the landlord—he’ll be chuffed.”
“Lead the way.”
“Oh—by the way, sorted a place to live yet?”
“A house? Not yet. The club said they’d sort something, but tonight I’m just grabbing a hotel.”
“A hotel? Nonsense. Stay at mine.”
“No chance, Herald. The manager’s staying at my place.”
Robin cut in.
“What are you on about? Obviously my house. Oi, Manager Han—got a girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“My daughter’s a real looker, you know. What do you say?”
“Pardon?”
“And those two only have sweaty sons at home.”
“Then maybe I’ll stay at Robin’s for the night?”
“Nice choice, Han!”
“I’m joking. Really appreciate it, but I’ve got a lot to prepare—I’ll stick with the hotel.”
Ring-ring-ring. His phone buzzed.
“Excuse me a second—call coming in.”
“Aye, take it.”
“Yes, I’m at the stadium right now. Yes… yes.”
While Han Shin spoke, the three musketeers talked among themselves. James lit another cigarette.
“Ambitious young fella’s joined our club. Exciting, isn’t it?”
Herald answered,
“Aye. Maybe the whole city’ll get its spark back.”
“I’m buying a season ticket.”
Robin’s sudden confession left the others blinking.
“You still haven’t got one?”
“Wanted better seats. Got to cheer him on properly.”
“Right. Least we can do is back his dream.”
“Becoming the best manager in the world, you mean?”
“Haah… the best in the world. When did we stop dreaming daft dreams like that? Remember when you wanted to be Prime Minister?”
“Prime Minister my arse. These days I just hope the family’s healthy. Champions League? I’d forgotten the thing even existed! Ha-ha-ha!”
Robin suddenly pointed out a fact.
“Strictly speaking, though, Han’s already the best manager in the world.”
“How d’you figure?”
“He won the Manager War—fought through that bloodbath and came out on top.”
“Robin, you said you never watched that childish kids’ show. Don’t tell me you did.”
“Nooo—my lad watched bits here and there, I just glanced over! That’s all. Besides, the papers and the news were full of nothing else.”
“Your face still goes red when you lie, even after all these years.”
“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!”
Bright-red Robin punched James in the back.
“Oi! Herald—get Robin off me!”
James locked him in a headlock.
“I yield! I yield! Bloody hell, you’re strong as an ox—urk! Herald, help!”
Herald remarked dryly to the pair,
“That statue’s going to be copper, right?”
“What?”
“The statue. Statues are usually copper, aren’t they?”
Robin burst out laughing in disbelief.
“Ha-ha-ha, Herald! Don’t count your chickens before they hatch!”
Just then Han Shin finished his call and walked back.
“In Korea we say don’t drink the kimchi soup first—ah, do you know what kimchi is? Never mind. What were you three talking about?”
“Nothing important.”
“Just saying—look after our Sunderland.”
“I will.”
“Go on then—become the best in the world, Manager Han!”
“I intend to. But first—shall we get that pint?”
“Brilliant!”
And so the first week in Sunderland slipped by.