Your Name is Really Cool
"Thank you, Coach Hiddink."
I was such an idiot. My head was filled with nothing but soccer, so I hadn't even thought about using my future knowledge to make money.
Then it hit me—I could make a fortune in London, on the opposite side of the world from the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup.
I knew nothing about stock investing; I'd never tried it. I only knew that Apple, Google, and Tesla would blow up later on. I didn't even know what Bitcoin was.
But I remembered most of the match results from the 2002 World Cup. Especially Korea's games—I knew the scores by heart. Anyone in Korea who watched it live would remember.
In this world, I was the only one who knew.
"Just in case, let's spread out the bets."
My entire fortune was 10 million won in Korean currency. It was the emergency money my dad gave me when I came to London, and I hadn't spent a single won.
"Let's grow this seed money as much as possible."
I wandered around London, placing 1 million won bets each at ten different sports betting shops. That way, no rumors would spread about me striking it big on sports bets.
First, I profited off Korea's opening match against Poland. Then the draw against the USA grew my pot even more.
The group stage highlight was the Portugal game. When Kim Ji-sung slotted in that picture-perfect goal for Korea, I cheered even louder than in my previous life.
The odds for a Korea win against Portugal were a whopping 4.97 to 1.
This is the magic of compound interest.
That measly 10 million won ballooned like magic as the World Cup progressed.
The peak of my tournament betting was the round of 16 against Italy. No bookmaker saw a Korea win coming. With my newfound betting savvy, I wagered on the halftime/full-time draw, the golden goal in extra time, and even the final score, raking in over 20 times my stake.
I followed up with the 0-0 draw against Spain and Korea's penalty shootout win, compounding my gains again.
The semis loss 0-1 to Germany netted a modest profit, and nailing Brazil's final win wrapped up my World Cup betting.
"How much is this...?"
That miraculous June of 2002 came to an end. After the World Cup, my 10 million won had swelled to 1.5 million euros—about 2.1 billion won.
Money I'd never even touched in my past life.
Thinking about it, it seemed stupid to waste time and effort becoming a soccer player when I could use future knowledge to make bank. If I kept growing it like this, I could get rich enough to buy a club someday.
But.
Thud—thud—thwack!
Today, like always, I was bouncing the ball alone on the training pitch.
Money might buy a club, but it couldn't make me a player on the field. Playing in stadiums packed with the era's greatest soccer stars was an honor money couldn't buy.
My goal hadn't budged an inch.
"Still, this puts my mind at ease."
With my pockets full, I felt a psychological stability I'd never had. It let me focus even harder on training.
I just left the World Cup windfall in the bank. No place to spend it. I thought about grabbing an Adidas tracksuit as a treat, but shopping downtown sounded like too much hassle.
The training gear and cleats from the club were plenty; I didn't really need more. Sending some to my parents crossed my mind, but I put it on hold. They'd wonder where it came from, and telling them I won it betting would cause a meltdown.
"Still... feels good."
After that, I had more poise even around people. Of course, no one knew the secret.
The Premier League 02-03 season loomed, and July preseason kicked off. West Ham's first team racked up loss after loss in friendlies, stirring up noise again.
Calls to sack Glenn Roeder before opening day grew louder from the opposition. Even the club brass was split, and the hardcore supporters' groups were divided.
"Glenn's a slow starter. He was last season too. We can't afford to wobble from the jump."
"Last season was good? That's why we got called West 'Mid-table' Ham! We scraped the bottom all year with boring games, only surviving because other teams choked late. A tight-ass like Glenn doesn't fit West Ham soccer. We need a gaffer for fiery attacking play."
While the first team floundered, the West Ham youth teams dominated locally. We won match after match in the weekend regional league, and I starred as the 18s' starting center-back and ace.
Some West Ham fans were youth soccer diehards, and word of me started spreading in those circles.
"Heard there's this kid from Korea named Hero in the youth league, channeling Bobby Moore."
"Hero? That's his actual name?"
"Yeah. Registered as H.E.R.O."
The weekly youth league vibe was fascinating. Unlike Korea's win-at-all-costs mentality, they prioritized individual growth over results. Coaches pushed one-on-one duels with opponents, judging players harshly on the outcomes.
"...This place is brutal."
At first, the European youth system felt perfect. After years of getting smacked and yelled at in rote soccer drills, finally getting praise for playing freely? It was bliss. Pure joy soccer every day.
But then, one day, I looked around—my teammates from those happy days were vanishing like in a horror flick.
"Sorry, but you won't be with the club anymore."
If the academy deemed a youth player worthless, they cut them without hesitation. No supply worries with soccer kids lining up worldwide at academy doors.
"This is a savage, beautiful jungle."
My honeymoon with European soccer ended, and my eyes opened to the youth system's truth. Survival of the fittest jungle, pro world without pity or tears.
In Korea, coaches try to teach even the weak ones, beating and cursing if needed. They drag along the lesser talents as teammates. Hell, if there's one star on the team, even average kids can ride to a top school as a group.
Unthinkable in Europe. Here, youths are individual products; the academy's a farm raising them to sell high.
I'm not criticizing. Korea treats soccer amateurishly; Europe runs it like a pro industry. Grasping that gap is how you survive the jungle.
That's why so many Korean youths flop in Europe—they miss the cold reality underneath.
"Hero. Tony Coach wants you."
"Me?"
"Yeah. Head to his office."
After morning training, a full lunch, and some rest, word came that Tony was calling. Since joining the academy, I hadn't gotten direct coaching from him. He oversaw all youth teams as head coach.
Still, his occasional pitch visits with warm encouragement fired me up. He had real charisma.
Knock-knock.
A boy was already in the office when I entered. Blonde, strapping, handsome British lad. His face rang a bell.
"Introduce yourselves. This is Mark Noble, from the 17s. And this Eastern kid is—"
"I know. Na Yeong-woong from Korea."
Holy crap, it was Mark Noble.
West Ham's one-club man, the legendary midfielder who spent over 20 years with the team. Captain West Ham.
His boyish face broke into a bright grin as he extended a hand.
"Nice to meet you, Hero. Your name is really cool."
"Looking forward to it, Mark."
I'd only known his balding mid-30s face from later years; turns out he was a proper London boy pretty boy. Even young, he exuded gentlemanly poise.
After seeing loutish London chavs boozing and brawling in pubs by day, meeting a real London gent was a shock.
No wonder the term 'British gentleman' exists—with guys like this.
Mark flashed his pearly whites in a wide smile.
Tony let us chat plenty before dropping a bombshell.
"Tomorrow's a first-team vs. second-team practice match. But this morning, a second-team player got injured. Short on defenders and mids right now. So you two are playing in tomorrow's scrimmage."
"Us!?"
Chance to face the West Ham first team—locked in.