Farmer vs. Noble
"You guys hear the news? Two fresh academy chicks are joining our squad today."
"Ah, that young Bobby Moore kid from Korea?"
"Kuhaha! Yeah, yeah. I heard he registered his name as HERO. What a total nutjob."
With the practice match scheduled for the afternoon, I skipped morning training, slept until 10 a.m., grabbed a brunch, and headed to the first-team training ground.
The second-team players were already gathered in the away dressing room. They were all chattering about me.
Pretending not to hear, I walked in, bowed my head Korean-style, and greeted them politely. No harm in starting off respectful.
"Hello. Please take good care of me in today's match. I'm Hero Na from Korea."
"Ooh~ Hero~~ makes his entrance~"
"This guy's eavesdropping on us, huh?"
"What if he is? What're you gonna do about it?"
"He's built like a tank—maybe he'll go Bruce Lee on us with some kung fu. Ah~~hyo~~~!"
The reactions were all over the place. One guy clasped his hands like a monk, another mimicked old-school Bruce Lee, some yapped in English thinking I couldn't understand, and one even brought up Kim Jong-il and North Korea...
Nothing surprising—I'd dealt with plenty of this since arriving in London.
"Hello, seniors. I'm Mark Noble from the academy."
"Ooh~~ so you're the famous Mark."
The mood shifted completely when Mark walked in. The English seniors treated him like a little brother, all warm and fuzzy.
Clearly, the white English players dominated the second-team vibe. The South Americans, blacks, and Northern Europeans hung back in the corner, minding their own gear like outsiders.
"Our reserve benchwarmers are counting on you two genius soccer boys today~"
"Kuhaha!"
Their quirky British humor flew back and forth. Having spent more time in the second team than the first in my past life as a pro, I knew their psychology inside out.
In pro football, first-teamers walked a tightrope; second-teamers clung to a cliffside. One slip, and their careers were done. So they instinctively hated anyone threatening their spot.
That's why they kept sniping at me and Mark—they feared we'd steal their places.
"Take care of us, Hero. But is that really your name?"
"My real Korean name's pronounced Yeo~~ng. Woo~~~ng."
"Yo~~~ng. Wooung~~?"
"See? Tough for foreigners to say. That's why I went with Hero—easy in English."
"Gotcha. Anyway, let's do our best today, Hero."
"You too, senior Ferdinand~"
"You know me?"
"It's on your jersey."
The black guy extending his hand was Anton Ferdinand, younger brother of Manchester United legend Rio Ferdinand. Anton never quite hit world-class like his bro but carved out a solid career as a defender for mid-to-lower-table teams. Same age as me, but already established in the second team.
Today, I'd pair with him at center-back.
"Alright! Attention! No idiots here thinking this is just practice, right? For pros like us, the opponent's crisis is our chance. Club brass is watching closely today—teach those first-team punks a lesson and win. Got it!?"
"Yes!"
"Hey~ kids~ Remember: pros go by skill, not age. This match could change your fates. Do well!"
"Yes, coach!"
Kevin Richardson, the second-team manager, stormed in for his pre-match pep talk. Unlike Glenn Roeder, the first-team boss who looked like a middle-school physics teacher, Kevin was boisterous and manly. He favored bold English attacking soccer too.
This practice match was a golden opportunity for him, not just the players. If Glenn got sacked, Kevin would top the shortlist for replacement. They had to win today.
"Let's go!"
After quick tactical instructions, we headed to the pitch. Would've preferred the bull-in ground for the match, but no luck—the stage was the first-team training field.
!
Stepping out, I spotted the first-teamers warming up on the opposite side. Weirdly, a chill ran down my spine the moment I saw them. Glancing around, everyone felt it. The second-teamers who'd been laughing in the locker room went dead silent, tense as hell.
So that's it...
Cultural shock. In my past life, I'd done time in both first and second squads in the K League. K League teams had fewer transfers per season, meaning higher odds of promotion from second to first.
Premier League? Most transfer-active league on earth. Short on first-team bodies? They bought from rivals or abroad before calling up reserves. The wall between first and second was sky-high and thick as a fortress.
No wonder the second-teamers shrank back.
Clap-clap-clap-clap!
"Come on! Let's match up properly!"
I clapped to shatter the ice. The first-teamers across the way didn't give us a glance.
"Whoa..."
The first-teamers glowed. Joe Cole, Michael Carrick, Jermain Defoe, Paolo Di Canio... Legends who'd etch their names in PL history, casually pinging balls and loosening up. Beautiful from the sidelines as a ball boy, but facing them as enemies on the pitch? Worlds apart.
They were league stars with an aura that crushed foes.
But why... are their results so mediocre...?
If West Ham guys shone like this, what would it feel like staring down Arsenal or United stars as opponents? My heart raced.
"Eh~~ you're Hero, huh? Damn, you're huge up close."
Calming my pounding heart while stretching, Joe Cole spotted me and strode over the halfway line. The second-teamers' eyes flickered with nerves.
"Hello, senior Joe Cole."
"Hahat! Your Korean's pretty good~ Made reserves already? Impressive~~"
"Just for today. Lucky break."
"Pfft~ Skill makes the luck. Let's have some fun today."
Joe Cole teased like an annoying little bro, then sauntered back to his side. Didn't greet a single existing second-teamer. Like we were a different class altogether.
Not wrong.
Farmer vs. noble. The pay gap between PL first- and second-teamers dwarfed even actual farmers and aristocrats.
"Kickoff."
Tweet—!
With the club director, first- and second-team managers, team staff, and Tony Cascarino watching intently, the practice match kicked off. Full 45 minutes per half, just like official games.
Whoooosh—! Thwack! Pabat!!
The first team unleashed a barrage right from kickoff. No probing—they charged relentlessly.
"Right flank's breached!"
Di Canio linked with Joe Cole to break down the right. Di Canio, Italy's famed technician—a No. 10 Sir Alex Ferguson coveted.
"Anton! Push up!"
I yelled, and hesitant Anton surged to press Di Canio.
!
I hung back, then at the twitch of Di Canio's foot, dashed the opposite way and slid in.
Screeeeech—!!
Spot on. Di Canio's through-ball dropped perfectly for Jermain Defoe infiltrating from the other side—right onto his right foot.
I nicked it half a beat early with a sliding tackle.
"Tch!"
Defoe grumbled at the missed chance. PL all-time top-10 scorer, a goal machine for the ages.
He shot me a glare. "Not bad, kid~?"
(For the record, I towered over him by at least 20cm.)
Anton, back in position, looked stunned. He'd followed my sudden call but seemed a bit miffed—same age, but he was the senior.
"Nice one, Anton. We stopped 'em."
"Uh, yeah. We did."
"Your screen play was perfect."
"You think?"
I played dumb and bold, praising him outright. Anton's face lit up—praise tactic worked. Probably starved for it, always compared to genius brother Rio.
Finally settled the defense... then midfield cracked.
Screeeeech—!!!
"They're coming again!"
No breather—the attack resumed. This time, Michael Carrick drove central.
He'd later lift 18 trophies at United, becoming a Red Devils legend. Poster boy for the "post-West Ham effect."
"Don't lunge! Hold the line!"
Carrick, dubbed England's most underrated midfielder, was a balanced hexagon of a player. He controlled midfield calmly, buying time for wingers to overlap.
Pabat—!
Joe Cole and Defoe bombed in from both flanks. Anton panicked at their speed, covering right.
!
Don't fall for it!
A premonition flashed through my mind.