Clash of Generations
“No!”
The old fox Paolo Di Canio flashed a triumphant smirk as he threaded a pass into the space vacated by the right-back.
Pababat!!
Jermain Defoe burst in from behind, snatching the ball before dribbling along the goal line like a tightrope walker straight toward the net. Anton Ferdinand charged at him in panic.
Thwuk—Peeeeeong!!
Defoe nudged the ball into the gap left by Anton, and Joe Cole, who had sneaked in unnoticed, slotted it home.
“Goooal~!”
It all happened in a flash. A work of art crafted by three technicians. Without any prior signals, they simply created space, pushed the ball into it, and conjured a goal out of thin air.
Our defense had been thoroughly toyed with by their skill.
Beep! Beep! Beeeep—!
In the end, we lost 3-2. That final goal left a bitter taste. It was a humiliating strike that starkly highlighted the class divide.
“Yeong-ung~ We'll be seeing you in the first team soon, right?”
“Your play was sick today. I'll remember the name Hero.”
As the match wrapped up, Joe Cole and Michael Carrick approached first with their praise. Being from the same youth academy probably made them feel a natural kinship. For the first time, it felt like I had real seniors.
“Fuckin' hell~ Ruined my kit.”
Defoe, on the other hand, seemed pissed at the rough defending and ignored me.
But then, the Italian veteran Paolo Di Canio walked over with a grave expression. I tensed up instinctively. He was infamous for his dirty, violent temper and his far-right views praising fascism.
Speaking in his peculiar accent, he said, “That was blatant referee bias. You have to admit it.”
“Pardon?”
“The World Cup this time. We should've made the quarterfinals. You lot pulled some dirty tricks on us.”
“Ahh~”
Typical petty Italian. He was still salty about losing to Korea in the 2002 Korea-Japan World Cup Round of 16. Maybe he'd bet big on sports toto?
“Senior, but wasn't this World Cup better than the 1934 Italian Mussolini World Cup?”
“What!? You little shit, how dare you mention our Leader so casually!?”
“Did Korea threaten the refs like Mussolini? Line the stadium with soldiers? Or hold guns to players' heads and force them to throw the match?”
“You arrogant prick! What the hell do you know!? Were you even there!? You weren't even born, so what would you know!? Fucking Koreans, I never liked you lot!”
The 1934 Italian World Cup was notorious as the dirtiest in history. Mussolini, Italy's dictator at the time, had politicized it to promote his fascism. Di Canio would later get booted from football for publicly defending fascism and Mussolini.
Up close, he didn't seem like a bad guy—just a total fourth-dimensional weirdo.
After the commotion died down, we headed back to the dressing room, showered, changed, and went home. I'd notched a goal and an assist today. The second-team players' attitudes toward me had shifted.
I had no idea back then. That this practice match would snowball into such a massive event.
Back home, as I lay on my bed, Paul called me from downstairs. When I went down, there was Mark Noble, the guy I'd played with today.
“What? How'd you know to come here?”
“Sorry if you're beat. Yeong-ung.”
“This lad says he's got something to tell you.”
“Me? You two know each other?”
“Of course. Mark's like my own brother.”
Paul threw an arm around Mark's shoulders.
“Every lad around here seems connected to West Ham somehow.”
Paul and Mark had met through the West Ham youth academy too.
“What'd you wanna talk about?”
“...I just had to say thanks.”
“Huh?”
Mark stared at me intently with a serious look. Kinda intense.
“Playing that practice match today taught me a lot. Especially something crucial from you.”
“From me?”
“Yeah. I'd been drawing limits for myself without realizing it, thinking I was just a youth player. That's why I played so passively today. But you were different. You led the defense with this cocky confidence, playing your game.”
“Damn right.”
“Your play gave me a real wake-up call. From now on, I'll take charge and lead the game too.”
“Good mindset.”
“Thanks, Yeong-ung. Hope we play on the same team again someday.”
“You bet. I'll be waiting in the first team—hurry up and join me.”
“Yeah!”
Couldn't even joke with this guy. His eyes were brimming with passion and hope. Was that positive spirit how he endured 20 seasons of relegations and promotions alone in hopeless West Ham?
“This time it'll be different, Mark Noble.”
“Huh? What'd you say?”
“Nothing. You're tired too—head home.”
I sent Mark off and headed upstairs. He lived in Canning Town near Upton Park. True West Ham blood.
I was touched by his sincerity, dragging his weary body here just to say that. Those who admit their shortcomings can grow stronger. I looked forward to seeing how Mark would develop.
“Gotta bring Mark and Anton with me.”
Others maybe not, but Mark and Anton were essential comrades to rewrite West Ham's gloomy history. Through me, they'd rise above their fated paths to become greater players.
“Yeah. That's enough for now. Time to rest today~”
Tiredest I'd been since arriving in London. Facing Premier League first-teamers demanded superhuman energy. I crashed early.
Next morning, as always, I arrived at the training ground 30 minutes early. Had barely slept. Adrenaline overload kept the excitement from fading. Body dead tired, mind razor-sharp—annoying state all night.
Lying in bed, I'd visualized facing Joe Cole and Jermain Defoe over and over. In my head, I drilled 1v1s, dissecting their tiniest habits and tells.
“Head's spinning~”
Craved rest, but showed up anyway. Reason? Breakfast here was killer.
“Mmm~ Feels like my weary cells are regenerating.”
I downed a tomato-celery juice, then demolished egg scramble, BBQ chicken breast, smoked salmon, whole-wheat pasta, and a blueberry-packed salad. Yesterday's battle nutrients replenished.
Lucky thing: I wasn't obsessed with Korean food. Never ate kimchi back home, skipped stinky stuff like cheonggukjang. Loved burgers, pizza—only real fixation was tteokbokki.
So, unlike seniors abroad griping “Garlic breath,” I'd never heard that.
Stuffed, I told my coach I'd skip regular training for recovery only.
“Yeong-ung, heard about yesterday. You scored against the first team—legendary stuff?”
“Just showed a bit of what you taught me, Coach.”
“Hahaha! Good lad. Recovery only today, head home early. Skip evening personal training too. Pros gotta master recovery.”
He approved no problem. Unthinkable in Korea. If I'd asked Park In-gyu, it'd be: “Hey, what about your teammates? Team first, selfish prick?”
Creepy part: In Korea, that sounded right during workouts. Youth coaches' quality is everything. Bad early training makes bad coaches who mass-produce bad players. Cycle dooms a nation's soccer culture.
“Yeong-ung, the director wants you.”
“Director?”
Mid-rest after eating, a club staffer found me. Couldn't believe my ears. One director for all West Ham—from youth to first team. Second only to the owner, he held life-or-death power over players.
A big shot summoning me?
“What's it about?”
“Dunno. Just told to fetch you.”
Never met the director in person. He didn't handle minor stuff like youth contracts or academy entry.
“Yeong-ung, you were amazing yesterday, right? Whole office buzzing about you. That performance against the first team—insane!”
“Really?”
Post-match, my surroundings had flipped overnight. I headed to the director's office with the staffer.