The Director Wants to Meet You
"As long as I'm here, you'll never become a pro player."
Matthew, the director, vowed firmly. He considered himself Hero Na's benefactor. After all, he was the one who approved the signing proposal from Coach Tony. Honestly, he hadn't expected much. He figured they'd at least break even by selling a few jerseys through the trendy Asian marketing push.
But for that punk to ignore him and dare offer unsolicited advice? It was infuriating.
Ten months later, it wasn't Hero Na who got the boot—it was Director Matthew himself.
In the 02-03 season, West Ham finished 18th and were relegated. Manchester United took the title, with Arsenal in second.
Glenn Roeder ignored Hero Na's advice, stubbornly sticking to the big-and-small tactic, and got sacked along with Matthew.
Once relegation was confirmed, furious West Ham fans poured into the streets, unleashing riots bordering on chaos. Police swarmed the area daily, turning East London into a warzone.
The pubs where West Ham fans gathered fell silent—no more singing. Skinhead hooligans embraced each other, tears streaming down their faces. Rage gave way to profound sorrow.
With West Ham's relegation sealed, East London drowned in grief. People wandered the streets like ghosts, faces etched with gloom.
And where was I during all this?
"Haha! Here it comes—catch it!"
"Hero hyung! Over here! Right here!"
I was playing foot volley with the neighborhood kids in the local park.
All season, I'd trained over ten hours a day with the 19s team. While the first team crumbled, our youth squad dominated the league with overwhelming performances, racking up win after win. Mark Noble and I led from the center, even clinching the youth cup.
Despite my exploits, there was zero call-up from the senior side—not even to the second team. Matthew and Glenn ignored me to the bitter end.
I was thrilled. It let me refine my skills meticulously with the personal training program I'd devised.
Practice matches against Joe Cole and Jermain Defoe had sparked major inspiration. I built my own step-training gear: multiple ladder drills bundled together for side-steps and back-steps.
Defenders move sideways or backward far more than forward in a game. That shuffle step technique—essential for a big guy like me chasing small, quick forwards.
The Premier League was about to overflow with fast attackers breaking lines. Time to prepare now.
Every evening, I'd lay out the gear on the training pitch and drill shuffle steps like a madman.
"Left! No—right!"
In my head, Joe Cole and Jermain were always there, forcing real-match intensity.
The players caught wind of it and it became the talk of the squad.
"Hero's out there every night, yelling alone and doing weird shit."
Anton Ferdinand showed up after hearing the rumors. He wasn't getting much time in the second team either. He watched intently, then said he wanted in.
From then on, we trained together every night.
Anton harbored deep inferiority toward his brother, Rio Ferdinand.
"Rio was a genius from birth. Special from the first kick. No one could touch him."
"Anton, you can do it too. Talent blooms when it wants. We're only 17."
"You don't get it, Hero. Living in a genius's shadow every day..."
Smack—when Anton whined, I'd sling an arm around him.
"Snap out of it, Anton. Your brother's not here. It's you and me. We'll defend West Ham together—and climb all the way to where he is. Whine once more, and you're out of my training sessions."
"...Sorry, Hero. You're right. I'm not with him anymore. Time to focus on my life."
Anton was too kind-hearted to reach the top. He lacked Rio's ruthlessness.
I got his frustration, though. Man Utd won the league again, and Rio shone as the star defender, hailed as the league's best. Stuck in the seconds? Brutal.
"Games withheld are chances to build skill! Come on—more training!"
I poured out every last drop of sweat. Anton had no idea: the methods I taught were cutting-edge science, a decade ahead.
He was evolving into a monster defender without even realizing it.
The relegation uproar settled, and everyone accepted the harsh reality of starting the new season in the second division. One July day...
"Hero, the new director wants to see you."
The fresh director summoned me. Stepping into his office after ages, Bobby Moore still grinned triumphantly with the FA Cup. But the man at the desk wasn't Matthew anymore.
"Pleased to meet you, Hero Na. I'm Collins."
The bald-headed Collins looked far more serious than Matthew, speaking with aristocratic poise.
Beside him sat the new first-team manager, Alan Pardew—white-haired, bespectacled, a veteran of ups and downs with relegations and promotions aplenty.
If memory served, he'd drag West Ham back up in two years, spark briefly, then get axed badly. And they'd drop again soon after.
Knock-knock.
"You called for me, Director?"
Mark Noble entered after knocking.
Collins gathered us and got to the point.
"As you know, West Ham is in dire straits. You understand what relegation means."
He gave a headmaster-style speech.
"...But this season in the second division could be our opportunity. Our goals: promotion and rebuilding. I plan to build around you two—Hero Na and Mark Noble."
I couldn't believe my ears. Mark and I stared blankly at each other.
"Does that mean I'm in the first team?"
"Congratulations, Hero Na. West Ham has decided to offer you a professional contract."
"..."
My mind went blank. Premier League pro this fast? I'd hoped after the youth titles, but pro in just two seasons?
"Hang on—can I call my parents in Korea?"
"Of course."
Collins grinned. I stepped out and dialed home. It was midnight there; Mom answered sleepily.
"Mom! Mom! The club offered me a pro contract. I'm officially a player!"
"What? Son, slow down."
"I'm a pro in England! Signing bonus, salary—the works! Get ready, 'cause I'll take care of you from now on!"
"A pro player!?"
"Yes! I swear!"
Tears welled up unbidden. Long time no hear her voice? Or was I a bit lonely here?
I hung up, wiped my tears in the hall, and returned.
Thus, in July 2003, I became an official West Ham player.
Collins personally sorted my tricky visa. Signing bonus: 500,000 pounds (about 1 million USD). Five-year deal. Salary: 600,000 pounds (about 1.2 million USD).
Clauses for annual raise negotiations post-season based on performance. And freedom to request a transfer if no agreement.
Fun options too—especially goals:
£20,000 per goal, £10,000 per assist.
£20,000 was about 30 million won. Collins approved easily—"How many goals does a defender score?"
The club side was stunned during talks. A 17-year-old Asian kid knew the regs and procedures cold.
After haggling with their assigned agent, we inked a deal satisfying both sides.
News of my signing hit Korea—and all hell broke loose.