Hero, That Kid Has Good Instincts!
“What the hell is Na Yeong-ung?!”
“Was there a player like that in Korea?”
West Ham had released my signing photos and press materials to the Korean media. Back then, Korea was just starting to pay attention to European soccer after the 2002 World Cup semifinals. News about Europe spread wildly through internet cafes, sparking heated debates on the forums.
There were rumors that 2002 World Cup members might move to European leagues, but no transfers had been confirmed yet. And now, a Korean teenager had joined not just any league, but England's Premier League? EPL was already the most popular league in Korea at the time.
It was the early days of the internet in Korea, so info on European soccer was scarce, and everyone thought their own knowledge was the gospel. Debates raged endlessly about how impressive my signing really was. The "it's no big deal" camp clashed pointlessly with the "it's amazing" side.
My take? I woke up famous overnight.
Korean media calls flooded in with interview requests, and fans started showing up at the training ground. Life as a pro-contracted youth player was worlds apart from just being a youth prospect.
“What a pain.”
I had to deal with reporters and Korean fans every day. Sure, managing media and fans was part of being a pro, but honestly, it was annoying. I just wanted to focus 100% on training, but the distractions kept pulling my attention.
Click—click—click—
Camera shutters echoed nonstop at the training ground. Even my teammates' faces soured. We were a relegated team—the mood was already tense, and with the second-division opener looming, nerves frayed further. Us young players felt it the most.
Coach Alan, who'd been quietly watching, finally called us over.
“You lot. Got a problem?”
“Shouldn't we make training closed to the public? Opener's the day after tomorrow—too chaotic to focus.”
“Yeah? Should I tell the fans not to show up on match day too?”
“Huh!?”
Coach Alan addressed me and the other young players. “Listen up. Once the league starts, this is kids' stuff. Fans, press, board members—they'll shake us from all sides. Go to an away game sometime. The whole place is enemy territory. Those bastards know 300 ways to mess with you. If you can't handle this, quit pro ball. Go kick it around with amateurs at the local park—no one's bothering you there. Got it?”
“...”
His words hit like a thunderbolt. He was right—bigger games and fame would bring ten times the chaos. Whining wasn't pro.
“Na Yeong-ung! Can I get an autograph~?”
“Sure~ Where you from?”
“Studying design in London—had to come see you.”
“Thanks. Come to a home game for sure.”
After Coach Alan's lecture, I started enjoying it. Fans weren't pests—they made me stronger. Grateful allies.
And so, the opener arrived.
August 9, 2003. We headed northwest to Preston for the second-division opener. The team bus carried a heavy, somber air—grim resolve mixed with quiet defeat. We'd battled top-flight giants last season, and now this? Off to some backwater in the northwest for our first game.
Preston was in Lancashire, north of even Manchester and Liverpool.
“Hey, kid~ It's dead quiet—put on some music!”
And the roster had changed big time. Star players Joe Cole and Paolo Di Canio bailed the second we got relegated. Jermain Defoe and Michael Carrick stuck around, but rumors swirled they were shopping for transfers via agents. If they left too, West Ham would be a shell.
“Dragging kids like this to play soccer? Pisses me off.”
Jermain vented openly. No reinforcements after relegation—just lost our cores, no big signings. The only "additions"? Three academy rookies: Hero Na, Anton Ferdinand, Mark Noble.
From Jermain's view, it was laughable.
Anton, following orders, slotted in a CD up front as the bus DJ. Away-day playlists mattered—boost morale, lift spirits, sharpen performance.
Ding-ding-ding-a-ling~
“Boo!”
Michael Jackson—Anton's fave—drew jeers from the vets.
“What? Michael Jackson? Outdated! Hey, Anton! DJ properly!”
“Kid can't do shit right. His bro Rio's killing it, though.”
They poked Anton's sore spots. Flustered, he dug through the bag and switched to Beyoncé, the hot act then.
“Ooooh~!! Turn it off now!”
Jeers exploded louder. Now they were just bullying for fun. Anton scratched his head, tried Christina Aguilera next.
“Yo! That trash CD with him—chuck 'em off the bus!!”
Vets started hurling stuff. Anton looked ready to cry—big guy, total softie. Trouble.
I stood, headed forward, checked his CD bag. The right track had to be there.
“Gimme.”
Quick scan—found it. Slid it in. Anton gulped, tense.
“Wrong again, and you're both out the bus.”
“Relax. This is it.”
Moments later...
Ding-ding-di-ring~ Jang-jang-jang-jwa-jang~~
Thrashing electric guitar and thunderous bass—classic heavy metal intro. Bus erupted.
“Yesssss~!! That's the stuff!”
“Hero, that kid's got instincts! Haha!”
“Gaaaaazuaaa~!!”
Vets headbanged, belting it out, air-guitaring wildly.
“If you wanna take my life, come put yours on the line first~~ If you shoot with a gun, I'll stab you with a knife~”
Bingo: Iron Maiden. Their hit The Trooper. Chaos—pure frenzy.
The song's hero? Brave British cavalry. Steve Harris's roaring bass lit the fire.
“Away days demand this!! Steve's our king!”
Steve Harris, diehard West Ham fan. Ex-youth prospect. West Ham logo etched on his bass and jet. Dead serious.
Hammers had a superstition: Steve shows up, we win. Amid tours, he made time for our games.
“When the trumpet sounds the call, we charge!! Gazua~!!”
We screamed Iron Maiden till our throats burned, marching north.
Deepdale, Preston's home, packed with 23,000 fans. Second division, but the heat rivaled the top flight—fiercer, more desperate. Relegation to third would end them.
“Look at that.”
An 8-year-old spotted our bus, flipped us the V-sign with tiny fingers. Britain's middle-finger equivalent.
“Some welcome.”