Welcome to the Championship League
"This is no joke..."
As soon as we stepped off the bus at the stadium, a torrent of boos rained down on us. We hurried into the away team's dressing room like we were being chased. Only now did I understand what Manager Alan meant.
"Feels like we've dropped right into the heart of enemy territory."
My body trembled with a tension I'd never felt before. In my previous life, I'd played in world youth tournaments for Korea's youth national team and logged four seasons in the K League. I knew away games were tough.
But this...
This is a first. This is... the soccer of the motherland.
England was the birthplace of modern soccer. They took pride in being the origin of the game the world played today. Sure, it was sometimes used mockingly these days, but it was a fact that over a century ago, right here, the sport everyone enjoyed had taken shape. That was why the English Football Association was simply called the FA—no need for a country name in front when they invented it. For reference, Korea's was the Korea Football Association, or KFA, with the country prefixed, and the same went for others.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
The cramped, rundown dressing room shook. Fans upstairs were stomping the floor. They knew the away locker room was right below. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. The home supporters were trying to intimidate us. This tradition had probably been passed down for over a century.
And now, I was about to etch my name into that history as the first Asian player. Accepting it that way stopped my trembling.
"Alright, alright! The first game's the most important. Let's show these northern hicks the spicy side of London! We're gonna prove to everyone we're not a team that belongs in this league!"
Manager Alan rallied the players before kickoff. He wasn't as ruthless as Manchester United's Ferguson or as intellectual as Arsenal's Wenger. But he had that stubborn English grit.
"Let's go!"
We headed out to the pitch for our first Championship match. My heart started pounding again. Preston fans belted out their chants, hyping the atmosphere. We marched onto the field like cavalry charging into the enemy's lair.
But then...
"United! Hammers! We're here!!"
Clap-clap-clap!
In the corner of the stands, a cluster of West Ham supporters. They clapped for us defiantly, undaunted by the home crowd's threats.
"Those guys came all the way here."
"Bunch of idle bastards."
Despite the words, our players' faces brightened. Those 300-odd West Ham fans were definitely giving us a boost. Preston was even farther north than Manchester—tough for Londoners to reach. Yet the Hammers had made the trip on their own time and dime. What was there to gain following a relegated team? That was the spirit of West Ham fans, hailed as Britain's best.
"Look at them. Something's off about their vibe."
Anton was tense. Glancing at the opposition, the Preston players wore sinister smirks, like wolves spotting prey. Especially the burly No. 9 striker with the shaved head, staring right at me.
Jacob Young
From yesterday's scouting report, he was a giant at 196 cm and nearly 100 kg. Zero top-flight appearances in 12 seasons. A lower-league journeyman bouncing between divisions 2 through 4.
Jacob Young. 32 years old. Slow but excels at dirty play using his physicality. One-tool heading threat. Overpowers defenders in rough battles; watch for sneaky elbows and knees in aerial duels.
Jacob spotted me chatting with teammates in his half, locked eyes, and grinned creepily.
"Hmph. This'll be fun."
With my target set, the world quieted, and only he remained in view. My goal for this match: that bastard Jacob.
"Yeong-ung, it's your debut—play it safe. No reckless moves."
"Got it."
Pairing with me today at center-back was Tomas Repka, the veteran Czech defender. Anton was on right-back duty. I'd have preferred Anton—unleashing his work rate while I swept behind was ideal. But Alan wasn't risking two teens in the backline.
Tweet—!!
Today, Tomas called the shots, and I roamed like a hunting dog. As the first half kicked off, Preston surged down the flanks without probing.
"No scouting phase, huh..."
England's symbolic formation was 4-4-2. Their famous mag FourFourTwo said it all. The tactic: kick and rush. Hustle the ball wide fast, whip in crosses, and let the two strikers jam it home in the box. British soccer was two mud-caked teams trading attack and defense for 90 minutes in that brutal simplicity.
But entering the 2000s, foreign managers brought change. Ditching 4-4-2 and kick-and-rush, they unveiled fresh tactics with massive success. English soccer evolved rapidly—thanks to imports.
Just in the Premier League, though.
Honk—!!
It was 2003, and Championship kick-and-rush long balls still ruled.
"Incoming! Block it!"
Preston's winger cut in from the left and lofted a cross. Thud-thud-thud! Jacob charged our goal like a dinosaur shaking the earth.
"Yeong-ung! Mark him!"
I leaped on Tomas's order to clear the aerial ball. Jacob used his momentum to launch forward, slamming into me.
Thud—!! Whack!
Tweet—!
I flipped backward in midair and crashed down. Play stopped amid jeers from the stands. I blacked out briefly, then blinked awake to a hand extended.
I grabbed it and rose—Jacob smirked down.
"Welcome to the Championship League, little Asian kid~"
He flashed his gapped teeth in a grin. Up close, he looked like Frankenstein's monster.
"Thanks for the welcome, octopus uncle."
"W-what?"
"Hahaha! The little Asian's got balls!"
His teammates laughed. More gang than pros. Jacob flushed red like boiled octopus. He'd meant to scare me, but my comeback bruised his ego.
"Wanna get sent off in your debut? Everyone, watch it. Hey, rookie—you okay?"
"Yeah."
The ref called me rookie. If he cared, card Jacob already. This league had a weird vibe—like a neighborhood pickup game.
I checked for injuries. Without rolling on impact, my neck could've snapped.
Tweet—!
Play resumed. Our turn to attack.
"Like looking in a mirror."
Preston ran 4-4-2; so did we. Same flank rushes. Our strikers today: Jermain and Marlon. Marlon was the big man signed to replace departed Kanu.
But...
Honk—!!
"Damn it!"
"Hey! Why shoot from there? Pass it! I was free! You gonna play like that?"
West Ham's new duo clashed from the start. Marlon was greedier for goals than Kanu; superstar Jermain hated it. Frustrated by Marlon's selfish shots, Jermain dropped deep to take and solve himself.
"Total mess."
Jermain was elite, but no Ronaldo dribble-wizard. He was a line-breaker, bursting gaps with burst speed for goals. Ball in midfield? Useless.
Honk—!
With our attack stalling, Preston countered. On paper, West Ham's names and wages dwarfed Preston.
But on English pitches, clashes melted differences into mud. That was British soccer's charm.
Honk—!!
"Here it comes!"
Another cross sailed toward our goal.