This Bastard Learned Soccer All Wrong!?
I charged forward at the opposing striker, smashing the pass far away with a mighty thwack-!! In that instant, my speed overwhelmed their two-pronged attack up top. The Preston players' faces changed.
"That big guy's insanely fast too. What the hell is this kid...?"
Back then, England's Second Division was full of traditional defenders who were built like tanks but slow as molasses. A quick one like me was a rare breed.
For the first 25 minutes of the first half, Preston's attacks kept fizzling out. I battled Jacob in the air while simultaneously intercepting low passes sneaking into the box. Their wingers were frustrated as hell. Hang it high to Jacob, and I'd head it clear. Pass it low to another attacker, and I'd ghost in like a phantom to boot it away.
"Hey! Maxwell! Just stick tight to the goal line!"
Jacob finally lost it and yelled. Strikers get antsy if they don't get their feet on the ball for too long. He shot me a dirty look, then barreled in with his body like he meant business.
Thud-!
His frame was like a boulder. Thwack-!! A high cross rocketed toward our goal.
Whoosh-!! Poww-!
Tweeeet-!!
"Argh!"
Just as expected. Jacob had swung his elbow in mid-air. I clutched my face, screaming as I went down.
"Preston number 9! Foul! Yellow card!"
My teammates rushed over to me on the ground in shock.
"You okay, Hero?!"
"That sounded brutal."
"Jacob, you prick! Wanna keep playing dirty?!"
"Everyone, calm down. I'm fine."
I waited until Jacob got his card from the ref, then casually uncovered my face. Perfectly fine.
"Hey, rookie. You good?"
"He took an elbow to the face—think he's good? Should've sent that thug off."
"I'll be the judge of that, rookie."
The ref checked me out. Jacob panicked seeing my unmarked face. I'd timed it like a pro wrestler, clashing my hand against his elbow swing to make that massive smack echo. Palm stung a bit, but no real damage.
"Today, I'm kicking you off this pitch. Look forward to it~ you octopus bastard~"
"You little shit!"
"That your brag? Being old? Act like a role model then. Tsk tsk."
I got right up in Jacob's grill, trash-talking. His face flushed beet red in confusion. Veteran Tomas looked flustered too as I jawed with Jacob. As a Czech, his English was rough, and more than that, he was intimidated by Jacob's aggression.
But I wasn't scared of Jacob at all. In my past life, I'd been a one-trick heading striker just like him—I knew his psyche better than anyone. Air duels and headers were his reason for living. Shake him there, and I could break him.
Tweeeet-!
Play resumed. West Ham still couldn't find an attacking outlet. New striker Marlon was isolated, playing solo and spamming garbage shots. Jermain got muscled off the ball, nowhere near goal. Both wingers flailed on the flanks without breakthroughs.
"Wish Joe Cole was here right now..."
We needed a flair player to dismantle their backline one-v-one. The only reason the team wasn't collapsing was Michael Carrick battling solo in midfield. He had too much on his plate to push forward.
Anton stuck to right-back duties, not daring to overlap.
"Guess I'll have to step up."
First half, 38th minute. Up till now, I'd focused solely on shutting down their strikers and clearing. Now, I took the ball from our keeper James and started dribbling forward.
"Booooh-!!"
"What the hell's that guy doing!?"
Jeers poured from the Preston fans. A center-back ball-playing like a playmaker? Unthinkable in English football culture. They felt insulted.
"Hero! Get rid of it quick! Here we go again!"
Even veteran center-back Tomas nagged. I ignored him and kept driving forward. Preston's strikers lunged at me. These two clowns thought I was mocking them too.
"This bastard learned soccer all wrong!?"
"Showboating? Time for a humiliating lesson!"
Thump- thwuck!
I yanked Jacob in tight as he charged first, then nutmegged him clean through the legs. The other attacker rushed in—I shouldered him off. Thanks to my core strength training, he flew back.
"Woooahhh!!"
Cheers erupted from somewhere. I'd just skinned their last man with skill in a flash. Only our keeper behind me—if I'd lost it, instant goal gift-wrapped.
I'd risked it all on that mazy run and nailed it. That roar was the payoff.
Thwooom- thwack-
I didn't stop dribbling, surging past halfway into their half. Now it got real risky. Lose it here, and we've only got two behind. Flip side: eight of ours in their half. The center-back central charge effect.
"Grab him! Stop him!"
Preston mids swarmed from everywhere. Jacob chased from behind.
Tap- whoooosh!!
I nudged it left to open the angle, then unleashed a vicious left-footed instep drive. It ripped through their midfield line—a low, lightning-quick forward pass.
Snap-
It glued perfectly to Jermain's right foot as he burst in from the right. No slowdown—he two-touched it with everything.
Thwooooom-!!!
"Goooaaal~!"
[Preston 0 - 1 West Ham]
The topspun rocket bulleted into the net. Jermain's first of the season. He leaped high, roaring.
"Nice pass, Na Yeong-ung!"
I didn't run over—just thumbs-upped from afar and strolled back to the backline.
"...What the hell are you?"
Tomas stared like I was an alien. Jacob couldn't hide his shock.
Tweet! Tweeeet!
First half ended 1-0. Back to the locker room, teammates' looks had shifted.
I'd pulled those risky runs in friendlies when games stalled. But practice pressure and real matches? Night and day. No one expected a rookie like me to dare that in England's rough-and-tumble Second Division debut.
"What're you all doing? Against a Second Division side? Why so scared?"
"Hero... season opener. Gotta play it safe."
"Exactly why we go bolder. Crush 'em early—let 'em feel the class gap, cower. Damn, these guys are strong. Premier League material next year. Won't embarrass the Hammers who traveled here. No turtling—attack head-on."
"..."
Veterans had no comeback. Spot on.
"And Marlon! What're you even?"
"Why you talking to me like that."
"Any of your first-half shots even hit the target?"
"..."
Marlon shut up. He was maybe six years older. So what?
"You're playing alone. Look around."
"...Yeah. Got it."
Marlon bowed to my intensity. King Kong looks, mouse personality.
Jermain shot me a subtle thanks.
Tweeeet-!
Second half kicked off. I focused purely on shutdowns from deep.
Whoooosh-!!
"Damn it!"
"What're you doing, Jacob? Letting that Asian steal every aerial?!"
Gripes from the stands. Jacob grew frantic. I kept nicking his aerials—he vanished from the game. Similar power and leap, but my explosiveness and reads crushed him. I'd jump a beat ahead. Elbows or knees? Risky with a yellow.
"In the end, that's all you got. Heh."
Giant Jacob danced in my palm. Past-life me as a Jacob-type? I knew his mental spiral cold.
"Here, Michael!"
Thwack-!
I took a low cross from the flank.
"Okay! He's bitten!"
Thud thud thud!
I timed his first touch perfectly and pounced.
"Argh!"
As expected—Jacob, shaky on touch, panicked and flubbed it.
"Lost it! Shit! Stop the counter!"
"That Asian defender's off again!"
Thump- thump- thwack!
I snatched it and bolted. In modern soccer's tight spaces, sloppy first touch dooms any position. Like carrying a live bomb. Why I drilled ball control hours daily.
"That Asian center-back crossed halfway again!"
Time for the dagger goal?