I've Never Seen Such a Flashy Defender
Whiiiiistle— Some of the Preston supporters blew their whistles.
Even against enemies, brilliant play earned respect—that was the charm of English football.
“Block the passing lanes!”
The Preston midfield, having been burned once already, didn't rush in recklessly.
In that case.
Thwump—Thud!!
I passed the ball to Michael Carrick and surged forward with the space now open.
“Hey! That guy! The defender's advancing!”
“Is he crazy!?”
As I barreled through midfield all the way to the edge of the penalty box, the Preston defenders panicked. Their two center-backs were tied up marking the opposing strikers. No one was free to stop me.
In the 4-4-2 formation, the gap between the second and third lines. There, I was completely free.
“Yeong-ung! Here!”
Carrick dragged the ball, then slipped a return pass at the perfect moment. Great timing, but the pass was a touch too long.
The center-back marking Jermain came charging at me with a sliding tackle.
Whack—!Swoosh!Thud!
“What!?”
I stretched out my right leg, flicking the ball lightly with my toe. Then, dodging the tackle, I smashed the airborne ball with all my might.
Booooom—!!
The shot, perfectly struck with the instep, rocketed into the Preston net. It was so fast the opposing keeper could only stand there like a spectator.
“Gooooal~!”
Preston 0-2 West Ham
I shook off my rushing teammates and sprinted toward the West Ham fans.
“Wooooah! Na Yeong-ung!!”
“That was the best shot ever!”
The cheering fans all jumped to their feet in roar. I savored the joy of my first goal of the season before jogging back to my defensive position.
The Czech veteran Tomas said nothing more. Anton couldn't hide his envious expression.
“Hmph. Trying to put on a circus? Remember this, you Eastern punk. Our league is the toughest in Europe. And among them, the second division is the worst.”
“You remember, octopus. I said I'd get you sent off.”
“This brainless little Eastern brat...”
I traded insults with Jacob from the backline, waging a war of nerves.
The stalemate dragged on until around the 30th minute of the second half, when we earned a corner kick.
I hurried up to the attacking end.
“Don't let that bastard near the box!”
“Mark the Eastern kid!”
The Preston players went on high alert as I entered the box. I was the biggest threat from West Ham.
While Carrick set up for the corner, I jostled for position amid the players in front of goal. The stench of sweat and body odor from all races mixed into a hellish fog.
Then I gave up the marking battle, stepped forward, and positioned myself offside.
The opponents thought I'd abandoned it to chase seconds.
Booooom—!Wham!
But no. The instant Carrick struck the ball, I sprinted back to shake the offside trap, then exploded forward again, leaping toward the near post.
A technique I'd absorbed from watching Sergio Ramos's corner headers thousands of times in my past life.
Whaaaack—!!Splash!
“Gooooal~~!!”
Preston 0-3 West Ham
I intercepted Carrick's corner at the near post and flicked it in with my head. A high-difficulty header that preserved the ball's speed while redirecting it.
Once again, the keeper had no reaction.
“Hero~! Hero~!”
I ran to our supporters and shared the joy. They chanted my name and stomped the ground. The sorrow of dropping to the second division had vanished from their faces, replaced by the thrill of victory.
Tweeeeeet—!
With the score at 3-0, the game turned tense in a different way. Preston players started committing blatant fouls.
Around the 41st minute of the second half.
Booooom—!!
Desperate Preston wingers lofted an early cross from the halfway line toward Jacob. They hoped it'd find his head for a shot, or force a defensive error for a chance.
But they weren't David Beckham.
The inaccurate crosses were all mine for the taking. I read the flight path first and positioned myself to clear them. The lumbering giant Jacob didn't even get a touch.
Then opportunity knocked.
Whack—!
“Stolen again!”
I charged forward and intercepted a cross coming from the left. I chested down the fast, hard pass and transitioned straight into a dribble.
“Ooooh!”
Some Preston fans even cheered my fluid ball control.
But.
Not everyone's fun.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
The pitch shook behind me. A massive object was barreling toward me.
I pretended not to notice, dragging the ball while relaxing my body completely—like learning how to fall for the first time.
Kabooooom—!!!
Tweeeeeeeeeet—!
I flew through the air from the collision and sprawled out flat. The whistle blew long and hard.
Lying spread-eagle on the green pitch, I gazed at the gray northern English sky. Amid the overcast clouds, I saw hope.
Good. My soccer's working.
Jacob, red-carded for body-checking me, was ejected. Probably the first sending-off of the season.
“Boooooo~!! You brainless idiot! Don't you have a brain!?”
Preston fans jeered him mercilessly.
I lay there admiring the sky, catching my breath, before getting up.
Beep! Beep! Tweeeet—!
The match ended. We'd claimed our first win.
I was named Man of the Match with 2 goals and 1 assist.
Our game wasn't televised, and naturally didn't feature on Match of the Day. They barely had time for Premier League highlights, let alone a drab second-division clash in some northern backwater.
But.
East London, where diehard West Ham fans gathered, buzzed differently. Talk of the match spread like a plague from the local pubs.
“It was like Bobby Moore reincarnated.”
“Defense, attack, tackles, headers, dribbles, link-up play, long-range shots... incredible. But above all, his game-reading sense is elite.”
“I've never seen such a flashy defender. The whole match was just Yeong-ung.”
“Yeong-ung can change West Ham.”
West Ham fans who'd driven over six hours north to Preston raved like the twelve apostles witnessing Jesus's miracles, spit flying.
Those who hadn't seen it reacted:
They dismissed it as madness. But eyewitnesses fired back hotter, explaining my brilliant plays in detail.
If their zealous preaching had converted doubters to “Whoa, he's the real deal. Yeong-ung will save West Ham. Count me in!”, there'd be no religious wars or persecutions.
“Oi! Shut it! No more about that Eastern kid in this pub!”
The Yeong-ung evangelism in East London pubs devolved into fights among allies. Beer bottles, chips, and curses flew alongside the tales.
Unbeknownst to me, I'd become East London's hottest topic.
The fans with brains less pickled by beer reached a rational truce.
East London swelled with anticipation for the next match.
We wrapped up Round 1 successfully and returned to London. After a day off for recovery training, full sessions resumed.
My heart had never felt so light. Post-debut, my teammates fully acknowledged me. Manager Alan trusted my judgment, granting me free role.
“When attack stalls, push up and join in. I'll take the heat.”
Soccer aside, things went smoothly with my parents in Korea too. I wired them my full signing bonus—plus my sports toto winnings—totaling 2 billion won. My weekly salary covered my living fine.
“Buy an apartment by the Han River in Jamsil and move in.”
They sold the Cheonho-dong villa and relocated to a 30-pyeong apartment in Songpa-gu's Jamsil.