The Rest of the Defense Helps Hero
“Jamsil apartment prices are gonna skyrocket from now on.”
Even I, who had zero interest in investing in my previous life, knew that much. In a few years, land prices in Gangnam would explode. Cheongdam-dong or Apgujeong were too far from where my parents lived for them to keep up their social circles. Jamsil, being close to Cheonho-dong, offered financial gains while maintaining continuity in their lives.
Who in Korea hates living by the Han River?
“Son, aren't you struggling on your own? Should we come to London and live with you?”
“Not at all. Don't worry. I'm doing great here. Guess London grub suits me. Haha.”
Mom looked a bit disappointed. While in London, I never complained about the food or asked her to send side dishes. I missed her cooking, but I hated being a bother.
“Right now's the time to mingle with people here and soak up the culture.”
I decided not to bring my parents to London. I didn't want them, approaching their sixties, isolated in a foreign country because of me. They were both sociable types. Mom handled all the big and small events through her church group, and Dad's joy was playing early-morning soccer with his Cheonho-dong crew and knocking back makgeolli afterward.
I couldn't bear dragging them to London just to have them revolve around me.
When I signed my pro contract, I invited them over. The club showed sincerity by providing business-class seats. While they stayed in London, we toured the Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, and the London Eye—everything I'd dreamed of. They spent about a week there, but I could tell they were struggling. Even in a top hotel, the environment and culture were too different for comfortable living.
The club offered to introduce a private luxury house for our family to stay in safely. We could've lived there eating Korean food daily, speaking Korean, fully Korean-style right in central London.
“Considering my career ahead, living alone is still the way to go.”
I turned down the offer. Truth be told, I wasn't alone. I had Paul hyung and Grandma Emma. Both embodied that classic British kindness. Living in that house skyrocketed my English and deepened my grasp of British culture. With at least a decade ahead in European leagues, mastering the language and customs was crucial.
In the end, I sent my parents back to Korea and paid Paul rent directly, living in the upstairs room just like my youth academy days. Close to the training ground, never lonely—perfect for me.
03-04 Season Round 2: West Ham United vs Sheffield United
Saturday, August 16, 2003, 3 p.m. A tense atmosphere hung around Upton Park, near West Ham's home ground, Boleyn Ground. The Hammers supporters gathered in nearby pubs, sipping beer with cheap snacks and diving into heated debates. With the season's first home game in the second division, there was plenty to yap about.
And the hottest topic? Hero Na, hands down.
“Finally~ In two hours, the truth comes out.”
“Time to see with our own eyes if this Hero Na guy's all hype or the real deal!”
“If he's full of shit, we gotta put those hype trains in their place!”
“You'll be the ones eating crow! Watch Hero Na play, and you'll all shut up!”
“Ian, ease up on the beer. You'll pass out before kickoff.”
“Shut it!”
West Ham fans clustered in pubs around Upton Park, downing pints and ramping up their battle spirit. Just like their ancestors a century ago. The stench of beer, piss, and fish 'n' chips grease—that was London's Saturday aroma.
Hero Na had even fellow Hammers bickering, but an incident united them.
“Oi! Blades scum over there! Everyone out—let's smash 'em!”
“What!? This is our turf!!”
“Gaaas! Teach those yokels a lesson!”
Sheffield United supporters had shown up. Sheffield and West Ham had plenty in common. First, crap league positions. Second, diehard fans despite the shit results. Third, weapon-themed nicknames. West Ham's logo featured two hammers from dockers' tools; Sheffield's had twin blades—hence the Blades.
Thankfully, no double blades flew in the pre-match hooligan brawl that day.
While chaos brewed outside the stadium, inside buzzed with activity.
“First home game. We gotta show the fans we're different! Got it!?”
“Yes!”
“Hero Na.”
“Yes, boss.”
“If you see a chance, don't hesitate—go forward. The rest of you defenders, back Hero up.”
“Got it!”
In the pre-match locker room huddle, Alan manager reaffirmed his trust in me. My form shone brightest in training and friendlies. Still, handing a rookie center-back free rein was a gamble for any gaffer.
Before meeting me, Alan Pardew was pegged as “strong on tactics but weak on improvisation, inconsistent, relegation specialist—not championship material.” Him betting on me early season was huge luck.
Of course, if I bombed, that chance would vanish fast.
“That guy...”
Mark Noble, again benched, slumped dejectedly.
Soccer players hate not playing most.
“Mark, you okay?”
“Yeah. Do your thing today, Hero. I'll cheer you on.”
“Not that—you. You feeling alright?”
“...”
Mark couldn't look up. Last season in youth leagues, he'd played every minute alongside me, starring. But the first-team wall was brutal. No cracking into central midfield with Michael Carrick holding it down.
“Why not push the gaffer hard? Tell him you wanna play, beg for a shot.”
“He's got his reasons. Too many young guns in the starting XI already.”
“Idiot.”
“What!?”
“You're great at everything except being too nice. Why worry about that? You're not the manager. Pros gotta be selfish, a bit of a prick to succeed. Look at Jermain sunbae—he rages at teammates mid-game if they don't pass.”
“Oi, Hero Na. I haven't left yet.”
Jermain Defoe, strapping on his shinguards, chimed in. Mark apologized for me, the damn British gentleman.
“Sorry, sunbae.”
“Mark, he's got a point, even if he's a mouthy git. Managers prefer pushy players over mopers. If you're pissed, say it loud—don't stew. Remember, one's the boss, but over 20 in the first-team squad. He can't read everyone's mind. Too shy? Start with the coaches.”
“Got it. Thanks, sunbae.”
Jermain's advice wrapped up Mark's issue. I headed to the Boleyn Ground pitch with the lads. For that first home win.
[Hey there, Hammers mates? This is East London's finest internet broadcast! Harry and Ryan from Green Street Football here.]
No TV for second-division games, so East London's notorious internet station handled radio coverage. A biased West Ham feed, hosts Harry and Ryan—third-gen Hammers—drew cult love with profanity, crude jokes, and savage burns. East London only, of course.
[Ryan~ Hammers' big buzz today? Gotta be the hero from the East.]
[Damn right, Harry~ Most-mentioned name in East London last week.]
[After Tony Blair. Haha!]
Tony Blair was PM then, catching hell from East Londoners.
[Spouting bollocks like Bobby Moore resurrected or a defender dribbling like Maradona... Overhyping Hero Na like nutters. They must've caught the shakes up north!]
[Easy, Harry! Talk like that, and Hero's fan club'll come for ya. North trip fans turned full cultists. Hero cult disciples.]
[Tell 'em to fuck off! Hero stans, don't listen! We've seen one-hit wonders fizzle. East London hype is next-level.]
[Watch your mouth. Our Hero's still a minor. Gotta nurture him right.]
[Sod off! Who's nurturing who? His signing bonus tops my 20 years' wages! Now Eastern kids stealing soccer spots too.]
[Harry~ Chill. Fun home opener today.]
[Yeah, shitty second-division opener~]
[Can't rein you in. Oh! Here they come! Hero's true colors—and who's the liar—reveal time~]
The first home game kicked off.