We Need to Change the Defensive System
"West Ham! West Ham!"
Wearing the home kit, I stepped onto the hallowed turf of the pitch. Standing in the center circle, the view was utterly different from what I'd seen from the stands. Over a century of history seeped from this ground.
Sir Bobby Moore must have seen the exact same thing, right here from this spot.
I swallowed the surging emotion and took my position. Before kickoff, bubbles floated into the air as the West Ham anthem, I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles, echoed through the stadium.
"I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air... They fly so high, nearly reach the sky, then like my dreams they fade and die..."
The lyrics were ridiculously romantic and absurdly melancholic. I could feel the hearts of East London's laborers of old, enduring grueling work day by day.
"Fortune's always hiding, so I search everywhere... I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air..."
Still, I liked the final verse. No matter how many setbacks, the resolve to never give up on dreams forever—that resonated.
Beep!
Lost in sentiment, the first half kicked off.
Today's opponents, Sheffield United, were an aggressive side specializing in quick counterattacks. Unlike our first foes Preston, they used small, fast twin strikers and attacking wingers to break lines.
"Coming! Hold the line!"
Their two strikers and wingers spread like wings, surging into our half.
[Danny Boyen]
Sheffield's ace, whom I'd mainly mark today—Danny Boyen, the League Two Michael Owen, a speed demon. Small but sturdy, with a low center of gravity for sharp turns. Weaknesses: crude dribbling and shooting.
The player compensating for Danny's flaws was Sheffield's right winger, Pedro. True to his Brazilian roots, Pedro was a dribbling wizard, crafting goal chances for Danny with incisive through balls.
My left-back partner, Rufus, boasted dreadlocks like Gullit, a British black player with explosive spring and pace in his youth. Now in his mid-30s, retirement loomed.
Thwack!
I shouldered past Rufus to smash Pedro, diving left, off the ball. Problem: I was inside the box. Pedro tumbled, and the ref blew.
Harry and Ryan spewed curses on the internet broadcast. West Ham fans unable to attend were glued to it.
"Hero, take it easy."
"I am taking it easy. If I'd really hit him, that Brazilian buddy would be in the hospital now."
Senior center-back Tomas Repka nagged again. The Czech harbored a persecution complex, convinced English refs favored locals over foreigners.
"Hey~ Hero. Don't worry. Even if it's a pen, I'll save 'em all~ Bro's in top form today, hehehe."
Goalkeeper James chuckled slyly. Dominican-Brit with a quirky accent, national-team caliber but infamous for his eccentric mindset and wild lifestyle. Clutch moments? Concentration lapsed into disasters—hence Disaster James.
"Boooooo!"
"Wake up, you lot!"
Jeers rose from the West Ham stands. Plenty shocked by my bold tackle.
"First setup complete."
To cage ace Danny Boyen, I'd targeted Pedro deliberately. Control Pedro, control Danny. I knew English refs' tendencies. Shoulder-barging an Englishman like Danny? High chance of penalty. Not racism—subconscious bias. Arms bend inward naturally.
Plus, Pedro's flashy feints and showboating irked English refs. I gambled, accepting some risk.
"Box defense just got easier, thanks to that."
Ref wouldn't whistle shoulder charges like that today. Ideal against speedy Sheffield.
Beep!
Play resumed. Both teams in 4-4-2 traded blows, but styles differed. Sheffield pushed wings aggressively—near 4-2-4. West Ham held wings back, Jermain dropping for 4-4-1-1 vibes.
Big-man Malone as target up top, Jermain second striker linking. But Malone's headers were off, Jermain marked tight—no shooting lanes. Our attacks stalled.
Thud!
"Here they come again!"
Sheffield crashed like angry waves. Four forwards plus two central mids joined the assault.
Post-shoulder, Pedro avoided the box, focusing on safer links. Sheffield spotted our right-flank weakness, hammering it.
Veteran Tomas Repka and rookie right-back Anton Ferdinand? Fatal mismatch.
"Ahh!"
15th minute: first goal conceded. Sheffield winger Kyle exploited the vague gap between Anton and Tomas, dragging them before slipping a pass. Striker Stuart ghosted in, tapped home.
Goalscorers sprinted to Sheffield fans for provocative celebrations. West Ham supporters erupted—joy of first home game soured to fury at losing to League Two rabble.
"Clear call play to Anton! Tomas!"
"Damn! Damn!"
Tomas muttered Czech curses. He couldn't handle Anton. To unlock the timid kid's potential, you needed dictator vibes—bark orders ruthlessly. Half-hearted freedom exposed Anton's weak heart.
Anton's face hardened. He knew—folks were yapping about big bro Rio. Legs grew heavier.
"Trouble."
I eyed white-haired manager Alan on the sideline in suit, face grim. He knew the fallout: rabid home fans, losing League Two debut at home? Disaster.
"We need to change the defensive system..."
Free role or not, I couldn't rearrange defense solo. But this was precarious.
Beep!
Restart. Sheffield oozed confidence. Young squad rode momentum like one organism—all 11 synced.
"Left side! Rufus, go!"
Pedro, playing safe, couldn't contain Brazilian fire—charged again. Body swerve shook Rufus; into the box.
"Damn!"
I angled against him—block the run, cut the pass. Right-footer, weak left. Fake step, body feint—like future Prem faker Robinho, swift and silky.
Snap—thud!
Left shoulder in, ball stolen. Pedro bounced away again.
Ball won, I didn't clear—in the box, I dribbled. Danny and Stuart lunged. Lose it here? Another goal.