Dockers Derby (1)
“Those Millwall bastards will do anything—they're a bunch of bad eggs.”
“Yeah, Millwall pricks aren't even human. They're slimy little shits.”
Even the usually mild-mannered West Ham staff turned feral at the mention of Millwall, like they were blood enemies.
“Millwall, huh...”
Millwall FC shared the same East London roots as West Ham. Their clashes were called the Dockers Derby.
Docker meant dockworker. Both teams had been founded by laborers toiling along the Thames, hence the name. Rumor had it the derby dated back to 1899... A century-plus of neighborly bad blood.
They said East London turned into a warzone on derby days.
The Saturday of the Dockers Derby felt off from the morning.
Clop-clop-clop-clop—
A weird noise jolted me awake earlier than usual. I threw open the second-floor window.
“No way...”
Hundreds of riot-geared cops in helmets and shields marched in formation past the house. Mounted police flanked front and rear.
The sound? Hooves on cobblestone.
Obvious where they were headed.
“Anyone'd think war broke out.”
After a shower, I headed downstairs for Emma's full English breakfast, savored leisurely: fried eggs, bacon, toast, tomatoes, grilled mushrooms, boiled potatoes, smoked herring, salad, homemade yogurt, capped with apple juice.
Classic music flowed from the kitchen as always.
“Grandma, what's this piece?”
“Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 20, second movement. Clara Haskil on piano.”
“Love it. Feels like a peaceful night stroll.”
“Ho ho, you've got better ears than my grandson. That boy's always blasting rock—deafening.”
Emma beamed. She'd tuned the old valve radio in the living room to BBC Classic FM, per usual.
I'd never cared for classical before, but daily exposure hooked me. It had an emotion pop and rock couldn't touch.
She loved when I asked about pieces—she knew every one, even the performer.
“Yeong-ung... You okay today?”
“Huh? Oh, the derby.”
“Yes. The Hammers aren't the sharpest, but Millwall lads are proper nasty. Lived here ages, seen too much ugliness. Neighbors hating like that... All for football. Anyway, be careful.”
“Don't worry.”
I sipped tea calmly, then headed to the stadium in a wide-brim hat and civvies. No sense bumping Millwall hooligans en route.
“Tottenham derby was kids' play compared to this.”
The streets screamed mortal peril. Cops everywhere—double the numbers from Spurs day.
Tottenham shocked me, but this? True derby fire.
I stuck to police lines, creeping to the stadium.
Beep! Beeeeep—!!
“Back off, everyone! Non-compliance means arrest!”
“Piss off, riot squad!”
Three hours to kickoff, and chaos reigned outside. Cops cordoned the entrance, frisking bags. West Ham hooligans shoved back, scrapping.
Hundreds more Hammers formed Roman legion ranks behind, facing off.
They were dying to smuggle weapons in and bash Millwall skulls.
“Shit'll hit the fan soon.”
Already a mess—Millwall showing up would ignite hell.
“Ugh, hate this crap.”
I shook my head, submitting to the cop check.
“ID, please. Reason for entry?”
“West Ham player.”
“Huh?”
The young cop double-checked my ID and bag, then gawked.
“Hero! Hat threw me—welcome! Huge fan!”
“Ah, thanks.”
“Youth academy lad myself. Shake?”
From hardass to worshipper. England, alright.
Problem: Nearby Hammers overheard.
“What!? Hero!? Na Yeong-ung's here!? Where!?”
“There! Wooaaahhh~~!! Our hero~~”
Raucous cheers erupted. Skinhead hoolies lunged; cops swung batons.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
“Hero~ Smash Millwall today!”
“We trust you! Na Yeong-ung! Make 'em cry~~~ Hehehe!”
Hammers took baton hits laughing like maniacs.
Three takeaways: Not one had all their teeth. I had hooligan backing. Loss today? Disaster.
Finally inside to the locker room. Grim faces all around—they'd seen the vibe.
Especially locals, faces set for battle.
“Hey, Mark. Lighten up. Tense up, you'll stiffen.”
“Yeong-ung... You don't get it. What this means to East Londoners.”
Mark Noble bared teeth—killer eyes. First time I'd seen him snap.
The gentleman's gentleman, unglued by Dockers Derby. What the hell?
“My dad fought Millwall, granddad too, great-granddad... Our history. Every Hammers family has kin scarred or killed brawling them. My youngest uncle still limps from a Millwall blade. Now it's my turn. I'll die on the pitch today. Can't lose to those bastards.”
“...”
Silence gripped the room. Spooky shit.
Pre-match, the manager gauged the mood and spoke.
“Mark's right. But remember: We're footballers. No falling for provocations or violence. I won't forgive it. Understood?”
“Yes!”
“Go teach Millwall with football.”
Spot on. Botch crowd control here, and tragedy strikes. English football had enough scars—never again.
We vowed focus, stepping onto Upton Park's pitch. My historic Dockers Derby began.
Whistle imminent for first half. Millwall away end unfurled a smuggled banner.
MILLWALL BANNER:
Londoners! Hide your pets!
The Korean dog-meat lover has invaded!
Then Millwall hoolies belted a tune just for me.
Londoners~ Hide your pets~
Dog-meat gourmet from Korea's come~
Upton Park's hero's got the brawn~
Secret? Dog meat, dawn to dawn~
Breakfast woof! Lunch woof! Dinner woof!
Three squares of pup a day~
Upton Park hero's mighty strong~~
I stood on the pitch, listening to Millwall's ditty.
“Fucking lunatics...”
Absurd—couldn't help a hollow laugh.