Dockers Derby (2)
“That melody's pretty good even in this mess.”
The tune was addictive. It felt like it was borrowed from some famous British nursery rhyme. The lyrics were hilariously absurd. Especially that woof woof! chorus—it had this irresistible charm that made me hum along without thinking.
“Zoom in tight on Na Yeong-ung's face!”
“Huh? The match is about to kick off, though?”
“You idiot! That's not the point right now! Can't you hear the ratings spiking!? Zoom in, quick.”
“Ah. Roger that.”
While the police clashed with the hooligans, the broadcast crew was hustling in their own way. Aired worldwide, any whiff of controversy jacked up the viewership. Especially if it spun a story—it locked in audiences for the next game too.
“Perfect. Killer angle, killer expression. This clip's history in the making.”
The PD nodded confidently at the screen. A single freeze-frame: Na Yeong-ung smirking through Millwall hooligans' dog-meat chants. The iconic shot symbolizing the brutal fate awaiting the first Asian challenger in the English leagues.
While the broadcast team schemed, the police were earning their keep. As they moved to tear down the dog-meat banners, Millwall hooligans pushed back hard, sparking a full-on brawl. The Millwall mob scrapped fiercely with the cops, belting out their anthem all the while.
We're Millwall anyway~~”
Kickoff got delayed by crowd chaos. Millwall's ace and Aussie soccer hero Tim Cahill jogged over to apologize.
“Sorry about that, Yeong-ung. Our fans can be a handful. But not every Millwall supporter's like that.”
“Don't sweat it—head back and prep for the match, Mr. Kangaroo.”
“What?”
Cahill flinched at my jab. I'm no wide-eyed, harmless Asian from his Aussie feeds. Better set that straight upfront. He's priority mark today—highest class of any second-division player I'd faced yet.
“Watch Millwall's 3 and 5. Their eyes are killer.”
“Got it.”
I gave Anton and Mark the heads-up too. While chatting with Cahill, two Millwall defenders had been glaring daggers. Darren Ward and Matthew Lawrence. Millwall's center-back duo, notorious league-wide for their rough, dirty play.
Tweeeeeet—! First half kicked off fifteen minutes late.
Unlike their fired-up fans, Millwall stayed ice-cold. Rock-solid defense, no rash pushes into our half.
“Well, look at this...”
Expected them to roar like their raging lion badge, but they hunkered down, claws sheathed.
“You cowardly bastards!!”
“Mark! Easy!”
Edgy Mark bombed down the right touchline. Thwack—!! Millwall's fortress snatched the ball clean with teamwork.
And then. Zap-zap-zap—!
“Danger! Incoming! Block it!”
Instant counter. Their winger exploited Mark's empty right flank with a one-touch cross into the box.
“Not today!”
Anton and I leaped for the high ball. Then something surged up between us.
“Huh!?”
Boooom—!! Cahill. He outjumped us both, hammered a header home. Clipped keeper James's gloves, but the power shoved it over the line.
West Ham 0 - 1 Millwall
Cahill sprinted to the corner flag for his signature boxing celebration. I stared, dazed.
“Class is on another level.”
Up close, Cahill's athleticism dwarfed every second-division scrub. Body bounced like live rubber, Samoan blood pumping raw power. Even with a ten-centimeter height gap, he hung in the air longer than Anton and me during that aerial duel.
“If Cahill's this freaky... Ronaldo must be a monster...”
Excitement trumped fear. Nine straight wins had bred complacency; now I craved harder training to topple the elite.
Tweeeeeet—! Play resumed.
Millwall dropped deep again, bunkering solid. Clear plan: survive seventy-five minutes for the 1-0.
West Ham rushed. Errors piled up, tempers frayed.
“London folks~ Hide your pooches~ Korean dog-meat chef's invading~~”
Every time I touched the ball, the jaunty dog-meat ditty auto-played. Leading and their hit song slaying, Millwall fans were buzzing.
“Anton! Cahill's sneaking behind again. Shove him upfront when he does.”
“Okay.”
Cahill lurked second striker. Harmless on the ball—dribbling and passing just average. But box-crashing? Deadliest man alive. Raw athleticism and nose for goal conjured strikes from nothing.
Like now.
Anton lost track. Left winger threaded to the infiltrating Cahill. As he wound up for a non-stop blast...
I slid in from behind with a tackle.
Wham—!! I shrimp-curled and poked the ball clean.
Suddenly Cahill clutched his ankle, screamed, and collapsed.
“Aaaagh!”
Tweeeeeet—!! Long whistle.
Defender's gut screamed what it meant.
“West Ham 3! Foul! Penalty kick!”
Blatant howler, but no VAR back then—ref's word was law.
I reined in the raging teammates.
“Clean as whistle! Ref! Eyes fucked!?”
“Cool it. Can't fix it. Don't spark a riot.”
“Call it fair! Shit!”
“Hold up. No.9. You swear at the ref?”
Jermain Defoe lost it, mouthed off, yellow card.
Already boiling West Ham fans detonated.
“Oi ref! You prick! Get over here! Square go!”
“Ref! Millwall spy!”
Two hyped Hammers vaulted the stands onto the pitch. One shirtless, twin West Ham hammers tattooed across his back.
Cops swarmed, dragged 'em out.
Millwall fans howled with laughter.
Hammers retaliated, hurling debris at the Millwall end.
“Everyone chill! I'll wall it. Calm your tits.”
GK James soothed the squad. True 4D—chaos bounced right off him.
But.
“GOOOAL~!!”
West Ham 0 - 2 Millwall
Couldn't stop the pen. Cahill lashed center-punch, then corner-flag kangaroo boxing.
Three amped Millwall fans stormed the pitch for hugs. Cops dispatched again.
Commentators stunned. Knife-edge heat, first half scraped back underway.
Millwall stayed cool post two goals. Parked the bus—double bank, so-called two buses tactic, flat 4-4 line.
No West Ham breaker. Ace Jermain: box poacher, no flair. Carrick no dribbler. Wingers speedy, but no subtlety to split doubles.
“Joe Cole here, it'd be different...”
No solo line-splitter. Nine wins? Foes mirrored British kick-and-rush firefights. Our Na->Carrick->Jermain turbo-counter bagged tons.
But.
“Not cracking today.”
Millwall coiled tight in their half, zero space. Up two? Even less.
Tweet! Tweet! Tweeeeeet—!
Tunnel to locker room, fury erupted.
“Fucking Millwall cunts! Football like shit!”
“Sneaky Aussie prick! Snap his ankle second half!”
Locker chaos: innocent bins kicked to hell. Nine-win streak had victory feel routine. 2-0 shock hit hard.
As players raged, Alan the manager lurked silent in the corner.
“...”
Mark stood catatonic, floor-staring. Knew his flank lapse birthed the opener, snowballed the mess. Quick goal? Millwall wouldn't bunker so blatant.
“Coach. Got a way to flip the second half.”
I stepped up.