Dockers Derby (3)
"Yeah?"
I explained my plan to Manager Allen. He nodded and stared intently at Mark Noble. Mark looked flustered.
"What's up?"
"Mark. No one's blaming you, so don't beat yourself up."
"..."
"Play midfielder in the second half. Got it?"
"Yes!?"
Mark was stunned. It would be his first time playing midfielder for the first team.
I told the manager that pulling Mark into midfield was our only shot at winning.
Mark synced up with Carrick in central midfield, while Anton took over at full-back. I was pairing with Tomas Repka at center-back for the first time in ages.
"Tomas hyung, I'll play the mad dog. You call the shots from behind."
"Hmph. You do whatever you want anyway."
"Legs holding up okay?"
"Of course."
A chill hung between Tomas and me. I'd been the one who took his spot, after all. It was natural for him to resent me.
But today, we had to work as a team and win. That was the pro world—the adult world.
"They're coming! Hero! Leave the back to me—go forward!"
"Okay~"
Following Tomas's orders, I surged ahead to face Millwall's pressing forwards. No one knew yet.
What changes we'd made.
My target wasn't Millwall's front two.
It was the sneaky kangaroo lurking behind them.
Fwoosh—!!
Millwall's attack strategy was simple. Their strikers pulled our defense apart, creating gaps for Cahill to infiltrate.
I read the timing, cut the passing lane, stole the ball, and fed it to Mark.
Mark's physique wasn't quite enough to dominate England's brutal midfields yet. But he had the soccer IQ and work rate to overcome it.
His lean frame endured the rough challenges as he buzzed around midfield. Life returned to our stagnant engine room, and West Ham seized control.
Mark unleashed his pent-up frustration, shuttling relentlessly between our box and theirs in a frenzy of activity.
Tweet—!!
Mark and Carrick built an attack, earning a corner. I hustled upfield into Millwall's ranks. Their fans obligingly belted out my theme song, Dog Meat Song.
Anyone who didn't speak English might've thought they were cheering me on.
"Upton Park's hero's got power to spare~ Secret's dog meat, beyond compare~"
As I entered the box, Millwall players' faces turned feral. They knew my scoring record in these spots.
I was more dangerous than our main gun, Jermain, on corners.
Step—step—
"What're you doing?"
Millwall's center-back duo, Ward and Lawrence, sandwiched me. They grabbed my jersey from both sides, pinching my arms.
"Get off, you pansy bitches!"
I tussled with them when Carrick whipped in the corner.
Fwoosh—!
I started at the far post, shook them off, and dashed to the near. Ward and Lawrence panicked, chasing desperately—they couldn't match my acceleration.
Carrick's high cross sailed past my head.
And then.
Thwack—!!
Marlon, left alone at the far post I'd vacated, nodded it home. His first goal of the season.
"Uwaaaah—!!"
Marlon thumped his chest like King Kong in celebration. Joining mid-season, he'd struggled to adapt—especially paired with star striker Jermain Defoe, which had him intimidated.
"Thanks, Hero!"
"Congrats on the first, Marlon hyung."
We'd never drilled this corner pattern.
Heading out for the second half, I'd just pulled Carrick and Marlon aside.
"First corner chance, I'll draw the aggro. I'll drag the defense from far to near post—you slip in behind to the far, Marlon hyung."
"Got it."
"Carrick hyung, loft it high to the far."
"You got it."
Carrick followed my lead without hesitation. He knew how many goals I'd created from corners in our last nine games.
This tactic exploited my own record—it had to work at least once.
Ward and Lawrence glared at me, faces stiff. Eating a goal was bad enough—being outsmarted stung worse.
"Uwaaaah! Hammers~! Let's go!"
West Ham fans pierced the sky. At the 20-minute mark, hope surged—not just for a tie, but a win.
But.
A killer striker always strikes at those moments. With West Ham forward-heavy, Cahill ghosted into our box for a shot.
Thwack—!!
Just as he struck, I hit a near-identical back-tackle to the first half, knocking it away.
Cahill froze in shock, too rattled for even fake-foul theatrics. He hadn't expected the penalty-giver to risk another reckless challenge.
"Disappointing. Was dying to see your next academy-level dive. Repertoire running dry already?"
"What? You cocky little shit."
Cahill took the bait. As we shoved, players from both sides piled in. The stadium erupted in chaos.
A powder keg atmosphere—and Millwall got a corner.
"Don't mark that lanky #3! He's a scarecrow anyway. Just watch Cahill!"
I yelled loud enough for Millwall's Ward to hear. He shot me a glare. Towering like me at 190cm+, he posted at the near post, Cahill lurking behind the far.
Most Millwall players clustered near.
"Piece of cake puzzle."
Set pieces in soccer are like puzzles. Free kicks, corners, throw-ins—the clues are always in player positioning.
Thrum—!!
Tall Ward leaped first. Tomas contested desperately. Millwall players walled off the near-post area.
"Not you lot."
Thwack—!!
As expected, the kangaroo was the answer. Using his speed and spring, he infiltrated, using teammates as a screen for a header.
I'd anticipated it—leaping to head it clear right in his path.
"My win again."
I grinned at Cahill. Having played striker in my past life, I knew exactly how to rile one up.
He couldn't hide his rage anymore.
Thrum—!!
Mark and Carrick bossed midfield, raining sharp attacks. Millwall dropped deep to protect their lead, tightening midfield gaps.
"The moment I've waited for."
I cut a Millwall pass, snatching possession. Mark dropped central, gesturing for it. Their defense compressed the middle.
Thrum—!!
I switched play with a long diagonal right. Quiet side-back Anton Ferdinand overlapped wildly to collect it. Millwall's central packing left the flank exposed.
Thwack—!!
Anton's cross met Marlon's head. Jermain pounced on the knockdown, spinning lightning-fast for a turn-and-shot.
Thrum—!!
Jermain's pivot was flawless—no excess motion. The keeper didn't even twitch. Born finisher.
Clap!
Goal-makers Marlon and Jermain high-fived. Their frosty partnership thawed a bit. Strikers gotta eat goals to live.
But.
Derbies don't let warmth linger.
"Eek~ eek~ eek~"
"Go back to Africa, you monkey cunts~!"
As Anton returned after his beauty of a cross, Millwall fans behind him aped monkey calls. Even though Anton was English, like them.
"What the hell are you doing!?"