Dockers Derby (4)
“Stop those racist remarks right now!”
Anton protested toward the stands. It was a foolish response. The moment he reacted, the Millwall hooligans got even more excited and ramped up their taunts. When he complained about the racist abuse, the referee signaled toward the crowd to cut it out. But as if that would make the hooligans stop.
“Go back to Africa, you monkey bastard~~ Ooh ooh ah ah!”
The Millwall hooligans shouted even louder, police intervened, and another brawl broke out, halting the match once more.
Third stoppage today. This isn't a good look, folks.
The commentators were at a loss for words. After the restart, our momentum had fizzled. We'd been on the verge of a comeback, but now it felt like a draw was inevitable.
Cahill! Cutting in from the left this time! Oh! Collision with Hero Na right in front of the box!
Thwack!! I left the final defensive duties to Tomas and hunted Cahill like a kangaroo tracker. With his central runs repeatedly stonewalled, the frustrated Cahill targeted the flank. I charged at the perfect moment, smashing him with a shoulder barge. No need for fancy tricks—raw physicality crushes them all.
Ref! No call! Not a foul!
Cahill made a huge mistake here. He should've kept playing until the whistle. While he raised his hands appealing to the ref, I snatched the ball and launched a counter.
We targeted the right again, but Anton's start was sluggish.
“Tch.”
Hero Na! Charging forward! Overlapping himself!
As I dribbled ahead, Millwall players swarmed from all sides. Steal it from me, and their center only had Tomas to deal with. They knew it and rushed desperately.
Snap—whoosh!
Hero Na! Feints past the defender with kick faking! West Ham fans erupt!
“Wooooaaahhh!!”
By now, me nutmegging or beating defenders on the dribble was no shock to the Hammers. But against Millwall? Pure ecstasy, times ten.
Hero Na! Second dribble breakthrough attempt!
Whoooosh—!! I lured him in pretending another dribble, then used ankle strength alone for a sharp forward pass—thwup! It sliced diagonally through Millwall's packed defense, landing perfectly on Jermain's right foot at the top.
Hero Na's forward pass splits the Millwall defense! Jermain turns and shoots~~~
BOOMMM—!!
A thunderous roar echoed across the pitch.
Tweeet—!!
The instant Jermain spun, Millwall's Ward barreled in for the collision. I sprinted over in shock.
“Millwall No. 3 foul! Yellow card!”
“Ref! This ain't a yellow-card job!”
Carrick protested fiercely, but the ref shook his head. Jermain lay crumpled, out cold briefly before coming to. It was that brutal—the area around his right eye swelled grotesquely.
“Jermain! Blink for me!”
“Looks like an orbital fracture...”
“Damn it.”
Another stoppage. Medics rushed the pitch. Jermain insisted on playing, but that ballooning eye said otherwise. We barely convinced him to leave on a stretcher. Manager Allen's face went white as his hair.
Jermain was our top scorer, our ace striker.
West Ham in dire straits. Their main gun off injured.
Jermain's exit poured gasoline on the Hammers hooligans' rage. Objects flew at the Millwall lot, curses rained down—chaos escalated wildly.
Hero Na sets up for the free kick. Five goals from free kicks in nine games this season alone.
As I prepped the free kick, the Boleyn Ground erupted. Hammers chanted my name and GOAL!! Millwall countered with their dog-meat song. Time: 35th minute of the second half. Spot: 27 meters, right of goal.
Millwall built their wall, glaring warily. Their kangaroo Cahill lurked behind me for a counter.
“Huuuuh~”
My knuckleball was already infamous in League Two. Keepers' nightmare—you know it's coming, but if it connects clean, no save possible.
I stepped back five paces, deep breath, eyed the ball. Then counted inwardly as I approached.
One, two, three, four—BAM!!!
I whipped my right foot across the ball's upper side, twisting my plant foot and shoulders left. THWOOONG—!!
Hero Na! Strikes it! Clears the wall just! Curves left~~~ GOAL! Hero Na with the turnaround free kick—low, fast trajectory!
Not a knuckleball this time! He can do that too... League Two keepers are in for headaches.
I debuted my Beckham-inspired high-spin free kick. Practiced thousands of times back home, first real-game use today.
“Saved it for a bigger match...”
Team needed it bad, no choice. The topspin rotation fooled the keeper expecting knuckle—no reaction possible.
“Wooooaaahhhh~!!”
I bolted to the West Ham fans, arms wide like a maestro, victory ceremony. They roared hotter than ever. Millwall's dog song drowned under Hammers chanting my name.
Tweeet—!!
Restart: Millwall pushed the line up for a desperate final counter. Lose like this? Fans would crucify them.
But. Whoooosh—!!!
Hero Na! Shoulders off Cahill again! Cahill fumes on the pitch! Barely touched it second half!
By now, I was synced to Cahill's pace and runs. Tomas covered well behind, letting me press high and smash attacks early.
Cahill shut down, Millwall tried their two strikers. But we had veteran fullback Rufus. I blocked midfield runs; Rufus and Anton formed a back three with Tomas to neutralize the duo. No skill to pierce three defenders.
Beep! Beep! Tweeet—!!
Full time! After 120 minutes including stoppages, West Ham beats Millwall in the Dockers Derby—10 straight wins to open the season!
We won the Dockers Derby. Bubbles rained, our anthem blared—but no prolonged celebrations. Our star striker was out with a serious injury.
Thanking fans, heading to the locker room via the tunnel. Anton slouched ahead.
“Anton. Good work.”
“Yeah... You too, Hero.”
“What'd you say to the ref after full time?”
End of match, Anton dashed to the ref, pleading intensely. Ref firmly shook his head. Anton persisted, arguing right through our fan thanks.
“Told him I got racist abuse during the game. Lots of Millwall fans in the stands doing it. Said since I knew faces, they should nab 'em.”
“...”
I nodded through his rant, then asked, “But Anton. When we equalized 2-2, your protest to the ref killed our comeback vibe. You know that, right?”
“...What?”
“We had the momentum to flip it, but you grabbed the ref and it cooled off. If my late free kick missed, it'd been a draw.”
“...You're blaming me?”
Anton looked stunned. Expected support, huh.
“Not blaming. Just pointing out your impact on the game, since it seems you don't see it.”
“So I should've just taken that racist shit!?”
Anton yelled. Players and staff in the tunnel stared. I stepped close, quiet.
“Focus more on the match.”
Tap-tap. I patted his shoulder, entered the locker room. Bit back, “Think what your brother Rio would've done.”
“Some people just born with it, huh?”
From past-life memory, Anton sued Chelsea's John Terry years later over alleged racist remarks in a match. Terry countersued; dragged into a nasty, drawn-out battle. Don't know the verdict, but it surely drained time, money, emotions.
“Worrisome ahead.”
Racism's wrong, obviously. I endured dog songs and slants all 120 minutes. Could've stung, but blocking Cahill left no room for it. Modern football's refined, but roots are working-class—savagery, tribalism, violence baked in.
Pros whining to refs mid-game over taunts? Hurts the team. Unprofessional.
“Mark! You were brilliant today!”
“Thanks, Hero. Your goal was class!”
Back in the locker room, celebrated the win with teammates. Publicly praised Mark Noble to boost his confidence. He glowed—realized he belonged as a pro midfielder.
“Thrilled to be Man of the Match in this historic derby. As long as I'm here, West Ham won't lose to Millwall.”
Picked as MOTM, post-match presser. Rare for League Two, but derby's huge.
British hacks eyed me like rotten cheese hunters. UK sports media's notoriously vicious in Europe.
“Hero Na speaks fluent English. Sounds like a real Londoner. Accent spot-on.”
“Praise? Thanks to my homestay English teacher, Grandma Emma. Cheers, Gran.”
“Hahaha.”
I stood, bowed Korean-style; reporters laughed. The praiser shifted, eyes gleaming.
“Since your English is so good, you must've understood the song Millwall fans sang for you today?”