The Christmas Tree Revolution
"Going to build attacks like that?"
"..."
I paused for a moment.
The reporters' cameras all swiveled toward me at once. My next expression was probably destined for tomorrow's tabloid front pages.
"You're talking about the Dog Meat Song, right? Of course I know it. The lyrics are hilarious, and the melody's got that earworm quality. They sang it so much that I caught myself humming it without realizing."
"Hahaha!"
The British reporters burst out laughing at my cheeky response. They must've expected me to tear up and beg them to stop the racism.
The reporter with the gold-rimmed glasses flashed a grin and pressed on. "Don't you think that song is racist?"
The press room fell silent. In Europe, this could be a jail-worthy issue in extreme cases.
I deliberately let the tension build, drawing every eye, then answered with a calm expression. "No, I don't."
Murmurs erupted as the reporters panicked and whispered among themselves. They'd probably locked in their angle: the poor Asian footballer bravely enduring racism.
"Because the lyrics aren't true. Not every Tottenham fan is Jewish, and not every Liverpool citizen catches rats in council housing to eat—just like not every Korean eats dog meat. Sure, some do. But the fans singing it are just here to rile someone up. It's not pretty, but I get it. England is the birthplace of football, right? If the fans from the motherland cheer like that, maybe that's just the level of culture football comes with. Isn't it?"
"..."
The British reporters were flummoxed, at a loss for words.
"Going back to your first question—if you're asking if the Dog Meat Song hurt my feelings, not at all. Sing away. I don't care. Once that kickoff whistle blows, I'm all in on the football. No time for getting offended."
I wrapped up the press conference and headed straight to the club-designated hospital. Jermain's diagnosis was a fractured orbital bone—minimum eight weeks out. That meant at least eight games without him. It hit hard; he was leading the league in scoring, in peak form.
"Figures. He was flying higher than ever. Damn it."
"Jermain hyung, don't get down. I'll make sure you end the season as top scorer. Just focus on recovery."
"Hmph. Don't need it. Second-division golden boot or whatever..."
His words said one thing, but Jermain was grateful I'd come by.
By the time I got back to the Upton Park house from the hospital, Saturday was over. Even at midnight, the streets buzzed with locals singing in celebration of the Dockers' Derby win. The guy who led that victory? Me—just wanted a quick shower and bed.
"What a brutally tiring day."
And just like that, my first derby was in the books.
The press conference fallout was massive. My face and quotes splashed across tabloid front pages. Even overshadowed West Ham's rare Dockers' Derby triumph.
British networks flooded the club with requests to book me. I turned them all down. Didn't want to be fodder for the racism debate.
I didn't come to London to fight England's racist culture. I came to succeed as a footballer. Like my idol Cha Bum-geun said: play well, and no one cares about your race. What I needed wasn't pity—it was overwhelming skill that transcended race.
With star striker Jermain Defoe sidelined by injury, West Ham had no goals in the tank. Marlon fought valiantly alone, but his supporting cast was woefully inadequate. Three games: one draw, two losses.
The early 10-win streak kept us top, but this slide could plummet us to hell by Boxing Day in December.
England's second tier meant 46 games a season—eight more than the Prem, no winter break. Instead, the brutal Boxing Day gauntlet: three matches in a freezing week.
Thin squads like ours crumbled under it. Flip side: nail those three, and promotion was yours.
"Keep slumping like this, and we'll collapse come Boxing Day. Gotta prep backups now."
Survival expert Coach Alan was already plotting for it. His once-bright face had darkened. No clear fix for Jermain's absence.
"Yeongung, ever thought about striker? Just till Jermain's back—top two with Marlon."
He pulled me aside after training. I'd half-expected it. The last three games' trial strikers alongside Marlon? Disasters. Natural to eye me, the team's No. 2 scorer.
"No. Absolutely not."
"Don't shut it down cold—think about the team..."
"Coach, I make goals from the back, roaming free. Pin me up top, and I'm useless."
"I know, but... argh, frustrating."
Coach Alan clawed his hair. For a Brit, he meshed great with players—no go-betweens, chatted direct, treated me like family. Best: he actually listened.
"Coach, I've got an idea. Wanna hear?"
"Yeah? Spill."
I laid out the tactical shift. His face crumpled.
"Going to build attacks like that?"
In 2003 England, it was revolutionary—tough sell. But he knew the rut we were in and bought in.
Thus, we faced Burnley in round 14 with the new setup. Silver lining: home game. Dockers' Derby win bought fan patience.
For now.
We kicked off the first half amid one-sided home cheers.
Harry and Ryan—Na Yeongung fans since the home opener—were streaming biased commentary online.
Preeeeeep!
From the first half, we rolled out the new shape: 4-3-2-1, the Christmas Tree. Years later, mastermind Ancelotti used it at AC Milan to win the Champions League.
"Go! Marlon!"
Bwoooooong!
Our version differed from Ancelotti's in execution.
Marlon lone up top, us raining long passes at his head. He'd back to goal, nod it down. Mark and Carrick swept second-line balls to build attacks. Third line: three hardworking defensive mids for legs and cover. I plugged their passing gaps.
The three DMs screened me like bodyguards. I trusted 'em, overlapped aggressively.
Bwoooooong!
Pumped longs to central Marlon, then bam—left switch. Mark took it on the flank, surged into the box. Burnley center-backs, bunched middle, panicked.
"Shoot! Mark!!"
Mark curled coolly far post.
Bwoooooong!Shwoooosh!
West Ham 1-0 Burnley
Mark's goal was perfect—he's West Ham's blood son. Sparked our turnaround.
Second half, minute 30: Carrick added one. 2-0 Burnley win. I notched an assist; Mark Noble MOTM—first ever.
Beating Burnley snapped the skid. Christmas Tree propelled us through the second tier again. Mark and Carrick thrived all-phase; Marlon ditched ego for team play.
Finally. Hell's Boxing Day arrived.