Crushing the West London Snobs

Boxing Day. After scraping together tickets, Daniel and I headed to West Ham's home ground, Upton Park.

Today's opponents were Ipswich Town, a tough side sitting in third place.

"I remember this hot dog smell. I ate one here with Dad when I was little."

"Wanna try one?"

We grabbed steaming hot dogs from a vendor outside the stadium and went in. West Ham fans had packed the stands despite the freezing weather, cheering their hearts out. Plenty of families were there, giving the atmosphere a warm, festive vibe.

"Hero player! It's an honor to meet you. Could I get an autograph?"

"Please take a photo with my son!"

At the home stadium, I wasn't just popular—I was a full-blown superstar. Fans swarmed around me until security had to step in.

"...Hero's popularity is no joke."

Daniel's gaze toward me had shifted. The stadium seemed to hit her from all angles.

"So many families coming out now..."

"English football culture's changing fast. It's shed a lot of that old violent edge. Sure, hooligans haven't vanished completely, but..."

Daniel kept glancing around in wonder, her eyes lingering especially on dads with their daughters. She must've had some good times with her own father once.

As both teams took the pitch, I spotted Paul.

"Oh, there's your brother."

Daniel pointed him out. He was smoothly directing the managers and refs, running the show like a pro.

"First time seeing him at work?"

"Yeah."

"Told you—Paul's a top-notch staffer."

Daniel watched her brother intently. Maybe peace was finally settling between the siblings.

Beeeep!

"Woooaaahhh!!"

The whistle blew, and a massive roar erupted. Daniel jumped in surprise. You don't get that raw energy on TV. The fans' passion and the players' full-throttle clashes on the pitch hit her hard. She forgot I was even there, totally locked into the game.

Huh. Like father, like daughter?

Daniel dove headfirst into the match. And when that song finally rang out, tears streamed down her face.

She gasped at the West Ham chant.

"I remember this song! Dad taught it to me when I was really little!"

"Then let's sing it together. Great tune."

"Fortune's always hiding,

I search for her everywhere.

I'm forever blowing bubbles,

Pretty bubbles up in the air!"

I belted it out with Daniel at the top of our lungs. A single tear traced down her pale cheek. Like our dreams, soap bubbles floated up into the winter sky.

The game ended in a 1-1 draw that day. With three key players out, West Ham fed off the home fans' fire to snag a point.

After that, Daniel changed. She shook off her bad prejudices about football and learned to draw energy from it.

Ding-ding-ding-ding.

"Your playing feels deeper now, more emotional."

Daniel's piano had a richer soul to it.

"Football or piano—it's all about pouring your heart in. Thanks for bringing me to the match, Hero."

Boxing Day week ended, and Daniel headed back to France. According to Liz, she'd been in a serious slump. Her rivals were all Korean, Japanese, and Chinese kids, fueling some resentment toward Asians. Staying with me gave her good vibes and pulled her out of it.

"Thanks, Mr. Hero. You're like a mince pie bringing us luck."

We promised to meet again and parted ways.

West Ham lost 3-0 away at Nottingham on December 28th. Boxing Day's three games netted one win, one draw, one loss—for four points total. That wrapped up their 2003.

January 1st, 2004. I turned 18.

On the 4th, I played the full 90 in the FA Cup 64-strong round against Wigan, leading a 2-0 win. No goal contributions, but I orchestrated from the back with long passes and kept a clean sheet.

A week later, I made my league return against Preston at home. As I stepped onto the pitch post-suspension, every West Ham fan stood and chanted my name.

"Na Yeong-ung! ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠(Hero!) Na Yeong-ung! Na Yeong-ung!"

Fueled by the welcome, I notched a goal and two assists in my comeback, earning Man of the Match. Preston's forwards were no threat at all. I shut them down with overwhelming speed and power, logging back-to-back clean sheets.

"I sincerely thank the fans who welcomed me back. Missing two games made me realize how much I love football. I won't get sent off again—no matter what."

In the post-match interview, I expressed my gratitude. Meeting Daniel had inspired me too. Watching from the stands like a fan reminded me how deeply I loved the game. More than wins or losses, it was the sheer act of wearing the kit and kicking a ball on the pitch that mattered.

"I'll never do anything to get chased off the pitch again."

Despite injuries to starters, we kept racking up results in the league, nurturing hopes of Premier League promotion. Mark Noble filled Carrick's midfield void brilliantly, and our defense, rallied around me, shone. We drew with big teams on defense and crushed the weak ones—steady point-grabbing. I piled up assists from free kicks and corner headers.

West Ham, cruising the second division, finally met their first real FA Cup test.

We faced Fulham, a top-half Premier League side. Based in affluent West London—unlike our working-class East London roots—they had that rich-kid rep. Their home, Craven Cottage, sat by the Thames but held just 15,000 fans—a tiny ground.

"Damn. How're we supposed to change in a closet like this?"

"This is smaller than my room!"

"Old relic on pricey West London land. What can ya do?"

Craven Cottage wasn't just small—the locker room was so cramped half the squad couldn't fit. Some guys vented frustration, changing in the hallway.

Manager Alan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gave his pre-match pep talk in the corridor.

"Listen up. Like I said in yesterday's meeting, Fulham's on fire. Their forwards' speed and power are Premier League elite. Defense—don't rush in solo, stick to teamwork..."

"Gaffer! We've got the defense covered. Scaring us right before kickoff? Come on."

I cut him ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠off mid-sentence.

"Haha, too much? First top-flight team in ages—got me hyped."

"You'll be managing in the Prem next season. Time to get used to it."

I capped it with some timely flattery, and Alan grinned. Surprisingly sensitive to praise, prickly about criticism. I'd earned the right to interrupt—this season's contributions spoke for themselves.

"Alright, lads! Let's show 'em the might of the second-division leaders!"

"Let's go, boys~~ Crush those West London snobs!"

"Yeaaah!"

Jermain Defoe led the charge. Our momentum matched theirs.

Screeech-screeech-screeech.

Studs scraped the century-old corridor. River stench tickled our noses at the tunnel mouth.

"National TV today—let's put on a show!"

The FA Cup is the world's oldest football tournament. Brits adore it, tune in religiously. From Premier League pros to amateur tenth-division minnows, it's a massive knockout where upsets happen yearly. Shining in a match the whole country watches? Prime chance to boost your value. For us relegated West Ham lads, it topped any league game this season.

"Woooaaahhh!!"

The roar hit as we emerged. Hard to believe it was just 15,000. Fulham fans on one side, our Hammers on the other—outshouting the posh lot ten-to-one.

"Cheer battle's ours. And... those guys."

I eyed Fulham warming up opposite. Louis Saha stood out first—the French hotshot who'd fired 27 goals in his debut year to promote Fulham.

"Premier League-caliber forward. First time."

Today's game would prove if my defending held up top-flight. But Saha wasn't alone. Portuguese winger Luis Boa Morte, American striker Brian McBride—leagues above our second-division foes.

Beeeep!!

Fulham kicked off the first half.