A Letter from Abroad?
Thud—thud—thud—twang!
Spring 2002. Half a year had flown by. In that time, I lived by the exact same routine every single day. Every dawn, I hopped on the subway to the Jongno language institute for English conversation classes. Back home for lunch, then straight into serious soccer training in the afternoon. Afternoons were for park sessions focused on ball lifts, traps, and pattern steps; evenings, elementary school fields for passing and shooting drills. I also hit the local gym three times a week for core strengthening. All the while, I kept English audio lessons blasting through my earphones, mumbling along under my breath.
I became known in the neighborhood as that weird guy. A hulking kid showing up at the same time every day, dragging a cart loaded with soccer balls and gear, grinding away solo until late into the night. Rain, snow, raging winds—didn't matter. I never skipped a session.
"I'm going to England for soccer studies."
After declaring that to my parents, I hadn't taken a single day off. They started out worried, but watching me live so fiercely won them over. Dad put a stop to my newspaper delivery gig: "Spend that time studying English instead." I was all too happy to oblige. Earning pocket change as a half-assed filial son? Nah—using that time to get stronger was way better for my future.
"Really. What a foolish waste of time."
Quitting school and the soccer team freed up my schedule and stamina. All I'd done before was huddle in the classroom all day out of fear of being alone, wasting hours on useless classes and pointless pranks with friends. At soccer practice, getting abused by that unqualified psycho coach. Once I swept all that crap from my life, infinite possibilities opened up ahead. Pouring every one of my 24 hours into what I wanted? Life felt goddamn exhilarating. Even training till I was dead on my feet every day, I'd crash fast just to wake up and do it all again. It was my own study-honed program, proven effective by experience.
"Yeong-ung, didn't peg you for this... You're a total selfish prick."
"Disappointed, Na Yeong-ung. Go on, do it all by yourself~"
When I stopped showing up at school, the soccer team guys came looking. They flipped out after hearing about my England plans. Figured I'd crawl back, I guess. To them, I was the traitor. They were still slaves rowing that ship, taking daily whippings; I'd jumped off and paddled my own raft to somewhere else. I knew where endless beatings and rowing led—nowhere.
"Don't think playing soccer in that violent hellhole is normal. You can play anywhere else. That's all I've got to say."
I left them with that and dove back into solo training. No time to waste on them. I had a rock-solid goal, and I had to make it real.
Thud—thud—thud—thunk!
After half a year, I could flawlessly lift the ball using every part of my body—toes, instep, knee, chest, forehead, crown. No wasting energy on pointless spinning runs or tactics drills meant my personal gains skyrocketed. Lifts, traps, both feet, dribbling, kicks... My fundamentals as a player leaped forward. I poured every trick from my past life coaching youth players straight into myself.
Finishing up around 10 p.m. each night, I'd shower, hit the bed, and pop in a soccer video. Legendary Defenders Highlight Reel, hard-ordered from Japan—Korea had zilch back then. That one-hour tape? I watched it on repeat every night. Half a year of the same footage burned their plays into my brain, second by second. Bobby Moore, Franz Beckenbauer, Ronald Koeman, Baresi, Maldini, Hierro... I'd soak in their brilliant defending and plays, then shut my eyes, replaying it all in my head as I drifted off. That's how I grew like a weed.
***
Now was the time. Time to scout Premier League youth clubs. Last month, I'd sent a letter to West Ham United FC's youth academy requesting a trial. Profile in English, physical exam results, my play footage on CD—all FedExed over. A month later? Crickets.
"West Ham. So that's how you're gonna play it, huh?"
There was a reason I'd picked West Ham first out of all those Premier League clubs. Over a century of history, based in east London. Nicknamed the Hammers—started by Thames bridge-building workers, hence the hammer in the crest. Low profile in Korea, but locally? Way more popular than Chelsea or Tottenham, a true London powerhouse. Tradition wasn't why, though.
The West Ham Youth Academy. They had Britain's best youth system, period. Like Ajax in the Netherlands, Barcelona in Spain, Clairefontaine in France—West Ham was England's answer. Stars they'd produced? Rio Ferdinand, Frank Lampard, Joe Cole, Michael Carrick, Jermain Defoe, Glen Johnson, John Terry—insane list. Rio and Terry were exactly the world-class defenders I aimed to be. West Ham had to be number one.
"Fine. Time for my ultimate move."
I hand-wrote a letter to Tony Cascarino, the youth director. Tony was the legendary coach running the academy, godfather of English youth soccer. If no reply after this, I'd hit up other clubs. I took the finished letter to the institute and asked my British teacher, James Grant, to proof it.
"Me helping with West Ham? If my dad finds out, he might kill me~"
James joked fluently in Korean. North London boy, married a Korean woman, fifth year in Seoul. Family were diehard Arsenal fans—hated West Ham.
"Still, glad it's West Ham. If it was Tottenham you wanted, no way I'd help."
"Tottenham's not on my list."
Arsenal and Tottenham: north London rivals, bitterest of enemies. West Ham, east London—less bad blood.
"Smart call. Tottenham's not even a proper team. But why West Ham over Arsenal? That area's rough, total dump. Real Londoners stay away."
"Tony Cascarino's at West Ham. I want proper training from him to become a real defender."
"Hmm... Can't argue with that guy. Read your letter—solid stuff. Heartfelt, British humor too. Reply's coming, guaranteed."
"Thanks, teacher."
"When you're famous, mention me in your autobiography. Deal?"
"Of course."
"Wait, no! If Dad hears I helped West Ham, all hell breaks loose. Don't do it."
"...Got it."
Soccer's wild. Bonds you with people like nothing else.
I sealed the proofed letter with care and express-mailed it to London.
***
Two weeks later. Another late training night, trudging home. Mailbox empty as always. First time since regressing I'd felt antsy. Heavy steps up the creaky stairs. Maybe ditch West Ham, contact second choices?
"You're home."
"Yeah~~ Good work, son."
Mom greeted me from the kitchen. Heading to my room, I spotted something on the table. Marched over.
"Oh, right, son. Some letter came from abroad?"
I snatched the envelope. [West Ham United FC]—hammer crest staring back. Ripped it open. Elegant handwriting on personal stationery.
I've received your letter, Yeong-ung.
Your "threat" worked.
I don't know about your soccer skills yet, but you write damn well.
I've put in a word at the club office—call them, drop your name, and book a trial date.
Hoping for good results.
— Tony Cascarino
I could try out for West Ham. All that studying paid off—read it smooth as silk.
Grip. I clutched the letter tight. Half a year since ditching middle school. My world was shaking again.