Why Are You in Our Neighborhood!?
"Is this the place?"
I left the West Ham office and headed to North London. It was my first time in the area, and like East London, it was charmingly old-fashioned if you put it nicely—or drab and dreary if you didn't.
Highbury Arsenal Stadium
A soccer stadium stood out of nowhere amid the residential neighborhood. It was my first time seeing the real thing. True to its over 100-year history, it looked weathered but exuded an imposing presence that demanded respect. This was still before they'd moved to the Emirates Stadium, so it was very much an active venue.
Which meant...
"I'll get to play here this season, huh. Heh heh heh."
My heart raced. In my past life, whenever I watched Premier League matches, Highbury had struck me as one of the coolest grounds, right up there with Manchester United's Old Trafford. Arsenal's soccer back then was so sleek and smart, with that undeniable vibe of "This is English football!"
I wandered around the stadium like a tourist.
Of course, I hadn't come all the way to North London just to sightsee at another team's ground. I was here to meet someone—someone absolutely essential to my future.
The Gunners Restaurant
"Tough name for a restaurant. Hope it's good."
Gunners was slang for Arsenal fans. The players were the Gunners; the supporters were Gooners. In short, this place was for Arsenal obsessives only—other team fans need not apply.
"Welcome~"
I pulled my cap low like a spy and took a seat in the corner. A waitress in a red Arsenal kit smiled brightly and handed me a menu.
"Steak and tomato salad, please. Well-done on the steak."
I placed my order casually and scanned for the person I was meeting. No sign of him. I double-checked the note.
Highbury Street, The Gunners Restaurant.
There couldn't be two restaurants with a name like that.
"This is nuts."
I was on edge, worried my identity might get exposed, but I ate anyway. I hadn't done anything wrong to Arsenal, but being in a London rival's fan spot felt awkward all the same.
"What a trip."
North London felt like another world. The walls were lined with black-and-white photos that looked a century old, portraits and autographs of countless Arsenal stars, era-specific kits, even vintage standing-room tickets. This was basically the Arsenal FC museum.
Go to a pub in East London, and it's all West Ham all the way. Funny how that worked. West London was different—no overwhelming sense of Chelsea or Fulham territory wherever you went. Probably because it was such a rich, tourist-packed, internationalized area.
North and East London still clung to that quirky, almost medieval English vibe.
"Was I overthinking it?"
On one wall hung a shiny new photo, the ink still glossy and fresh.
EPL 03-04 Season: Undefeated Champions! Arsenal FC! The Invincibles!
The Invincibles—that's what "unbeatable" meant. Henry, Pires, Bergkamp, Ljungberg, and the rest of the unbeaten squad grinned with medals around their necks. The Premier League trophy gleamed before them.
"That's the real winners' cup."
I thought of our club proudly displaying the Second Division trophy and cringed.
That's when a man walked into the restaurant—the one I'd been waiting for.
"Sorry, sorry. Stopped by the council office and got held up. Those bureaucrats move at a snail's pace... Would've been done in no time in Korea..."
He grumbled as he headed to the changing room. I stood and went to the counter, explaining my business to the waitress.
"Hello. I'm here to see Manager James Grant."
"Oh, sure? Oh my, from Korea?"
"You could say that."
The young British woman didn't recognize me even when she saw me. Relieving, but a bit deflating. She went to the changing room to fetch him, and soon he emerged in a suit.
"Whoa!? Hero! How'd you find this place!?"
"Long time no see, Mr. James."
The man I'd come to see was James Grant, my old English teacher from the British Language Institute in Seoul's Jongno district, who'd taught me proper British English.
A while back, when I was in Korea, I'd contacted the academy to meet him. Shockingly, he'd divorced his Korean wife three months prior and returned to England. I'd revealed who I was and asked for his UK contact info. That's how I got this restaurant address.
"How on earth did you track me down here?"
He looked at me like I'd risen from the grave. I explained everything.
"I had to come thank you in person. If not for that letter, I might not even be here now."
"No, no. I just proofread it. You wrote it, Hero—and you got here on your own talent. Nothing to thank me for."
"Fine, call it payback for our collaboration then."
We talked for a good while. James said he'd been following all my matches and articles.
"Knew you'd make it big, Hero. Not easy to live so methodically at your age. Still... didn't expect it this fast. Congrats."
"The real work starts now."
"Damn right. Now it begins. Haha."
His laugh carried a bitter edge. Last time we'd met, he was a hotshot English instructor, and I was just a middle school dropout. Things had flipped in a few short years.
"How's the restaurant gig?"
"...Gotta eat, right? Can't teach Korean to Brits in London."
The Korean Wave wouldn't hit Europe for years yet. Plenty of Brits still thought I was North Korean.
"That's actually what I wanted to talk about."
I was about to get to the point when a grumpy old man stormed in. The staff snapped to attention and greeted him. Clearly the owner. He spotted me and his son James, then strode over with the menacing aura of a Sherlock Holmes story police chief.
"What's a West Ham player doing here?"
His booming voice silenced the room. Staff and patrons turned to stare at me en masse. Then he bellowed,
"Hey! That Asian guy! I knew I'd seen you somewhere! You're West Ham's Na Yeong-ung!"
"Why Are You in Our Neighborhood!?"
The word echoed here and there. It was so unique, everyone remembered it after one hearing. If I'd stuck to my Korean name pronunciation, they might not have clocked me so fast.
Anyway, I was on trial by the North London masses.
But then...
"Hahaha! Heard you killed it in the Second Division last season? Big lad for an Asian player—and sharp-looking too."
James's dad clapped me on the back with a hearty laugh.
"You eaten? Gotta fuel up. Premier League next season's gonna be brutal. Playing soccer with those West Ham slugs? Hahaha!"
"Right on! That guy's got a rough road ahead~!"
"How long you sticking with a third-rate club like that? Hit up Wenger. Might have a spot on the youth team."
Everyone chuckled at James's dad's words. No one saw West Ham as a rival. No animosity toward me, either. If anything, they were encouraging—and pitying—me.
James, looking apologetic, hustled me outside.
"Watch out next time you come to Highbury! Henry and Dennis'll kick your ass! Hahaha!"
The Gooners gave me a memorable send-off. James and I escaped Highbury. The neighborhood's Arsenal gravity was too strong; reason shut down there.
"Sorry. Folks can be cheeky. That unbeaten season's got their egos sky-high."
"Nah, I get it. This is tame stuff."
"So... why'd you seek me out?"
"...Got a proposal for you."
"For me?"
I made James an offer he couldn't refuse.
That night, after meeting James in North London, I returned home to East London—from Arsenal's world back to West Ham's.
Paul was sprawled on the living room sofa. His hungover face looked years older, blankly staring at the TV like a zombie.
"You really wanna watch that right now?"
"..."
Paul was tuned into Match of the Day, Britain's top soccer show. Retired pros as pundits dissected the game, and UK fans mainlined it like a drug.
"Soccer's innocent. It's people who sin."
"Fired from the club and now you're a philosopher."
"..."
Paul couldn't tear his eyes from the lush green pitch filling the screen—that vibrant world was every soccer kid's dream. As a youth player, he'd been booted by injury; as an adult, by restructuring. Now he had to face life off the pitch.
"What's the plan going forward?"
"Huh? Work? Dunno. Sell hot dogs outside Upton Park? Haha."
I got where Paul was coming from. In my past life, forced to retire young, I'd struggled to start over outside soccer. Nothing felt like my work, so I never excelled. The real world ain't easy. I'd cried alone plenty, feeling like a big dumb kid tossed into society. Lucked into a snack bar inheritance, slaved away till stable—and still dreamed only of soccer.
Paul and I? Soccer addicts. We couldn't function properly without it.
"Mind if I give you a job?"
"A job? What kind? For me?"
"My next season's salary negotiations. Leave it to you, bro. New director's no pushover."
"What!?"
Paul bolted upright, thinking I was pranking him.
"Be my agent, Mr. Paul Gordon."