This Season's Soccer Is Gonna Be Too Fun!
“Me? An agent?”
Paul blinked in stunned disbelief, his face blank. He'd dealt with countless agents while working at the club—player agents, corporate agents, club agents—all the various negotiators who pulled the strings behind European football.
“I don't have a license. And I sure as hell don't have the cash for the bond...”
“If the player signs a power of attorney, you don't need a license.”
To operate as an official agent, you had to pass FIFA's exam and get certified. And that certification required a bond of about 300 million won. But in reality, the license was more symbolic than anything. Players' family or friends often handled negotiations with just a power of attorney.
“The license isn't what matters. First is whether the player trusts you. Second is whether you can negotiate well.”
Paul looked at me, a flicker of confidence sparking in his eyes.
“I've watched you up close all this time—how you work with players, coaching staff, the director, office workers, ground crew, even the supporters. You blend in seamlessly with everyone. I think you could broker great deals between players and clubs.”
“Me...”
“This isn't pity. It's a business proposal. Because I believe you have the talent.”
Paul's lips trembled. Agent was a dream job for many, but the reality was brutal. Even with a license, without connections to star players, your income was zilch. The agents we knew by name were less than 1% of the total. Most scraped by with side gigs.
And now Paul had landed the hottest prospect on the cusp of the Premier League.
“Deal?”
“Yeah. Deal.”
Clap.
“First things first—let's draft an agent contract by tomorrow morning.”
I shook Paul's hand. Just like that, our relationship shifted. From Asian youth homestay kid to business partner.
“Oh, right. Do you know who I was gonna sign with if not you?”
“Who?”
“Jorge Mendes.”
“...”
I left Paul frozen like a statue in the living room and headed upstairs.
The next morning, Paul was waiting for me downstairs. The aroma of scones baking in the kitchen wafted from Emma Grandma, accompanied by Handel's Water Music drifting from the vacuum-tube radio. They said it was the tune British kings and nobles once enjoyed while floating boats on the Thames for parties.
“Got the agent contract ready.”
“Whoa, that was fast.”
“Pulled an all-nighter. Based it on the standard UK contract.”
I sipped my milk tea and skimmed the document before signing. Paul was now officially my representative.
We sat in the living room to discuss the tone for this season's salary negotiations. One reason I'd chosen Paul was his law degree—he knew British law inside out.
Mid-conversation, the doorbell rang.
“Come in!”
“Who’s that?”
“Yeah, our new business partner I hired yesterday. He'll be working with you from now on.”
“What!? And you’re telling me now?”
James walked in through the front door, looking tense as he greeted Paul and Emma Grandma.
“First time in East London, huh?”
“...Yeah. First time.”
“Gonna have to come every day now—brace yourself. You’re not hiding an Arsenal kit under there, are you?”
“No! What the hell?”
“Arsenal?”
Paul's face hardened.
“Introduce yourselves. This is James Grant—North London guy who speaks fluent Korean. And this is Paul Gordon—worked at West Ham, now my agent.”
“Ah, nice to meet you.”
They shook hands awkwardly.
I'd hired both Paul and James to form a full-service management company. Teaming with Jorge Mendes might mean big bucks short-term, but I wouldn't control my own ventures. Long-term, this business could rake in even more.
From now on, Paul and James would handle not just contracts, but my daily life, training, endorsements—everything.
I laid out their tasks in detail.
“Salary negotiations matter, but down the line, player-corporate deals will boom. Focus there.”
“Got it.”
If I shone in the Premier League this season, global Korean firms would come knocking. James's fluent Korean would be a huge edge in those talks.
“Later, James, you'll debut Korean players in Europe too. We'll need offices in London and Korea.”
I wasn't hiring out of sympathy. They were the most trustworthy people in England for me—Paul knew the law and West Ham inside out, James was a fluent Korean-speaking Brit. Easy to find English-fluent Koreans, but Korean-fluent Brits? Rare as hell back then. No contest in UK club deals.
“Let's head out.”
“Where to?”
“Gotta get an office first.”
“We can work from the living room for now.”
“Nah, come on. Amateur hour? Who respects an agent without an office? We're pros. Snazzy office, top-shelf business cards, flashy company car, bespoke suits—the works.”
“...”
“Don't worry about the money—I've got it covered.”
And so we hit the streets. We snagged a sharp office near Upton Park and hung the sign: P&J Sports Agency. I listed myself as investor, them as co-CEOs. Cash made everything smooth.
I tossed them 200,000 euros (about 300 million won) as operating funds and assigned their first big mission.
Vroom—
Paul and James pulled up to West Ham's office entrance in their company Range Rover.
The guard at the gate spotted Paul behind the wheel.
“Paul? What brings you here? And what's with the car? Hit the lottery?”
“Maybe.”
“What? Lottery?”
“Here for salary talks with the director. Check the meeting booking.”
“Contract? You coming back to work!?”
“No, no. I'm negotiating for a player. Open the gate, Adam.”
“No clue what you're on about. You an agent now or something?”
“Yep. I'm Hero Na's agent.”
“...”
The guard's jaw stayed dropped.
Vroom—
Paul cruised through the open gate. He stepped out in his bespoke suit and strode into the office that had once booted him.
Staff gawked like they'd seen a ghost. Paul faced his ex-colleagues with a cool, almost arrogant poise. They were floored he'd become Hero Na's agent.
“Paul, meeting time. Let's go in.”
“Right.”
Paul nodded and headed into the director's office with James.
This was P&J Sports Agency's first deal.
“...Damn, jealous.”
The other staff couldn't hide their envy, wondering what if they'd been Hero Na's handler instead of Paul.
While Paul and James handled negotiations, I dove into personal training. Three PT sessions a week with the American fitness expert James found. Functional training—tailored moves to max out physical prowess.
My top priority: man-marking defense. The speed of Giggs and Ronaldo from the FA Cup, Van Nistelrooy's power—they were another level. To face top attackers this season, I needed more strength and speed.
August arrived. My salary talks were still ongoing. Two weeks before opening day, West Ham announced their new manager.
No one saw it coming. Not even me.
I've really shaken up football history.
“Zola as our team manager!? This is hype!”
I cracked the joke to myself and grinned. No one in England got my Zola puns.
Did I accelerate history's change?
In my memory, Zola didn't manage West Ham for another 5-6 years. And as player-manager? Unthinkable.
Articles poured in daily about the superstar. Zola had cemented legend status at Chelsea, returned to Italy to prep for retirement. Magnusson, the chairman, sent the director to Italy, convinced Zola with fierce intent and a fat salary, flying him back to London.
“Zola as our manager!? Epic!”
“Gotta get his autograph first. Huge fan.”
The West Ham squad was thrilled. Who was Zola? The Italian fantasista dubbed “Mara-Zola” alongside Maradona—synonym for silky dribbles, creative passes, pinpoint free kicks. A wizard.
No one missed Alan Pardew anymore.
Sorry, but this is the pro world...
Zola re-entered London, heading not to West London but East for his debut. When he stepped onto the first-team training pitch, players applauded.
Clap-clap-clap-clap—
“Pleased to meet you all.”
Zola flashed his signature charming smile, shaking hands one by one. Alan Pardew had been player-friendly, but with that British manager strictness. Zola? Pure Zola.
From the first meeting, he exuded big-brother warmth, winning hearts instantly.
“This season's soccer is gonna be too fun!”
Just playing with Zola fired up the squad. He trained in the same kit from day one, number 10 on his back—the digit for the team's best ball-striker.
“You're that famous Hero Na, huh? Let's have some fun this season. Looking forward to it.”
Zola gripped my hand.