Becoming a True Premier Leaguer
“It's an honor to play alongside you, Zola!”
I'd become addicted to Zola's smile. I even felt like I could die for this man.
And then.
After sixteen grueling rounds of negotiations, I'd agreed on this season's salary.
$3 million for 1 year
It was about 4 billion won—a massive sum, four times my salary from last season.
James and Paul had leveraged my various records and promotional value to secure this unprecedented raise. Alfred, true to his expertise as an international finance specialist, arranged for the salary to be paid in dollars rather than pounds.
We'd scrapped the contentious goals and assists bonuses and added a new one instead.
$1.5 million bonus if the team secures Champions League qualification.
This was only possible if West Ham finished in the top four of the Premier League.
The season opener was just a week away. Since Zola took over as manager, the mood in the West Ham squad had been skyrocketing day by day.
Zola, protected by Mark Noble and Michael Carrick, played as an attacking midfielder. The formation shifted from the classic British 4-4-2 to something closer to 4-2-3-1. As the number 10 playmaker, Zola distributed the ball everywhere with precision. His work rate had declined from his prime, but his exquisite technique injected creativity into the team.
Besides Zola, we'd signed another key player.
Chairman Magnússon used his Icelandic connections to poach Gudjohnsen from Chelsea for a fortune. Gudjohnsen was hailed as Iceland's greatest footballer ever—an all-rounder with a commanding physique, superb technique, and the versatility to play anywhere from striker to midfielder.
“This season might just change history.”
I knew the Icelandic connection would collapse due to the American financial crisis. But that was still 4 or 5 years away. In the meantime, I had to lead West Ham to the title and rewrite history.
“Chelsea were supposed to win this season... José Mourinho must be fuming.”
Mourinho, who took over at the start of the 04-05 season, would lead Chelsea to two straight league titles and usher in their golden era. By snatching Gudjohnsen, we'd weakened them.
“Let's see how the East London rags do. Zola will regret it. Not all London is the same.”
As I'd predicted, Chelsea fans were outraged that West Ham had taken their icons Zola and Gudjohnsen. There'd been no rivalry before between the London clubs, but bad blood was brewing. Chelsea supporters were already hyped for the third-round clash.
British broadcasters were buzzing ahead of the opener, producing specials with retired players, managers, and pundits predicting the season.
After the broadcast, furious West Ham fans flooded the lines with complaints. East London pubs echoed with curses at the host and guests.
The squad remained unfazed. United around new manager Zola, we methodically prepared for the opener.
After team training, Anton, Mark, and I did extra sessions daily. Our obsessive work ethic inspired others to stay late, creating a culture of individual grind. Eventually, Zola had to rein us in.
The day before the home opener, an email arrived from Hyunji.
She was studying English on my advice. Korean broadcasters had bought Premier League rights this season, airing all my games—unthinkable in the Championship. Reporters were coming, which was annoying, but as a public figure with investments, I saw it as business.
I could've become a chaebol betting on remembered results via sports toto. But as a pro now, betting was off-limits. Some teammates did it secretly, but my conscience wouldn't allow it.
“The whole nation staying up at dawn for my games starting tomorrow... Feels weird as hell.”
I recalled watching Kim Ji-sung's Man Utd games in my past life. I'd wake up early to check if he was on the bench or even listed—often going back to sleep if not.
But my position was different. As West Ham's starting center-back, barring injury, I was locked in. I was the undisputed core of the team.
“Alright. Tomorrow, I become a true Premier Leaguer.”
I tossed and turned late into the night, finally drifting off at dawn.
Kickoff was at 3 p.m., but East London was electric from morning. Fans swelled with excitement for the top-flight return after one season away.
From Upton Park station to the stadium, stalls lined the streets early. Pubs overflowed with West Ham kits and scarves. Sizzling oil, savory meat aromas, rich beer scents, and laughter erupted everywhere.
Groups belted out "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles" like they'd already won, drunk since breakfast, heading to Boleyn Ground singing chants.
Crystal Palace was London too, but south-side, so West Ham hooligans ignored them. The opener kicked off peacefully.
“You lads don't know it yet, but there's nothing happier than running out in this kit. Standing here back in London, wearing the same colors as you, about to hit the pitch—feels like I'm a 10-year-old academy kid again.”
Zola, player-manager, gave a pre-match speech. Nervous young players were drawn in.
“Forget victory. Once you're on the pitch, play for your own joy. Fans will love you for it—the fun spreads. That's the football I chase. Got it?”
“Yes!”
“Let's go, Hammers!”
His small frame boomed with authority. Zola led us onto the pitch like a triumphant general. First time seeing a player-manager, and so far, it was brilliant.
We started our Premier League debut with perfect mindset.
Peep!
The 4-2-3-1 fired up for the first time. I paired with Anton at center-back, Jermain Defoe up top, Gudjohnsen on the right wing.
“Incoming!”
Palace players came out aggressive from the start, like they were lecturing us on the Premier League—taunting to break our spirit.
“Whoa, the Championship MVP. Scary~ Sign my shirt later, hero.”
“Anytime. But you'll be waiting in a long line.”
My mark today: Andy Johnson. Buzzcut, short, lightning-fast goal machine. He'd finish second in scoring behind Henry—elite at putting them away.
“Perfect test subject for my special training.”
I grinned at the little buzzcut. Johnson flinched—he'd meant to provoke me.
Then—
Thwump!
My first Premier League duel.