I Will Become the Best Center Back

The content of the letter I sent to Coach Tony Cascarino could be summed up roughly like this.

For reference, Millwall FC was a team from East London like West Ham, infamous as Europe's worst rivals. It was a bold joke that might rub some the wrong way, but James said Londoners love that kind of humor and insisted I include it.

"Thanks to our son, I've gotten to see London in England. Now Dad's wish has come true. Heh heh heh."

Right now, I was in London with Dad. The day we got a reply from Coach Tony, we called the West Ham office right away and scheduled the trial date. The testing period, including the physical exam, would last about three or four days. Pass or fail would be announced on the spot, and if you passed, you'd sign a one-year youth contract immediately—so parents had to come along.

Once you signed the youth contract, they'd cover housing and living expenses. No more needing to ask my parents for money—I could play soccer in London on my own.

"Sorry for making you take time off work when you're so busy. I'll definitely pass."

"Don't feel the pressure. That's what makes even good things fail. I've seen all your hard work, son. You'll do great."

Dad had taken hard-earned vacation time just for me to fly to London. He worked as an electrician on construction sites, and once a project started, it was tough to get time off. I had a vague ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sense of the sacrifices he'd made for this.

We ate a cheap breakfast at a rundown hotel on the outskirts of London, then took the Tube toward East London.

[Upton Park Station]

We got off and followed the map to the West Ham youth training ground. The sky was overcast in shades of gray. Experiencing London's notorious weather firsthand, it was no joke.

"This is London...?"

I checked the map several times, but this was it. The road from the station to the training ground was just as gloomy. The worn, dirty streets were packed with poor immigrants from all over the world. After walking a long way through it, a vast expanse of green grass finally appeared. It felt like finding an oasis in the desert.

[West Ham Youth Academy]

Seeing the sign at the entrance finally put my mind at ease.

Beep-! Beep-! Beeep-!

As we entered the training ground, boys of various races were diligently kicking balls on the green pitches. Even at a glance, their skills were no joke. Of course—they were probably the best ball-handlers from their own countries or regions.

They were too focused on chasing the ball to notice someone like me.

"Hey, you can't just come in here. Whoa."

A balding club staffer tried to shoo me away but froze in surprise. Up close, my size overwhelmed him. Thanks to consistent core training, my torso had thickened like it was clad in armor.

"I'm the player here for the trial today. Name's Hero Na. From Korea."

"Ah, right this way to the office."

He was surprised again by my fluent English. It was thanks to free-talking practice with James from Jongno Language Academy, role-playing scenarios like this.

I went to the office and greeted the staff. They weren't friendly, but not rude either—just cold.

"Change into something comfortable and come out. We'll start the test in 30 minutes."

It made sense. How many soccer boys from around the world begged for a trial at this team? This was a once-in-a-lifetime shot for me, but daily routine for them. If I failed, they'd never see me again. And tomorrow, another prospect would show up on their own.

"You okay, son?"

"Of course, Dad. Don't worry. I'm in top condition."

Truth be told, I barely slept last night. But it didn't matter. I changed into training gear and stepped onto the pitch. The moment my feet touched London's green grass for the first time, my heart swelled. How long I'd dreamed of this. In this life, I'd never make foolish choices. I'd make my name as the best defender on English soil.

My mind settled calmly. All that image training meant I wasn't even nervous.

Thud- Thwack- Thump-!

I warmed up in the corner of the training ground, bouncing the ball off my instep—knee—chest—shoulder—head, using my whole body. People started noticing me one by one. My large frame drew eyes too. I enjoyed the attention, casually keeping the ball aloft.

Thump- Thump- Thwaaang!

The lifting skill I'd honed most over the past six months alone. In my past life, I was infamous for clumsy touches. People even said it wasn't soccer. Now, I could play with the ball freely, controlling the power.

Tok- Tok- Thwaaang- Thump!

Lifting was the best way to bond with the ball. Master it, and trapping and dribbling become confident. It was the foundation, like a building's pillars.

"That's enough~~~"

A voice from behind made me stop. Turning, I saw a bulldog-faced man with a whistle and a West Ham cap. Obviously a coach.

"You're the kid from Korea, right?"

"Hero Na, sir."

"You speak Korean pretty well?"

"I learned London English back in Korea."

"Hmm~ Impressive. I can feel the sincerity. But no extra points for that."

"Of course not."

"I'm Oliver, the coach running the test. You're warmed up, so we can start right away?"

"But... is Director Tony Cascarino not coming?"

"Why him?"

"I got this trial because of him. Wanted to thank him."

"Heh heh. Save that for later—focus on the test first?"

"Got it."

Oliver stood with two young coaches holding score sheets, directing me through drills: simple lifting, tough trapping, figure-eight dribbles... They were shocked at how skillfully I handled the ball.

Heh heh...

In my past life, I'd attended the [West Ham United Youth Soccer Coaching Clinic] in 2017 when their coaches visited Korea. I'd taught kids using their program, so I knew exactly what they wanted.

Thwaang- Thump- Thraaaang!!

As I confidently controlled the ball and unleashed powerful shots, the coaches' faces lit up. They didn't hide their growing fondness. I played it cool, then hit them with my killer move to make them drool.

Thud- Thraaaang!!

"Ooooh!"

"What!? Weren't you right-footed? That left foot kick too?"

I showed off my polished left-foot shot. Not a perfect ambidextrous player yet, but I could use my left at about 80% proficiency. A skill beaten into me daily by my elementary coach—should I be grateful?

Korea's soccer world believed "To go pro, you need both feet," enforcing brutal ambidexterity training from childhood. An absurd idea unimaginable in 2002 European soccer.

"Preferred position's center back?"

"Yes."

"With ball skills like that, you could play higher up?"

"I will become the best center back."

"Hoo~"

They marveled, scribbling on score sheets. Back then, ball-playing center backs were rare even in Europe. Confirming my ball control and decent left foot, they looked satisfied. They'd recognized my market value.

"Good! Hero! Now fitness test."

I aced the ball drills, then did the shuttle run. I didn't push too hard here. I knew West Ham's academy didn't emphasize fitness for my age group. The real key was the [mini-game]. I saved my energy for that.

"Hero. Last test of the day."

As expected. This decided pass or fail. The academy valued teamwork, communication, judgment, and adaptability in games most.

I had to prove in this mini-game that I fit their soccer philosophy.

"Huh?"

For the 5v5 on half-court, our team was weird: one Nordic, one Spaniard, one Brazilian, one African. Including me the Korean, all five spoke different languages. The Nordic kid mangled English with a weird accent; Spaniard spoke Spanish, Brazilian Portuguese, African some strange French accent. The opponents? All five British, looking 3-4 years older.

"Alright, Hero. Starting now. Get ready."

The coaches urged. It could've caused panic, but I snapped to.

This situation is the test.

A pressure interview. The Premier League had players of every nationality on one team. Coaches wanted to see how I'd handle uniting different languages and cultures.

"Good. Everyone, up front! You two, spread out!"

I shouted in Korean, waving my arms to position them. I dropped to goal line—I'll guard the back; you lot run wild up top.

They nodded and followed. Coaches watched, noting on sheets.

Tweeeet-!

The mini-game began. First real action in ages—I was a bit tense. But as the opponent charged with the ball, my defender instincts awoke.

Flash-!! Boom!

I shouldered the incoming attacker aside.

Tweeeet-!

"Foul! Hero! It's a test—don't get too rough!"

"Too strong? I'll watch it."

Coaches were stunned by my power. My honed core strength fused with world-class defender moves in my head, nuclear-fusing in my body.

"They're coming again!"

This time, a 2v1 pass from the left. Boooom-!! I collided, stealing the ball. Another British upperclassman flew back. Similar height, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but my core was superior.

Oliver went to whistle-stop it, but a man behind held him back.

"Let it go. In first-team matches, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that's no foul."

"Ah, Director. You're here."

"That the kid? The cocky one from Korea."

"Yes. Top scores so far. Solid basics for his size, uses both feet."

"Hmph. Won't make him a Beatle though."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. Let's watch the game. See how he handles it."

He was West Ham's director of coaching, Tony Cascarino. As Tony and Oliver talked, something astonishing happened on the pitch.

Thud- Thud- Thud-

"Huh!?"

"What the hell's he doing!?"

I spotted space ahead and dribbled forward from the back. Only the keeper behind me. Crossing halfway, panicked opponents rushed me.

"Too late!"

Thraaaaaang-!!!

I used the charging right-side defender as a wall, smashing left-footed with all my weight. The ball rocketed like a cannonball toward goal.