The Defender Who Scored Goals Brilliantly - Chapter 50

"Hero Na won't make it in the Premier League."

Pa-ba-ba-bat—!!

"Where do you think you're going?!"

In soccer, sprinting is nothing like track running. You rarely ever cover more than 30 meters in a game. Most battles are decided in 5-to-10-meter bursts. What matters here is acceleration to top speed and change-of-direction ability.

Since regressing, I'd been doing ladder drills every day for quick feet practice. I'd honed my side steps and backpedals, the bread-and-butter runs of a defender. And during this break, functional training had built me a body primed for explosive speed.

The combined effects were astonishing. Now all I had to do was prove it on the pitch.

Ku-ung!!

I stuck to Johnson like a ferret, then blasted him away with a shoulder barge. The compact, sturdy striker couldn't match my physicality. He tumbled across the turf, rolling a few times before staring up at me in shock. This had to be the first time a defender had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠run him down like that.

"Wooooaaahhh!! Hero Na! Hero Na!"

My one shoulder charge flipped the game's momentum. It lit a fire in the West Ham players' hearts.

Up front, Mark Noble and Michael Carrick were running wild in midfield. Their work rate alone was enough to dominate the center. Gudjohnsen cut straight in from the flank to support lone striker Jermain Defoe. And Zola orchestrated the whole buildup.

Zola roamed midfield casually until the ball came his way, then processed it like lightning. He left the running to Mark and Carrick, focusing solely on ball mastery. The result was magical.

Ppeeeeng—!!

Last season, our attacks were basic: long balls from me at the back or needles from Carrick and Mark. With Zola as playmaker, we stretched the pitch, activating both wingers.

"Man, there's so much to learn from him."

I watched Zola's masterclass from deep, in awe. But while I was distracted, Johnson got pissed.

"Got so much spare time mid-game you can daydream, rookie?"

"Huh? Oh, you're still here? Didn't notice—too small, man."

"Kuk!"

"You little shit! Daring to mock me? Thought all Asians were polite... guess there's psychos like you too."

"Agh! Too bright! Get lost, you shiny bastard!"

Johnson was a 170cm shorty with a massive bald dome. Calling him out flustered him. Even his teammates cracked up.

Ppeeeeng—!

Johnson tried flashy steps to shake me. Pa-ba-ba-bat—! Pa-bat—!

I shadowed with side steps, then as he received and turned, exploded to max speed and shoved him off with my body.

Ku-uuuung—!!

"Wooooaaahhhh!!"

I bulldozed Johnson like a dump truck and dribbled forward. Furious Palace players swarmed.

"Second-division scrub thinks this is a playground?!"

"You lot look easy?!"

Cheok—I feigned fear, stopping the ball as they pressed from both sides. Then pretended to look for a pass rightward.

Paaaat—!!

As their eyes flicked right, I poked forward and nutmegged between them.

Palace panicked as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I kept coming—more attackers than defenders, no one free to mark me. Spotting teammates infiltrating, I nudged with my right foot.

Ppeeeeng—!!

I curved left, threading a perfect pass to Zola's run. He flubbed the trap, the ball popping up, but stayed cool, volleying it home mid-air. Veteran savvy meets technique—a thing of beauty.

"Yeong-ung! Perfect pass, mate!"

"Fantasy goal, boss. You meant to flub that trap, right?"

"Of course. Uhahaha!"

Zola and I embraced, roaring with laughter. The moment made front pages of UK sports papers next day.

Beep! Beep! Beeeep—!!

I shut Johnson down completely—no breakthroughs all game. Palace crumbled without their main gun. I notched an assist; Zola a goal and assist; Defoe a goal.

Quick locker room win party, then home. First thing: fire up the internet.

"Heh heh heh."

I hit a Korean portal, checking soccer buzz. Pre-game, consensus was "Hero Na won't cut it in the Premier League." Believers got labeled noobs or fanboys by fake "real Euro fans."

As predicted, post-game flipped the narrative. Players prove it on the pitch. Grinning victoriously, I shut down the PC.

League opener win, now Round 2: Man United away. Media hyped it pre-game.

Everyone salivated for drama between me and Roy Keane. UK press made Korean media look like child's play—mockery's their national sport.

"You've got balls, kid."

"Why's that?"

"Couldn't even look that guy in the eye. Scary mofo."

On the bus to Manchester, I sat with manager Zola. He wanted to pass on all his wisdom; I loved his old-school tales—especially Maradona's Napoli days (top-secret stuff).

"Roy Keane scares me too. Total Irish gangster vibe."

"Watch out. He'd snap your Achilles without blinking."

"Don't worry."

Zola fretted over my safety. Truth be told, I was a bit uneasy. Didn't expect the Saipan rant to hit so hard.

He was still salty. Who'd have thought fists would fly?

"Boss, forget Keane—the real issue's that kid, right?"

"True."

Lineup featured super-rookie Wayne Rooney joining Van Nistelrooy, Ronaldo, Giggs—Man U's nightmare front four. Strategy session refined our five-back from last clash.

Second Old Trafford trip felt tame. Premier League aura, maybe. Last time in the Championship, I shook like a servant at the lord's manor.

We lined up coolly in the tunnel. United staff separated me and Keane. He ignored me; I him.

Van Nistelrooy sidled up, smirking to psych me out—classic striker mind games.

"Heh heh~ Meet again, cutie. Our captain's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been waiting for this. Watch yourself—no joke."

"You watch it. Don't wanna lose your spot to that Portuguese hick."

"What?!"

His grin soured at Ronaldo's name. Hates the kid, apparently. Sorry, Van, but it comes true—Ferguson dumps you next season for Ronaldo-Rooney core.

Now a top-flight side, we faced Man United for round two.