Defeated by the Sorcerer's Kung Fu!
"You've all just witnessed a match for the ages in West Ham history. We need to get used to victories like this. The Hammers' advance starts now. We've got to aim even higher."
I deliberately went for a provocative post-match interview.
"Higher than Man United—which team are you talking about?"
"You know if you look at last season's standings."
"Do you mean unbeaten champions Arsenal and second-place Chelsea?"
"That's right. We'll smash Chelsea and Arsenal too."
The reporters buzzed, scribbling down my words. West Ham daring to challenge the Big Three? It was the first real fodder of the season, just two rounds in.
"Your counterattacks were brilliant today, but that defending against Man United's forwards was otherworldly. Especially around the 70th minute—how did you predict Rooney's sneaky chip pass? The slow-mo shows you moving before the ball even left his foot."
"...It's a secret, but actually, back in Korea, I trained under a mystic monk on Jirisan Mountain and learned do-sul sorcery."
"Sorcery!?"
"It's called [Gwang-eum-beop], a sorcery that reads the opponent's mind. I spent five years meditating in a hermitage on Jirisan mastering it. Om mani padme hum~~~ Chant the incantation, and you can pierce anyone's thoughts. Hahaha!"
I laughed heartily like a Taoist master from a '70s Hong Kong kung fu flick. The press room erupted. Reporters of every race chattered in their native tongues, debating how to take it. Words like [Taoist] and [Oriental Magician] floated out.
Of course, I'd never set foot on Jirisan. Gwang-eum-beop was the infamous technique from the drama [King Geon], popularized by the villain Gung Ye. I was flipping Western stereotypes and fantasies of the East to my advantage. One-on-one battles between attackers and defenders are psychological warfare. If this interview made opponents even a bit wary of me, it was a win. Plus, it was a chance to brand my character across Europe.
The next day, my interview dominated the front pages of British sports papers. There were even in-depth pieces on a defender's mind games and Orientalism.
I checked a local email and hit a Korean portal—people were splitting into factions again, fighting it out. Now even non-soccer fans were biting my bait. Back then, Koreans were hypersensitive to how Anglo-American "advanced" folks saw us.
With plenty defending me, I tuned it out.
British TV kept replaying my clash with Roy Keane, him tumbling on the turf. Teasing such a charismatic player was endlessly fun. Post-round two, Man United mockery flooded the press. West Ham's surge got analysis too—ownership change, manager swap, academy trio shining.
Team morale hit peak.
Round three: Momentum carried us to victory. West Ham's marksman Jermain Defoe outgunned Newcastle's Alan Shearer in a goal duel. Extra sweet without Zola on the bench.
Round four: West Ham vs. Chelsea. Media went wild, fanning flames. Zola, Chelsea legend, had dragged them from mediocrity to glory. Back after two years away—in another London side's kit? Betrayal to Blues fans.
Sensing the vibe, Mourinho media-mastered a taunt.
East London exploded. Ghosts, graveyards, coffins—outrageous barbs. Everyone knew what he meant.
"This guy's got a sharp tongue. Could hang with Ferguson."
Sweet-natured Zola gawked at the paper in awe.
"That's just~ bitterness from a no-name player career. Cut him slack with your star pedigree, boss."
"Mourinho's not entirely wrong. Never dreamed I'd return to London when I left Chelsea."
"Not siding with enemy trash talk. You're no ghost, sir."
"Signed the contract knowing this, but facing Chelsea... weighs heavy."
"Boss, no time for sentiment. Chelsea's title favorites this season. Mourinho's key line isn't the front—it's the end."
"The end? 'We're different from Man Utd'?"
"Yep. That's his real jab at us."
I dove into plotting against Zola's Mourinho counter.
Thankfully home soil. Zola at Stamford Bridge in this mood? Brutal. East London's heart, Boleyn Ground, with roaring Hammers support.
Rich West London vs. working-class East, but fanbases didn't split that hard. No major clashes, yet cops stayed vigilant. A Zola-fueled incident could birth another headache London derby.
"Can't create another Dockers Derby."
The infamous West Ham-Millwall feud started from petty squabbles too.
"Different vibe entirely."
Pre-match warmup: Scoped Chelsea players. Mourinho's squad oozed menace—physiques brutal. Gallas, Drogba, John Terry radiated intimidation. If Man Utd was swift cavalry, Chelsea was heavy infantry. Sloppy attacks? Bounced right back.
"Woooooo~!! Ungrateful Judas scum! Get out!"
"Thick-skinned bastards! Thought you'd never show here again!?"
Hammers jeered pre-kickoff. Targets: Academy grads Lampard, Joe Cole, John Terry—the Judas Trio, bathed in abuse. More boardroom blunders than players' fault, but hey, getting booed's part of the paycheck.
"Hey~ Oriental mystic~ You're killing it lately~ Remember when I said you'd make it big in youth team?"
Joe Cole shrugged off boos. Tunnel wait: He sidled up casual amid Mourinho mind games and fan venom.
Chillers like him pack killer instinct.
"Watch out, senpai. Today I'll dissect your mind with gwang-eum-beop."
"Ooh~ Scary~~ Can I learn that too?"
"Oi! Joe Cole! Lineup soon—don't kill the vibe! Quiet!"
"Aigoo~ Another scary one~ Yes sir! Captain John Terry!"
Joe saluted goofily. Terry, new armband post-Desailly's Qatar move, simmered under boos—unlike Cole.
I whispered to Joe: "Ever think of rejoining us?"
"Dude, not here!"
"If you're in, talk to our agency. Senpai belongs here, not Chelsea."
I pointed to the West Ham crest on the floor. Joe faltered first time.
Then:
[Both teams, take the field!]
Chelsea clash one: On. Mourinho showdown too.
Boleyn pitch still thrilled me. Hot dog wafting on breeze, turf scent rising. Roars swelled—whistle pierced.
Peep!