The Knuckleball's Cruel Miss
"When you shoot at that guy, watch his left foot right before."
"Blood..."
Blood dripped from the gash on his forehead. The match halted as the medical staff rushed in. Drogba looked fine, but Na Yeong-ung's thinner Asian skin had split open compared to the black player's tougher hide—he was the only one bleeding. Red drops stained the green pitch.
They applied a hemostatic agent and wrapped a temporary bandage around his head.
"...Pisses me off."
Adrenaline dulled the pain. All he felt was rage.
Beep! Beep! Beeeep—!
The first half ends 0-0. With the second half still ahead, both teams are racking up injuries. This game's getting way too rough!
Back in the locker room, the assistant coach checked his condition.
"Hero. Can you play the second half?"
"Of course. If you bench me, I'll transfer to another team."
"Don't talk crazy—get proper treatment."
The medical team unwrapped the bandage, treating the wound meticulously.
Zola, who'd been dominated by Makélélé all half, breathed heavily as he huddled with the coaches to plan for the second half.
"Those Chelsea bastards! Their soccer's too damn rough!"
The players gathered, venting in angry voices. Tensions boiled over.
While Manchester United thrived on flashy attacks and defense in slugfests, Chelsea locked down with ironclad guarding and endless stamina, wearing opponents down.
They hadn't landed a single punch this half.
"We're not the type to dominate possession, but this helplessness is new. No gaps to break through."
"Sorry. I should've won those headers..."
Gudjohnsen self-flagellated at Jermain's words. Halftime turned into a grim reflection.
"I'm the sorriest. The game's not clicking because Makélélé's got me pinned. No face as a player, let alone manager."
"True. You're the biggest problem, boss."
"Hero! Don't say it so bluntly—you'll embarrass the gaffer."
"Puhahaha!"
His quip shattered the heavy mood. Serious Gudjohnsen floundered; others laughed; Zola scratched his head.
"Why kill the vibe, guys? It's still 0-0. We're not losing."
"Hero, what's the play? Chelsea came as expected. Knowing it doesn't help pierce their wall."
"Right, boss. That's why I have a new plan."
Not even he knew if it'd work. But surrender wasn't an option.
The second half kicks off. Both teams take the pitch—oh! Change for West Ham. Zola stays on the sideline in his jacket. In comes defender Tomas Repka. Strengthening the backline?
Three at the back, maybe? Leaving Makélélé's No. 10 spot open to bolster defense.
Bandage wrapped around his head, Hero Na stood at the back. Fullbacks flanked him; ahead, Tomas and Anton as center-backs. A five-back or 3-2 double pivot—call it what you want.
"..."
Mourinho tilted his head at West Ham's setup. Chelsea fans jeered Zola on the touchline.
Reeeeng—!
Duff whips in another cross! Drogba vs. Tomas in the air at the goalmouth!
Kwaaaang—! Pababat—!
With Hero Na sidelined by injury, Tomas took the headers. It freed him for second balls and playmaking.
Hero Na snares the loose ball! Robben lunges with a tackle!
"Where?!"
He'd clocked Robben pre-second ball, sidestepping easily. Scooping past the tackle, he dribbled forward.
The deepest defender suddenly midfield—Chelsea panicked.
"That guy's open! Stop him!"
Lampard yelled desperately, but his markers couldn't match Hero Na's pace.
"Hero! Here!"
Carrick and Mark spread wide, invading Makélélé territory. Chelsea's back four and the DM devoured space like a single organism.
Reeeeng—!
He feinted to Mark left, passing right to Carrick.
Kwaaang—!!
But Makélélé couldn't be fooled. Patient as death, he pounced post-pass. Speed justified it.
Beeeep—!
Ref calls foul! Makélélé charging! West Ham gets a free kick in a prime spot!
"Hey! Ref! Are you blind!? That's not a foul!"
Mourinho lost it. For good reason: Hero Na.
Hero Na steps up for the free kick. Chance to sting Chelsea. 28 meters out.
Teammates set the ball, yielding to him. Even Zola, free-kick god, deferred.
Hero Na carefully places it on the turf. Blasted in League Two, but zero in Prem. Facing league's best: Cech.
Slightly right-angled. Near post short with right? Far with curve? Or knuckleball center?
"Stay calm, Hero Na."
Pressure muddled his head—this had to land. In-play breakthroughs against Chelsea? Slim odds.
"Damn frustrating."
Chelsea's wall choked him. Behind: world's top GK, Cech.
"Here goes. One. Two. Three. Four."
Hero Na deep breath, slow run-up.
Puueeeeng—!!
Right foot flat, striking valve with big toe, index, middle—poking, not whipping.
'Nailed it!'
Ball left foot—he knew. Thousands of reps etched the feel.
Arms shot up at the knuckle-floating sphere. Nike mark that vivid? Unstoppable.
Paaaang—!!
Cech! Diving punch save! Knuckle shot repelled! Unbelievable stop!
Unbelievable—eyes saw it, brain rebelled. Cech fluttered like a butterfly, punching the wobbling beast.
Corner earned, but mind blanked. Certainty at impact crushed him.
Teammates hid dismay poorly.
Corner! Cech punches clear! Back-to-back saves! Chelsea counter!
Mourinho pounced. Dormant Robben sliced left flank.
"No!"
Anton and Spencer double-teamed—Robben's cutback fooled them.
Then the unthinkable.
"What the hell?!"
Toooung—!
What!? West Ham GK vacates goal, rushes out! Robben's lob!
Reeeeng—!
Sub GK Alex misjudged, dashing prematurely. Robben lofted over. Drogba tapped empty net.
"Goooal~! Wooaaah~~! Drogba! Drogba!"
21st minute second half. Hard-earned clean sheet shattered pointlessly.
As Drogba celebrated, Alex and Tomas argued. Fellow Czechs.
"What insanity! Aleksandar! You blew the game!"
"Long layoff! Who expected me today? And me alone? You lost Drogba—that's the goal! Who you yelling?!"
"Shameless prick!"
"Hey, hey! Calm down! No fighting! Unlucky mishap—no one's fault."
Hero Na intervened; crabby Tomas grumbled. Alex scratched thinning gray hair, sighing.
"Hero. Own my mistake. But put yourself in my shoes. Last season: three apps, one sub. How maintain match sharpness? I'm human, not machine. Need time to regain feel. Ah~ Why'd James get hurt now, dumping this on me."
"..."
What a guy. Brazen, weirdly serene.
Alex: veteran Czech nearing retirement, East London lover. Decade in England, settled London post-career. Married Brit, opened West Ham in Prague pub near Boleyn Ground.
"Love all London offers. Except ale. Prague boy—can't call that murky swill beer."
Sold Pilsner Urquell draft, Czech grub. Word-of-mouth fame among Hammers.
Team called him Pub Boss. All-in on biz, half-out on pitch.
Then, out of nowhere:
"Cech. Great GK, but green. Chickling~"
"Pardon?"
Cech: Alex's Czech NT heir apparent. Ten years younger.
"For real! Taught him middle school. Still hasn't fixed that habit. Told him to..."
Hero Na eyed Cech opposite. If no bluff, chance lingered.
15 minutes left. Needed another free kick.
Beeeep—!
Down 1-0, West Ham counters!