After the Game, Make Sure to Snag the Ball
“Huff. Huff. Huff.”
Zola looked utterly exhausted. He'd spent the entire first half chasing Vieira around.
“Coach, sit out the second half.”
“Huff. Huff. Huff. No way in hell.”
“You're not as young as you used to be. Don't push it.”
“Arsenal's a brilliant opponent. Facing them is too damn fun. I'm in peak form right now. Don't worry about me.”
I glanced at Michael, the assistant coach, who grinned back at me.
“Who could stop the gaffer?”
That was the look on his face. In the end, Zola insisted on playing the second half too.
Beeeep—!
Wenger watched the pitch calmly. No fear, no anxiety. His expression was detached, like a Taoist sage. Arsenal's unbeaten streak might just be thanks to Wenger's composure.
Booooom—!!
Whenever Henry got the ball, our players went into hyper-alert mode. They were terrified he'd pull off another bit of magic.
Kuuung—!
Beeeep—!
Fear led to rough play. Anton and Spencer took turns hacking and hauling Henry down.
“Hey! You bastards! You gonna keep playing dirty like this!?”
“You started it! Piss off, you goatee prick!”
Players from both sides shoved each other, trading insults.
“Boooo—!!”
The crowd's jeers grew louder. While the pitch burned with rage, one man stayed silent. The Iceman. Bergkamp was a man who let his actions speak. He tormented our defense with sly fouls.
Thud—! Whoosh—!
Bergkamp elbowed veteran fullback Rufus in the ribs, slipping into the box while he flinched.
Swoosh—Bergkamp jumped, subtly raising his studs. Any normal defender would flinch instinctively.
Booooom—!
“If you take me down, you'll need to sharpen those studs even more.”
“Hmph. You're playing slightly better soccer than your seniors.”
Bergkamp shot back coldly. He was probably referring to the '98 World Cup, when South Korea got thrashed 5-0 by his Netherlands. Bergkamp had scored in such an infuriating way back then too.
The rough defending paid off early. Henry quieted down, I kept Bergkamp in check, and Arsenal's momentum broke.
“Time to go.”
Thwoooom—!
I dribbled up from deep, and Zola dropped back. This time, Gilberto didn't follow; he stayed level with Vieira. They knew we were targeting their weak two-man midfield now. Instead, Ljungberg and Pires narrowed centrally to press me.
Thwoooooom—!
“I've been waiting for this!”
Carrick ran into the space Ljungberg vacated and took my pass. Then he surged down the flank like a winger. Arsenal fullback Lauren moved to block him.
As Carrick took on Lauren one-on-one, Gilberto rushed over for cover defense. I exploited the space he left. Vieira positioned himself between me and Zola, watching closely.
Booooooom—!
I jumped for a header, clashing with Campbell. But the cross sailed just over our heads.
Thwack—!!
“Aaaargh!”
Zola let out a horrific scream. Vieira had thrown himself in and stamped on Zola's ankle—something was seriously wrong.
Beeeeep—!
“Get out here, you prick!”
I rushed to the scene and shoved Vieira. I wanted to deck him, but I held back. The medical staff checked Zola, and a stretcher came out. The ankle brace suggested it could be a fracture in the worst case.
“You did that on purpose, didn't you!? You bastard!”
“Are you insane!? Who gives away a penalty on purpose!?”
“If anything happens to our coach, you Arsenal scum won't get away clean!”
“What the hell did we do? It was an accident! No different from what you did to Henry!”
“Boooooo—!”
Both teams' players clashed fiercely. Excited fans started hurling coins onto the pitch, and police moved in. The once-friendly Arsenal-West Ham rivalry was spiraling into chaos.
Zola was rushed straight to the hospital and replaced.
“Captain. Let Mark take it.”
“What?”
A brief argument broke out over the penalty. Normally, it was Zola first, Jermain second, me third. But I insisted Mark Noble take it.
“Yeong-ung, I'm fine. I still lack experience.”
“That's why you need to take it, Mark.”
“...”
“Tch. Fine, do what you want.”
Jermain stepped back from his goal greed, listening to me. Zola had handed me command of the team as he was stretchered off.
“Yeong-ung... I...”
“Mark Noble. You can do this. This is your playground.”
There was a reason I was pushing him so hard. In the future, he'd become the Premier League's greatest one-club captain, with an insane penalty success rate. But right now, he was just a rookie. The problem was he accepted that too readily. True to his West Ham one-club-man spirit, he was selfless and diligent. But that left him lacking ambition and boldness. In situations calling for adventure and a touch of selfishness, he was too used to yielding.
“Booooooo—!!”
With Zola's participation now in doubt, we needed someone to take over playmaking. If Mark nailed this penalty, his experience would skyrocket.
Lehmann spread his arms, taunting Mark. Like a punk kid like you could beat a comeback warrior like me?
Mark stood tense in front of the ball. No footballer likes penalties. Nail it, you're even; miss, you're the villain. But every player faces them eventually. Only those who conquer it become elite.
Beeeep—!
Booooooom—!
West Ham players sprinting behind the goal froze in shock.
“You madman! Blasting it straight down the middle like that? Thought my heart was gonna stop!”
“Was gonna go left, but Lehmann read it. So I just went for it.”
“Hahaha! Congrats on your first Prem goal! After the game, make sure to snag the ball.”
“Thanks, senpai.”
Jermain, ever the big man, congratulated his junior.
“It's not over! Stay focused!”
I shouted at our players. I'd seen Arsenal's eyes. Not one had given up.
Booooom—!
Pires whipped in a low, fast cross. Henry controlled it smoothly, shrugged off charging Anton, and fired.
Booooooom—!
“Anton! Shift left.”
In the end, I took marking Henry myself.
“Henry's the type defenders hate.”
Henry roamed freely outside the box, making him tricky to track. Chase too far, and central defense suffers. Leave him be, and he builds speed entering the box, hard to stop.
Pat-pat-pat—! Pop! Pop!
“Woooah!”
I focused every nerve on denying Henry the ball. Blocking every angle frustrated him too.
“You enjoy this crap!?”
“Yeah. Loving every second.”
“You could play at a higher level. This is dog work, not human.”
“Your tongue's hanging out—you getting desperate?”
“My tongue?”
Henry and I traded trash talk amiably while playing tag. I poured every side-step and back-step from years of daily training into it.
Then—
Snap—thud!
In that split-second slip on the wet grass, Henry burst past me.