Did I Pass the Test?
“Tch.”
My killer left-footed mid-range shot sailed just over the crossbar. Still, it had the desired effect. The opposing players were startled by my powerful shot and started marking me tightly.
“Good power, but accuracy needs work.”
“If it had been a real goalpost, that would've been a top-corner rocket.”
Tony Coach corrected Oliver's assessment.
“Mark him! Stick tight!”
Having confirmed my mid-range shooting power, the opponents no longer left the center open. I kept shouting in Korean to rally my teammates. Astonishingly, these guys who couldn't possibly understand Korean stuck to the opposition just as I directed.
Pa-at! I watched from behind, then timed my run perfectly to steal the ball. From there, I fired a forward pass to the opposite flank.
Pheeeong!
“Ahh!”
The Spanish boy on the left flank failed to control the low, fast pass.
“The pass was too hard and quick.”
“No, Oliver. Emmy was late. Hero's timing was spot on. If he'd taken it, the left channel would've opened up.”
Tony watched Hero Na's play and offered instant analysis and breakdown.
“Damn it!”
Pheeeong!
Frustrated by our coordinated defending that shut down their breakthroughs, an opponent unleashed a mid-range shot.
Paak! I cushioned the fiercely struck shot with the sole of my foot, letting it drop low.
Thud. The key was relaxing the ankle the instant the ball touched my sole. Gasps of admiration erupted at my silky tofu trap.
Pheeeong!
“Ahh!”
This time, I whipped a forward pass with my left foot to the right flank. The Brazilian boy, caught off guard, chased late but only nicked it out for a throw-in. Seeing his apologetic face, I gave him a thumbs-up.
“Hmm...”
The coaches scored every little move I made on their clipboards. I'd already forgotten they were there.
Fun. I wanna play real soccer here ASAP.
Back in Korea, aspiring soccer players barely stepped on grass a handful of times a year. Most training was on dusty dirt pitches. After games, you'd hack up black phlegm from all the dust. Even "grass" fields were usually artificial turf, where slides left burns on your thighs. I had scars to prove it.
Compared to that, this place was soccer heaven. Stomping the smooth green grass, kicking and running—it was pure bliss in itself. The London turf suited me; the ball stuck like glue to my feet.
“You little pest!”
Thud!
As the scoreless stalemate dragged on, the upperclassmen got rough, their pride stung. Shoving the Brazilian boy with his hands, a burly blond striker barreled into our half.
'!'
The big guy dribbled, swaying his upper body side to side. I didn't bite, eyes locked on the ball. Then I spotted his thigh muscles shifting left.
Paaak!
“He stole it!”
I stretched my left leg to nick the ball, shouldering off the challenger. He grabbed my jersey in response.
Paat! I swung my right arm to shake him off and surged forward.
“Where you going!”
Paaat! A central opponent lunged like a hyena for the gap. I feinted left, then stabbed a diagonal forward pass right.
Pheeeong!
Chak! The Brazilian boy had adapted; he took it cleanly this time.
“Run!”
With my shout, he bolted. Dribbling his small frame like a swallow darting through, he sliced into their box and slotted home.
“Goooal~!”
The Brazilian boy beamed innocently as he ran to me. We were like man and boy in height difference. We high-fived, sharing the joy.
“What a goal!”
“...These punks.”
The upperclassmen were fuming now, their pale faces flushed red. Things were about to get even rougher.
Piiiik!
As play resumed, the upperclassmen bullied us with physicality, trying to crush our spirits with dirty play. It worked. The Nordic boy up top and the Spanish left-sider slowed down. Meanwhile, the Brazilian on the right was buzzing—classic South American mood player.
"Then they'll come left."
Predictable. They targeted our weakened left. The Spanish boy cowered, barely challenging.
Chwaaaak!
I read their path and slid in with a perfect tackle. Springing up, I chewed out the Spanish boy.
“You're a soccer player just like them! Don't wimp out!”
Tok-tok. I vented in Korean, smacking his butt encouragingly. He flushed beet red, flustered, but soon gritted his teeth—his movement sharpened instantly.
“What are you lot doing!? Can't break one little Asian kid?”
“Shut it. After eating a goal.”
The upperclassmen bickered among themselves. From the back, I caught the Brazilian's eye as their teamwork crumbled.
“Incoming!”
This time, three formed an inverted triangle, probing with triangles passes to pierce me. I positioned myself at the center. My insane step training paid off—I pivoted on a dime with fine footwork.
Pababat! Paat! I blocked one passing lane, then flung myself to intercept the other. Then I drove forward dribbling. Midfield was wide open.
“Stop that Asian guy!”
Paaang! I dragged them in deep before passing to the Brazilian. And kept pushing.
Paaaaang! He one-touched it back. I smashed the rolling ball with my right foot.
Pheeeeoong!
No feel—like swinging at air. That meant...
“Pure strike!”
Chrrrruk. My mid-ranger ripped across the green turf into the net. Instinctively, I threw my right arm skyward—a habit from thousands of reps over the past six months.
Clap-clap-clap-clap.
Turning at the applause, holy crap—there was that man.
“Tony Cascarino Coach?”
“Congratulations on joining West Ham, Player Na Yeong-woong.”
“Pardon?”
The other coaches looked baffled at Tony's words. The mini-game halted; everyone awaited his explanation.
“Joining... so I passed the test?”
“Yeah. You passed.”
“I heard the test lasts several days.”
“Normally, yes. But everyone saw it, right? Anyone think this Korean boy shouldn't join our team?”
The upperclassmen who'd played me shook their heads.
“...No one.”
“That kid's the real deal.”
“How old are you? Can't tell with Asians.”
“15.”
“What!?”
They gasped at my age. Korean age 16, full 15. Even by European standards, few my age packed this frame.
“Son... what are they saying?”
Dad asked cautiously as the mood turned weird. I hugged him tight.
“I passed, Dad. Joined West Ham.”
“Really!?”
“Yeah. Official youth player now.”
“What'd I tell ya! Haha, well done! My boy! But no time for this.”
Dad bowed deeply to Tony and the coaches in thanks. They blinked at the Eastern formality.
The warm atmosphere wrapped up the session, and we headed to the office.
“Player Na Yeong-woong has set the record for fastest youth academy acceptance in test history.”
“Really? Who held the previous one?”
“Joe Cole.”
The staff's attitude flipped 180 degrees. Pre-test, they treated me like a tourist; now, family. I felt how Brits viewed clubs—like workplaces, tribal societies. I was now part of the West Ham tribe.
“Why shout instructions in Korean earlier? No teammate understood.”
“English wasn't working anyway. Wanted to convey my raw emotions directly.”
“How'll you communicate with teammates going forward?”
“No need for me to speak every language. Soccer is a language. A single pass carries plenty of message.”
“Hmph. We'll see.”
Tony then grilled me on the finer intentions behind my in-game choices—unheard of back home.
“Alright~ Smile! Photo time. Say cheeese!”
Click!
I posed in my first official West Ham youth kit. Not with the first-team director or owner, but meaningful to me. Proof my late-life soccer theory studies weren't wasted, and six months of training paid off.
My London life had begun.