Tofu Purification Ritual

The chef brought out the kimchi.

"This place is..."

The spot where I'd called Pennant and Andrew was Ujeong Restaurant, a Korean eatery in London. It was just about the only authentic Korean joint in East London, and there was a good reason I'd dragged Pennant here specifically.

"A Korean restaurant? You're treating us to dinner? We've never tried Korean food before."

"You'll love it."

Andrew and Pennant scanned the restaurant interior with tense expressions. They averted their eyes from the Hahoe masks and gaksi masks, looking spooked. On the opposite wall hung a framed photo of me with the owner, along ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a West Ham jersey bearing my signature.

After setting up my agency, I'd deliberately scouted this nearby Korean restaurant and built a rapport with the owner. Whenever I needed to entertain, this was my go-to. The vibe was relaxed, and it let Korean stories flow naturally.

"Why so tense?"

Back in 2004, Korean culture was still alien in Europe. Music, movies, dramas, fashion, food... nothing had broken through, and no one cared. Korean cuisine especially suffered from massive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠misconceptions.

The "famous" Korean dish Europeans knew was kimchi... and...

"No way. You think I'm gonna make you eat dog meat or something?"

"Ah... of course not, right?"

"Obviously. I've never touched the stuff in my life. In modern Korea, dog meat isn't mainstream. What the hell, man. Ridiculous."

Radical activists' propaganda had badly warped Europeans' views of Korean food culture.

A moment later, real Korean dishes started arriving, shattering the two Brits' prejudices.

"Ooh, that meat smells amazing."

"I thought all Korean food was spicy like kimchi, but nope."

They fumbled with chopsticks over soy marinated bulgogi, spicy pork stir-fry, braised short ribs, and stone pot bibimbap. Fascinated by the sizzling stone pots, they poked and prodded them in awe. It was a hefty spread, but they polished off every last bite.

"Korean food is killer! I love it."

"I've been to Japanese places, but Korean's a first. So generous—I prefer this."

Nothing builds goodwill like stuffing someone with delicious food.

With the mood nicely warmed up, I signaled the Korean chef. He emerged with the dish I'd requested on a white plate.

Pennant and Andrew's eyes went wide.

"What's this white stuff?"

"Milk pudding?"

"It's tofu. Made from soybeans."

The pristine, square block of tofu hit the table.

"In Korea, there's a custom of feeding tofu to people who've just gotten out of prison. It means 'stay pure like this tofu—don't get tangled in dirty business again.' Kinda like absolution in confession for Christians."

"Ah..."

"Jermain Pennant. You had a rough one today. Hope you never go through that again."

I took a knife from the chef and sliced off a piece, handing it to Pennant. He accepted it like he was entranced and popped it in his mouth.

Clap—clap—clap—clap—

James suddenly started applauding out of nowhere. Andrew and I joined in, and soon the restaurant staff crowded around, clapping too.

I hadn't planned that. But then...

Something even more unexpected happened. Pennant, mid-bite of tofu, teared up in emotion. He leaned on Andrew’s shoulder, sobbing for a while before saying,

"I've never gotten a welcome like this since coming to London. Thank you so much—and I'm sorry. I'll never forget today. Thanks, Hero."

I flashed a subtle smile, locking eyes with him in silent camaraderie.

Recruitment: nearly complete.

With the tearful purification rite over, the chef brought out the kimchi. House-made, perfectly fermented—not the heavy southern seasoned kind, but crisp, clean Seoul-style cabbage kimchi.

"Try wrapping it in tofu like this. It's next level."

I demonstrated. James, with his Korean wife experience, nailed it effortlessly with his chopsticks. The two Brits followed suit, grinning like kids.

A round of house makgeolli sealed it—we were like old pals now.

"Straight talk: I think our team needs you, Pennant. And for your career, West Ham's the best move. But not everyone's thrilled. Because of your past. I get there's unfair bits, but the public doesn't care about nuance. You know that."

"..."

Pennant scratched his head. Yesterday's brawl? Started when he shoved paparazzi flashing cameras in his face. Sure, he'd been boozing with girls all night, but still.

"I'll push the club as hard as I can. I wanna play with you. Show some commitment too. Make today memorable. Great meeting you both."

"Thanks for the awesome spot, Hero. And that purification for our Pennant—I'll remember it."

We wrapped up and headed back to the office. What Pennant and Andrew decide in the winter window? Who knows.

But.

"I've done what I can. Time to focus on matches."

"Good work, Hero. You'd kill it in business too."

"Why the claps, though?"

"Too ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠much?"

"Nah, perfect. That troublemaker Pennant cried. Those claps were the knockout punch."

"From what you said, yeah... Joining Arsenal at that age? Worst mistake ever."

"Right?"

James had softened after hearing Pennant's story. Grew up in a Midlands slum—no mom in the picture, dad a lifelong crook in and out of jail. Kid hits a top pro club young, swimming in cash and fame. Scammers and sycophants swarm. No solid English senior to steady him.

Doesn't excuse everything, but letting that talent rot? Waste.

And we needed it. I was betting West Ham's future on him.

After that, West Ham repeated a 1-win-1-draw-1-loss cycle through Round 14, dropping to 6th.

Beat top teams, bizarrely lost to bottom feeders—inconsistent as hell.

Culprit: Krejcik.

Worked against aggressive sides—my forward passes, Defoe's counters. But defensive teams? Nada. Needed a dribbler to break ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠deep lines.

While we slipped to 6th, the teams we'd smacked early—Man Utd, Arsenal, Chelsea—climbed to 1st, 2nd, 3rd together.

Zola, in an ankle brace on the sideline, tried managing. No dice.

Normally, assistant set base tactics; Zola ran on-pitch, tweaking on the fly. That instant command fueled our hot start.

Now? Impossible. Pitch-side vs field? Night and day.

"Gotta fix this before Boxing Day."

Winter window after. Needed command structure sorted for second-half surge.

I told Zola the issue.

"Thanks for the honesty, Hero. I'll handle it. You focus on games."

"Got it, boss."

Zola swapped captain from Defoe to Michael Carrick.

Tabloids went nuts with nonsense. Luckily, Defoe seemed relieved over pissed.

Goal drought stressing him—no bandwidth for captaincy.

Carrick, new skipper? Transformed. Bolder, leading locker room, caring for teammates.

Heh. Nailed it.

Two reasons I picked Carrick: First, for him. Northeast England slum kid. London? Not home, not comfy. Geordie accent? Tease bait.

Armband fixed that—unleashed his hidden confidence. Good player now? Could be elite.

Second: For Pennant. Needed solid English senior for the non-London lad. Carrick's steady hand would ground him.

"Alright. Just ease our striker Defoe's mind now?"

Round 15: 4th-place Liverpool. Neck-and-neck for Champs League spots.

New captain in tow, off to Anfield.

Anfield, packed with 50,000, boiled pre-kickoff. Over a century of Liverpool glory, falls, joy, sorrow—eerie aura hung heavy.

"No joke."

Warming up on pitch, goosebumps everywhere. Blood-red stands crushed in; emotions surged, throat tight.

Restless spirits from disasters? Or champs' echoes lifting trophies?

"One thing's sure. We're here to win."

Fired up, I strode onto Anfield's turf.