It Seems the Captain's Armband Worked Some Magic
"One, two, three, four."
He gently placed the ball on the grass and stepped back four paces. He checked the defensive wall and goalkeeper's position just once, then erased them from his mind. What mattered was the plant foot and the ball's spin. If it rotated exactly as he'd envisioned, no one could stop it.
Beep—! When the referee's whistle blew, he made his final decision on how to strike it. Left foot, right foot, knuckleball, topspin, backspin, far post, near post, high, low, or a grounder? Once his mind was set, he took the first step.
Snap— With the precise stride of thousands of practice reps, he shifted his weight evenly, gathering power at the tip of his foot.
Boooom—!
"Got it!" He confirmed the crisp Nike logo spinning on the soccer ball and clenched his fist tight.
Whoosh—!
Na Yeong-ung sprinted toward the Spion Kop stand, packed with Liverpool's most die-hard Kop faithful, and pressed a finger to his lips. They'd hurled every curse and racial slur at him all game—now it was time to shut up. Coins rained down from all sides. He bowed gracefully like a magician, a smile on his face.
Beep—! Play resumed. The Hammers roared with momentum, but the Kop's noise drowned them out. The energy from the Anfield crowd was downright terrifying. Riding the storm of cheers, Liverpool's players charged.
"Right side! Don't push too far up! Just disrupt the crosses!" Harry Kewell taunted from the flank, but Na Yeong-ung knew they'd target the center eventually. But...
"No!"
Booom—! Kewell cut inside, dragging Anton with him before slipping a pass through the center. Gerrard had ghosted in and unleashed a shot.
Booooom—!!
"Everyone focus! Anyone who gets burned by Gerrard again today won't hear the end of it from me!" Carrick bellowed at his teammates. He never made tackles that rough or raised his voice like that, so the West Ham players snapped to attention in shock.
"Looks like the captain's armband worked some magic."
"I'll surpass you someday, Captain Gerrard."
"Like hell you will!"
Thud! Whoosh—! On the ensuing corner, Na Yeong-ung traded friendly trash talk with Gerrard while jostling for position. Gerrard was shorter and lighter, but built like a tank—he didn't budge. So Na Yeong-ung spun away and leaped for the aerial duel.
Booom—! Hyypiä, the towering Finnish center-back and the only Liverpool player taller than Na Yeong-ung, contested fiercely. But Na Yeong-ung used his speed and leap to win the header duel despite the height disadvantage.
In West Ham's counterattacks, Jermain over-dribbled recklessly and lost possession repeatedly.
"Jermain! You're not Maradona! Get your head in the game!"
"Damn it! Then pass it forward more! Quit imitating fake Gerrard!"
"Fake Gerrard?"
Carrick's quip set Jermain off. Gerrard, passing by, chimed in to Carrick. "Fake Gerrard? Am I that ugly?"
"What! You bastard!?"
All three were around the same age, so they bickered like kids.
"Oooohhh!"
No. 9: the box predator who scores. No. 10: the playmaker who drives forward, creates chances with dribbles and key passes.
West Ham's Mark Noble and Michael Carrick would become Premier League legends together someday—top-tier midfielders. Their shared flaw? Overshadowed in the England national team by contemporaries Gerrard, Lampard, and Scholes. They were the most dedicated, did the dirty work, ran the most—but that very selflessness ironically undervalued them.
So Na Yeong-ung piled on challenges, forcing their growth. In this life, Mark and Carrick would be England's core.
"Captain. Leave the back to me and push up to where Coach Zola used to stand. You need to unlock the attack."
"Me...?"
"Become Maradona for a bit. You played No. 10 in youth, right?"
"Yeah, but I've never done it pro, and our backline's shaky..."
"Trust me. Go up. We'll handle the grunt work—unleash your creativity."
Tap-tap— Na Yeong-ung patted Carrick's butt, sending him forward. He glanced at Zola on the sideline. The manager grinned, stroking his chin with his left hand—an Italian gesture meaning, I'm good. Won't complain.
"Oooohhh!"
70th minute. Na Yeong-ung moved into defensive midfield. They switched to a back four, with him anchoring it. On the other side, Xabi Alonso screened and marked Carrick. Na Yeong-ung's target: Gerrard.
Gerrard's cannons dwarfed threats from Garcia or Nuñez. Plus, Na Yeong-ung higher up enabled faster counters.
Thud-thud— Garcia handled the ball with Spanish finesse. But veteran Czech Tomas Repka knew English football inside out. An old British axiom: Technique crumbles to physicality.
Kaboom—!!
"Yeong-ung! Go!" The moment Repka stole the ball and turned, Na Yeong-ung was off. His pass flew as Gerrard sprinted from the opposite flank. They collided like derailed trains.
Thud! Kaboom!!
Booooom—! Carrick nutmegged Alonso and burst into the Liverpool box. He feinted the onrushing keeper, then slotted to Jermain on the opposite side.
Booooom—! Whoosh—!
Jermain struck at an open goal, but Finland's ice wall Hyypiä flung his lanky frame into a sliding tackle, deflecting it.
"Arrrghhh!"
Unbelievable, even seeing it. Heading to the corner setup, Gerrard—the guy he'd collided with—chased him down.
"You bastard! You baited me into falling!"
"Referees must like you. Should've been a card, right?"
"Shut up, you sly prick."
Na Yeong-ung had deliberately crashed into Gerrard—to open space for Mark. In the collision, he'd toed the ball left to Mark.
Snap—
"Ow! Liverpool got a girl in the box? Why keep pinching?!" Waiting at the far post, Gerrard and Hyypiä shoved and pulled him, so he yelled to the ref.
"Who pinched you!? Keep making shit up!"
Gerrard bristled at "girl."
Perfect. Hooked!
Swoosh—! Na Yeong-ung slipped free on Gerrard's flare-up, darting to the near post. Hyypiä's reflexes lagged; Gerrard was a half-beat late.
Booooom—! Liverpool players leaped to block the angle. But...
Na Yeong-ung wasn't going for a header goal.
Swoop— Booooom—!! Riiiip— The ball ripped like it was exploding behind him, followed by the satisfying shake of the net.
"Yeong-ung-ah~!"
Turning, he saw Jermain—the happiest man alive—rushing over after smashing in Na Yeong-ung's header assist. As expected, lanky Hyypiä couldn't react to Jermain. Dragging Gerrard far post was key.
That goal decided it. Liverpool poured forward for an equalizer, but West Ham dropped to a five-back and held firm for the win.
Beep! Beep! Beep—!
"Anfield's a fantastic place. Captain Gerrard was brilliant too. Hard to understand a word he said, though."
Named MOTM with 1 goal and 1 assist, Na Yeong-ung didn't forget to troll Gerrard's thick Scouse accent in the post-match interview. After it aired, Liverpool fans hated him even more.
"That smug Oriental prick with his posh British accent."