You're Sitting on a Goldmine
“What do you want me to do about it?”
I'd learned posh London English from my English teacher James Grant—the kind refined folks around here use. People from other parts of England thought my London accent was pretentious as hell. On the flip side, I struggled to understand accents from elsewhere, especially up north. Liverpool and Newcastle dialects were brutal.
“Got an email from back home.”
Back in London, I opened my inbox and found a welcome surprise. It was a musical email with Jeju Island's Blue Night by Sung Si-kyung playing softly in the background.
Hyunji said she never missed my games. Thanks to that, she'd gotten hooked on soccer—researching books, rules, and history. When I told her to try playing on the field herself, she claimed her motor skills were trash.
“Let's see... Time to check the internet reactions~~”
Click-click. Way more relaxed than at the start of the season, I browsed Korean sports news and comments.
The articles and comments were pure praise. Online, I was the pride of Korea—the nation's baby boy. Unlike the season's start, there wasn't a single negative comment. It was almost eerie.
The soccer communities were worshipping me. Half the board used to trash-talk that I'd never hack it in the top flight—they'd all vanished. Those types would slink back if I slumped.
My fan cafe was even running a petition drive. Talk about pressure. Truth was, I'd cut off all KFA and media requests from Korea via the club. The current Korean NT was led by third-rate coach Jo Bonfrere—I knew he'd get booted eventually. No point wasting energy on that mess.
“My NT timing is after the Asian final qualifiers.”
Aside from the 2006 Germany World Cup, I had zero plans for other internationals. Better to grind extra Premier League games than fly back for meaningless friendlies. It was good for me and the future NT. Plus, with my middle school dropout status in Korea, I was exempt from military— no Olympics or Asian Games needed.
“Feels like the KFA's about to stir.”
Public pressure was mounting on them. That smug exec I'd met in Korea popped into mind—Park Jae-yoon, youth development head? Probably some higher-up would visit London soon.
“Yeong-woong. A Korean guy's at the club office wanting to meet you.”
A few days later, it wasn't KFA—it was someone else.
“Nice to meet you, Na Yeong-woong. I'm Choi Jong-gun, team leader at Oseong Planning's UK branch.”
Choi was slick, like a sales pro. He'd come straight to the office to wait. A formal request? I'd have ignored it. But this? Had to give him props.
“What brings you to me?”
“Haha! As a fellow Korean working in London, meeting you is everyone's dream, right?”
“Doubt it.”
“Koreans in the UK are bursting with pride thanks to you. National brand's skyrocketed. Everyone asks if I know you—total chaos.”
“For real?”
“Swear! Haha.”
Unlike that KFA jerk Park Jae-yoon, Choi buttered me up smoothly, building rapport. Oseong Planning handled ads for Korea's top conglomerate, Oseong Group. UK branch team lead? Elite status.
“Of course, I'm here on company business, not personal.”
“Oseong business?”
“Na Yeong-woong. Let's make big waves in the UK, us Koreans together.”
Choi grinned confidently.
You're sitting on a goldmine right now, man.
We talked in the meeting room for ages.
“...So, Oseong Group wants to sponsor me and the club?”
“Exactly. Partner with us to plant a new Korean image across Europe. You'll be the face of it.”
“Ambitious.”
“No exaggeration. Premier League's set to be the world's top sports brand. An Asian starring there—and Korean? Massive symbolism. Europe to all Asia.”
“...Got it. Let's proceed. But contact here, not the club.”
I handed him my card.
P&J Sports Agency
Na Yeong-woong, CEO
Choi's eyes bugged out, staring between the card and me.
“You're running a company like this?”
“I invested. Friends handle ops. They manage my image rights and ads. Work with my staff on projects.”
“Ah... sure.”
“Cool. Later.”
I left him in the room. He'd been polite, but probably figured he could steamroll a kid in business. Not malicious—just sizing up. I'd planted seeds that I was no pushover. Prime position for the real contract.
I called Paul and James with the news.
“Whoa, Yeong-woong! Huge business incoming!”
“Don't jump ahead. No formal offer yet. Deal size depends on my form.”
“They approached first. Massive.”
“Just the start. Leverage it for UK firms too, not just Korean.”
“Damn... didn't think of that. You're a sly one.”
“Expect their call tomorrow. Prep now.”
“Got it!”
Click. Whistling home, everything clicked post-Anfield. I hit my first Premier League December.
R16: Fulham 0-2 Win
R17: Bolton 0-1 Win
Post-Anfield, West Ham surged. Rallying around new skipper Michael Carrick, we notched three straight wins with killer form. Carrick owned the #10 role Gerrard used to, with insane work rate. Most #10s jog centrally; he hustled like a terrier, threading perfect progressive passes.
Carrick's #10 play fed Jermain Defoe perfectly. He snapped his slump with goals in three straight.
But then...
Boxing Day eve: Top-table Chelsea away. We'd scraped a dramatic home draw before. Mourinho had ripped the ref, vowing revenge at Stamford Bridge. Post-match, West Ham and Chelsea hooligans brawled on Green Street.
Mourinho spewed venom pre-match. Zola, facing hostile questions, replied coolly:
Chelsea fans split: forgivers vs. traitors. Endless online wars. West Ham fans fired up too. Hardcore hooligans plotted like mercenaries sieging the Bridge. Bloodshed loomed in west London.
“Why so jittery for the neighbors?”
Match day morning. Breakfast and warm-up at training ground, then bus to west London. Zola stared out the window, stone-faced.
“Nervous, boss?”
I asked from the seat beside him.