Those Who Must Fall Will Fall
“Get your arm off! You Russian mafia goon!”
“Let go! You cocky Chinese prick!”
Thwack! Smack! Thud!
I was trading affectionate curses with Drogba right in front of the goal, locked in a fierce physical battle. Grabbing jerseys, jabbing with elbows, shoving with shoulders... But then.
Galás's cross didn't fly toward us.
“Damn it!”
Reeeeer! !!
Screeeech—!
Lampard rifled in the cross with a non-stop volley. The shot was so ferocious the net shook like it might tear.
“Raaaaah!!”
Lampard bellowed at the West Ham fans. His father was a West Ham legend, and he'd been a die-hard Hammers fan since childhood.
But when Lampard made the West Ham first team at a young age, some fans started whispering.
“Daddy's boy got in on nepotism.”
That label stuck to him. Especially after a poor debut season, the jeers from some West Ham supporters grew vicious.
In the end, Lampard shed the West Ham shirt he'd idolized as a kid, crossed to west London, and donned the blue of Chelsea. And he achieved stunning success.
Beep! Beep! Beeeeep—!
And so my first Stamford Bridge outing ended in humiliating defeat.
The Chelsea loss snapped our momentum. We staggered into Boxing Day on December 26 amid chaos.
In four games over 11 days, West Ham scraped just one point. We plummeted to 11th.
The Chelsea game was pivotal. Opponents started with intense high presses to disrupt my build-up, triple-teaming Carrick in midfield. With build-up choked, West Ham's attack ground to a halt. Mark hustled alone in midfield, Gudjohnsen dropped deep to help carry the ball, but it wasn't enough.
“The problem's the flanks.”
Teams could isolate me and Carrick because our wide resources were weak. Scottish right-back Spencer boasted donkey dribbles and pace slower than center-back Anton, while veteran left-back Repka faced retirement next year.
Amid the struggles, our lifeline arrived. A month-long silent war began. Winter windows are far fiercer than summer—mid-season, desperate teams fight for turnarounds. Outcomes decide rebounds, collapses, even relegation. It's where directors prove their worth.
“You know what I'm talking about, right?”
“Of course. Same page. I've got my special list ready—get excited.”
I was chatting with Paul at the P&J Sports Agency office in Upton Park. While James handled manager duties in London, Paul scoured Britain for agent signings—England, Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, Ireland, every corner.
I'd hammered home full-back reinforcements; Paul agreed. He'd negotiate with West Ham's director during the window. With mates still inside the club, he could gauge internal vibes and plans.
“Paul-hyung handles full-backs. That leaves just Pennant.”
James spearheaded Jermain Pennant's deal—between Pennant, his agent Andrew, Arsenal, and West Ham.
“Yeong-ung. But Pennant... can we trust that guy? I've unearthed promising wingers from lower leagues. Maybe focus there instead.”
“Snagging potential talents matters. But this winter's key is instant-impact stars. Not potential—players who sign tomorrow and start Saturday with us. If he doesn't make the difference, West Ham's second half...”
I trailed off. No need for negativity. But the situation was dire. First promoted season, everyone overplayed. No starter was injury-free. Thin squad, huge starter-bench gap—no rotation possible. We'd limp to season's end with fatigued regulars and winter signings.
Goal: fourth place. Champions League spot.
Desperation? We botched the game, crushed by Villa. I'd played the FA Cup Norwich tie three days prior, lost a toenail, so skipped Villa, resting at Emma's house. From the living room sofa, I watched our defeat on TV, then headed upstairs, fired up the computer, and hit a Korean portal.
“What a mess.”
Results and online sentiment—pure science. Sick of the bullshit, I closed the news tab and checked mail. A musical letter from back home.
Opening it, soothing bossa nova flowed out.
Antonio Carlos Jobim – The Girl from Ipanema
Yeong-ung oppa. You doing okay? Saw your injury in the early morning replay and screamed without thinking. You alright? Granny's worried sick too... Lately I've been hooked on English. Never tried hard in school, but meeting you made me wanna get good. Your interviews fire me up... You're too cool. *^*^ I'm also into cooking now... Dreaming of culinary school abroad, working at a world-famous restaurant...
I chuckled reading her letter. Her bright energy reached across the globe via the internet.
And suddenly, I missed her. Wanted to hold her hand, stroke her pale cheek. First time feeling this lonely in England. Soccer success had left no room for it.
Suppressing the surge, I started replying, then went to shut down.
But a breaking story topped a UK sports site.
Phone rang.
Ring-ring— ring-ring— ring-ring—
James, sounding frantic.
“Yeong-ung! Seen the news!?”
“Looking now. What the hell happened?”
“No clue.”
“What?”
I'd trusted James with Pennant's process. Him clueless? I seethed but held it.
“Negotiations with West Ham were smooth till yesterday. This morning, no calls—then this hits. Andrew and Pennant ignoring me.”
“...Hold up, James. Calm down.”
I pondered. In original history, Pennant bounced clubs causing trouble, landing at Liverpool. Decent spell there, peak for him—though underwhelming vs hype. Became journeyman post-Liverpool.
Pennant drawn to Liverpool instinctively? Used us as leverage for better terms? Then what about those tears at the Korean restaurant?
“Wait.”
Click-click—
Scanning articles. Other papers too.
Conclusion:
“No photos of Pennant in Liverpool kit. Too early to judge. Arsenal might be stirring shit.”
“Arsenal... no way...”
Then.
Ring-ring— ring-ring— ring-ring—
Hold music in the receiver.
“Uh... this call...”