The Boys Are Back in Town!
“Hold on. Who's calling... Oh! Yeong-ung! It's a call from Agent Andrew! I gotta take this. Hang up for now.”
“Sure thing. Heh.”
I chuckled as I ended the call. Moments later, my phone rang—James.
“Yeong-ung! I'm heading to the West Ham office right now! Pennant and Andrew are on their way too! We're signing the contract today!”
“Good work, James.”
“Jermain Pennant is joining West Ham! Wow!”
As it turned out, just as I'd predicted, Agent Andrew had been in a marathon negotiation session at Arsenal's director's office from that morning until now. Arsenal's firm policy was [No transfers to other London clubs]. But Pennant himself was so desperate for the West Ham move that he staked his entire career on it. Arsenal tried a last-ditch media play, even spreading fake news of a confirmed Liverpool transfer, but they couldn't break Pennant's resolve.
That night, Jermain Pennant beaming in his West Ham kit graced the front page of every sports paper. West Ham fans were split—70% wary, 30% welcoming.
At his West Ham signing press conference, Jermain Pennant stirred buzz by saying, “I chose West Ham because I want to play alongside Na Yeong-ung. He's a really good friend.” Rumors even spread that Pennant and I were out prowling London's nightlife together. I caught flak for stuff I never did. Guess Britain's got its share of self-righteous pricks too.
Pennant arrived at West Ham's training ground the next day amid massive hype. We greeted him with a warm, prepared welcome. Creating a family vibe unlike Arsenal's was key. I assigned Michael Carrick and Mark Noble as his “big brothers”—England's model young gentlemen.
Carrick and Mark were the first to greet Pennant every training session, then took him home after to meet their families and share meals.
“How can two London clubs feel so different? It's unreal.”
“Like East London?”
“Yeah. First time I've felt at ease since coming to London. I want to play here with these teammates for a long time.”
After official sessions, Pennant joined my extra personal training. Anton, Mark, and I had been grinding this program since youth academy days. It was brutal sometimes—hurt match fitness and stamina short-term—but built skills massively long-term.
“You guys train like maniacs.”
Pennant was stunned after his first session with us. He'd coasted on raw talent, never pushing his limits.
“We've all got goals. Won't stop personal training till we hit 'em.”
“Like what?”
“Anton's surpassing his brother Rio. Mark's winning trophies with West Ham. Me? Becoming the world's best defender.”
“Whoa... ambitious.”
“Welcome to West Ham~ Pew pew~~”
Anton mimed shooting Pennant. They clicked instantly—fellow English Caribbeans. Loved dancing and singing, livened up training. With Pennant around, Anton's voice got louder. He didn't gel with haughty Jermain Defoe or the mild-mannered white English lads. Pennant was a breath of fresh air.
“Didn't see this side effect coming.”
Anton's weak link vs. Rio was mentality—shrinking in games, losing confidence. But with a buddy, he was barking more in training, playing bolder.
[EPL 04-05 Season, Round 24: Everton vs. West Ham]
We'd bolstered with winter transfers and headed to Liverpool for a crucial clash with Everton. They sat 4th, battling 5th-placed Liverpool for Champions League spots. Winless West Ham, eyeing 4th, needed this away victory to spark a second-half surge.
But chaos erupted on the bus north from London.
Dudududung~ Dung dung! Zwang! Zwang! Zwang!
“Kyaaah~ Can't stop the screams~~ I'm headed for the gallows~~”
Iron Maiden blasted as always on the away bus. Their leader Steve Harris, a West Ham youth product and diehard Hammer, made them the club's official rock band. Amid the racket, a headphone-clad Irishman with a scowl bolted up and stormed the driver's seat.
“Who's that guy?”
“New from the Irish league. George Shor, right?”
“Ah~ Irish~ League~~”
West Ham players openly mocked him. The Irish league—League of Ireland Premier Division—was bottom-tier. Talented Irish kids got scouted by EPL youth teams. Failures trickled to Championship, Scotland, then Ireland. Common knowledge.
“Icelandic cheapskate director. We bust our asses promoting to Prem, and he brags about one scrub from Ireland? Insane.”
“Seen Man U, Chelsea, Arsenal's signings? Scary good. Why's he grabbing low-level trash? Damn it.”
These were fringe first-teamers—barely squad players elsewhere. I was about to shut down their cocky chatter when the music switched.
Ziiiiiing~ Ding ding ding~!
“The boys are back in town~~ Guess who came back today? Those wild-eyed lads who vanished~ 'How you been?' they ask~ 'Life treating you right?'~”
Upbeat rock exploded—worlds apart from Iron Maiden. Catchy melody, fun lyrics. Thin Lizzy's Irish national rockers with The Boys Are Back in Town.
“Dressed to kill on Friday night~ Gonna hit Dino's bar and party~~ Liquor flowing, blood spilling maybe~~ If the kids start fighting, just let 'em be~~ Jukebox in the corner blasting my favorite tune~~ Night's heating up, summer's coming soon~~ The boys are back in town! They're back~~”
“Hey! You! What the hell?! Turn it off!”
“Bad luck with this crap?!”
“Cheeky rookie!”
Veterans plugged ears and yelled. Newbie George Shor guarded the stereo defiantly. Thin Lizzy kept rocking.
Vets lunged to kill it; Shor blocked with wild blue eyes. Others sang along, clapping. I dug Thin Lizzy too—100x better than Maiden's airy stuff.
“The boys back in town~~~!”
Brawl up front, sing-along behind. Total mess, total vibe. We rolled into Liverpool buzzing.
Oh, and George Shor? Paul's prized winter signing. First official scoop for agent Paul Gordon. He hyped him as Ireland's secret weapon... A weapon, sure. Which way it'd fire? No clue.
[Hello, Premier League fans worldwide. We're at Everton FC's Goodison Park, the world's first soccer-specific stadium.]
Goodison's 39,000-strong roar was epic. Overshadowed by neighbor Liverpool's Anfield fame, Everton still oozed original Merseyside class. David Moyes stubbornly dragged them top-half amid owner chaos.
[Two surprise packages of the season meet on a knife-edge.]
Piiiip—!!
Everton's blue-clad fans drowned out as the first half kicked off. Five-back again; Pennant right wing, Shor left-back. Of six winter signings, only they grabbed starting spots.
[Which team nailed the winter window? Today's game decides. Everton press hard from the start!]
West Ham kickoff. I got the ball—three Everton strikers swarmed blindly. Carrick pressed in midfield too. Mourinho's playbook.
“You lot don't know adaptation.”
Pwaaaaang—!!
My left-foot long ball sliced diagonally, 50 yards, glued to Pennant's right.
[Pennant! Takes on the right flank! Clean first touch! Dribbles through!]
“Not going your way today.”
West Ham's evolution ignited.