Wenger's Ungrateful Judas
“Hit it! Pennant!”
Pennant turned the ball with a soft touch, ripping through Everton's flank. As he burst into the penalty area, the clustered defenders panicked. Two Jermains. Jermain Defoe and Jermain Pennant didn't miss the chance.
Paat-! Pababat-! Tuwoong!
Ppwooooong- !!
It was just four minutes into the first half. Defoe and Pennant, flaunting their individual skills like Brazilian stars, slotted in the opener. It was a refreshing attack that cleared months of pent-up frustration.
The two Jermains couldn't have been more different in personality. Yet their on-pitch chemistry was perfect. The cool, professional Defoe and the emotional, unpredictable Pennant were like water and oil. But they shared one irresistible trait: an obsession with goals.
Clap-!
The excited duo high-fived, hugged, and shared an awkward grin that ended up on the front page of the sports papers the next day.
We shattered everyone's expectations, demolishing Everton. With Pennant's flank attacks now an option, the vertical press targeting just me and Carrick no longer worked. And one more thing.
West Ham's winter transfer gem wasn't just Pennant. Irish left-back George Shor tore up the left flank with his mad speed. Snapped up for a tenth of Pennant's fee, George handled the left alongside Pennant on the right, owning both wings.
Zola brought out an asymmetric tactic: aggressive overlaps from left-back George Shor, defensive positioning from right-back Spencer.
Ppwooooong- !!
European football has a saying: "There are expensive bad players, but no cheap good ones."
George boasted terrifying speed, but that was it. His passes were inaccurate, dribbling abysmal. His hot-headed nature led to frequent errors and fouls. He was the polar opposite of the elegant Pennant.
But soccer is a team sport. Even players short on skill can exceed expectations in the right combination. The 22-year-old Irishman George Shor lacked technique but injected the team with boundless energy and work rate. Thanks to George, West Ham was stronger than when the far more skilled Rufus played left-back.
With George and Pennant rampaging the wings for 90 minutes, Carrick and I could build up comfortably from the center.
We charged through the second half on a roll. A 3-1 away win at Man City in round 27 made it four straight in the league, five overall, leading into round 28 against our fateful foes.
An away trip to second-place Arsenal. Jermain Pennant's former club had London buzzing pre-match.
“How you feeling, Pennant?”
The night before the game, we did light individual training at the first-team ground and got massages. More young players were joining my sessions lately, including transfers like George Shor out of curiosity.
Pennant had looked uneasy all training.
“Dunno. Honestly... a bit scared.”
“Of who? Wenger?”
“Nah, not Wenger. I'm sorry to him. He believed in me and picked me... but the fans scare me. At Arsenal, I just caused trouble and didn't earn my keep.”
“They never gave you the chance.”
“...True, but still.”
“If I were Wenger, I wouldn't have played you over Ljungberg and Pires either.”
“What!?”
“Haha! Kidding! Kidding!”
Pennant flared up, then sank into gloom. Arsenal days clearly depressed him.
“You're right, though. Even I as Wenger would've done the same. I don't know how happy I am now. Might sound cocky, but here I don't stress every match about the lineup. At West Ham, I can just focus on tomorrow's game.”
“Disrespecting our wing seniors?”
“Not what I meant, Hero.”
“Haha! Kidding. I get it. Must be mad stress. Never been benched, so I wouldn't know.”
“Show-off!”
Ahead of the big game, we laughed like kids the night before a picnic. Pennant wasn't always unreliable at Arsenal. Constantly training hard only to be left out wears down young players' motivation. With money and time aplenty, temptations abound, and one slip spirals into a bad cycle.
“Still, can't wait for tomorrow! I'll make Wenger regret letting me go.”
At West Ham, Pennant started every game, playing full 90s. Manager, coaches, teammates—all praised him. He quit drinking, synced his life to matchdays. He was a kid who loved nothing more than chasing the ball on pitch. West Ham fans hailed him as savior; hyped, his skills exploded.
“Can't wait to see how much further you'll grow.”
West Ham's home and Arsenal's were a stone's throw apart. But emotionally? Like South and North Korea.
North London's incumbents, gentlemanly London reps Arsenal vs East London's historic working-class Hammers—zero titles, rowdy fans. Nothing in common.
“Probably our first and last here.”
Seeing Arsenal's home Highbury stirred feelings. Next year, over a century of history gets demolished. Wenger built the future Emirates Stadium, opening soon. Inevitable, but sad to lose such graceful architecture.
“If it's the last, make it Arsenal's tragic mark in Highbury history.”
Romantic notions shattered entering the locker room. Cramped, smelly, musty.
“Damn! How do they expect us to change here!?”
Narrow corridors, low ceilings, tiny room. At 192cm, it felt like Lilliput.
We grumbled, squeezed into kits, headed out. West Ham's Boleyn Ground was worn, but Highbury's decay was next level.
“Damn.”
Second issue on pitch: Highbury's pitch was ridiculously narrow. Felt two-thirds standard size. Long balls to flanks? Risky. And stands way too close.
“Hey! Pennant! You pisshead bastard!? Sober today? Ref! Test him for booze!”
“Wenger's ungrateful Judas. Who let you crawl back here!?”
“Watch your ankles today. Viera's gunning for you. Hehehe. Like Zola, you'll be season out.”
Warming up, fans' abuse sounded like chit-chat next door. Pennant's face hardened.
“Expected this, right?”
“...Yeah.”
“Shut 'em up with goals. Okay?”
“Heh. Thanks, Hero.”
I stuck by Pennant, guarding his mentality. But pre-kickoff, an unexpected leak.
“Hey! Irish hick! Go back to your island and eat potatoes.”
“Can't even kick straight. Tsk tsk. You'd be third-string at Arsenal. Must've serviced West Ham's DO, huh? Hehehe.”
Scratch Arsenal's gentleman image. Every club has trash fans.
George Shor, warming up, snapped at anti-Irish slurs.
“You! What'd you say!? Wanna die!?”
George yelled in thick Irish accent, charging stands. Cantona's sideline kick 2.0 incoming. I ran to stop him, but veteran defender Tomas Repka stepped in.
“George. Stop. Reacting means we lose.”