Immerse Yourself in British Culture and Language
“Son. You can manage on your own, right?”
The next day, I underwent a medical test at the club-designated hospital. After a thorough check to ensure there were no issues with my body, I signed the official contract. Unusually, it wasn't for one year but three. That showed just how highly West Ham valued me.
Once the contract was done, Dad headed straight to the airport. He had to get back to the site as soon as possible. I'd overheard him on the phone with the site manager the day before.
“Of course. But it's a shame. I came all the way to London and didn't even get to sightsee, let alone see that famous Big Ben.”
“Heh heh. What does it matter at my age?”
Dad had only seen a rundown hotel on the outskirts, the eastern suburbs, and the training ground. He'd flown over ten hours in economy class just to suffer through this.
“I believe in you. You'll make it.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“If things get tough, don't suffer alone—call me. If that's awkward, call your mom at least.”
“Got it.”
“If I had the means, I'd stay here and look after you...”
“Don't say that. I've already received more than enough.”
Dad's eyes welled up, sorry to leave his young son on the opposite side of the world. Being a late child, he'd always cherished me and never once laid a hand on me. People sometimes mistook him for my grandfather when we were out together, and he'd apologize to me every time.
“Dad, come back with Mom later. The three of us can see Big Ben together. We'll ride the London Eye and tour the Queen's palace too.”
“Yeah. We will.”
Dad turned back several times, waving, before entering the departure gate. Now I was alone in London. I swore to myself I wouldn't go anywhere near Big Ben until I succeeded and could bring my parents here.
I took the train east on my own.
Traits: Good ball retention, ambidextrous, exceptional physical defending, solid anticipation, wide vision with a love for adventurous forward passes, mid-range shooting ability. Stamina average but explosive speed allows battles with fast strikers. High potential to grow into a top-class defender in a few years.
This was the first scout report on me. Shared with all West Ham field staff, it reached the first-team director and manager too. Of course, they wouldn't pay much mind to a 15-year-old rookie from the East.
I settled into a homestay arranged by the club.
“Nice to meet you. I'm Paul.”
“Please take care of me.”
“Nah, I'm the one who should be asking that, future superstar~”
This was the staffer who'd blocked me at my first training session. He was in his twenties, but completely bald. Short and stocky, he reminded me of Wayne Rooney. I rented a room in his house and lived with him.
“Immerse yourself naturally in British culture and language.”
Foreign youth players were required by student visa rules to attend a club-designated school for English classes and do at least a year of homestay. Music to my ears.
Paul's house was a classic British brick two-story with a small garden blooming red roses. It was old, but I liked it. He lived there with his grandmother; I took a room upstairs. It wasn't big, but the bed was comfy. Anyway, I was hardly ever there except to sleep.
“That Paul boy always grumbled about his piddly salary, and now a VIP from the East moves in. Ho ho ho.”
“Please take care of me, Grandma Emma.”
White-haired Grandma Emma had a kind disposition. She disliked soccer and had a quirky sense of humor.
Paul got a bonus from the club for hosting me, but this house close to the training ground suited me fine.
“Want me to take you sightseeing in the city this weekend?”
“No, Paul. When I succeed, I'll bring my parents and we'll go together.”
“What? You think you know when that'll be?”
“It'll happen eventually. I'm not here to tourist in London.”
“Haha.”
Paul chuckled, stroking his shiny bald head.
“Yeong-ung, don't rush. You're only 15. You've got a long road to first-team debut.”
“I know. Anyway, no need for London tours.”
“...”
Paul shook his head.
“Kids as tough as you are the ones who make it pro.”
“What do you mean?”
“Truth is, I'm a West Ham youth academy product myself.”
“Really!?”
“Why so surprised? I kicked a ball around back in the day.”
His dwarf-like short, chubby build made it impossible to picture.
“Hard to believe looking at me now, but I was a promising winger. Ace of the 18s team.”
“Then... why?”
Paul rolled up his pant leg, revealing a nasty scar on his knee.
“Injury. Once this went, I never got my speed back. Speed was my only asset... Club said no renewal.”
“From West Ham?”
“Yeah. Begged to stay on as staff. West Ham was my everything.”
“Ah...”
“Boring story for a future superstar...”
“No. That's tough...”
“So don't rush. Follow our system steadily, and you'll be a great player.”
Paul patted my shoulder. Seemed prickly at first, but he had his scars and a warm heart.
But even after his advice, I felt urgent. I wanted success fast to bring my parents to London.
First day of training. I joined the 16s team—a year ahead.
West Ham Academy ran like clockwork. 9 a.m., gather at the club cafeteria for breakfast: nutritionist's omelets, whole-wheat toast, oatmeal, yogurt, fruit, salad.
10 a.m., warm-up in small groups: volleyball or mini-games.
10:30 a.m., analysis room for match footage and discussions. Coaches and players freely exchanged ideas—a cultural shock. They built tactics together.
11 a.m., injury prevention under the physio coach: meticulous stretching.
11:30 a.m., group training on pitch with clear tactical goals, ending in mini-games.
12:30 p.m., lunch: chicken, beef, grilled fish, whole-wheat pasta, fruit juice—energy and stamina fuel.
1:30 p.m., individual training: coaches assigned tasks to tackle in sessions.
2 p.m., position-specific: defenders, mids, attackers split for specialized drills. Pitch divided into thirds.
3 p.m., fitness: scientific methods under specialist, no endless laps.
3:30 p.m., extra training: supplement weak areas. Foreign players got English classes too.
Shower after, out by 5 p.m. I went to Paul's for dinner—Grandma Emma's hearty English home cooking—then back to the pitch. Alone till 10 p.m., repeating my half-year routine: lifting–trapping–dribbling–shooting cycles.
Home, watch Legendary Defenders' Highlight Reels for an hour, image training in bed, asleep before midnight. Eight hours of solid sleep, up and at the pitch by 8:30 a.m.
My routine spread through the club fast.
“Heard about that kid from Korea?”
“Total practice rat. Trains alone late every night.”
“Doing what?”
“Just basics—lifting, trapping. Repeats endlessly.”
“Why? Crazy?”
“Everyone's talking about him. Tony C's got high hopes too.”
“Hmph. Asians don't make it in the PL. They'll flop at senior level.”
“Oh. There he is. That's Na Yeong-ung.”
The 19s team spotted me entering the training ground.