Soap Bubbles and Double Curses
Twang—thud—!
I started juggling right in front of the crowd. Toe—instep—inside of the foot—thigh—chest—shoulder—forehead—crown of the head. Up in sequence, then bouncing the ball rhythmically around my body like a dance. Fans began noticing me one by one. The game was delayed, they were bored, and now there was entertainment.
"That big guy's got some skills with the ball."
"He's Asian. One of the new youth signings?"
"An Asian that huge? What's his nationality?"
"Handling the ball that well with a build like that. What position does he play?"
I could hear their admiring murmurs. The stands were right up against the pitch, so even whispers carried.
Time to give them a real show.
Thwaaaang—!
I unleashed some showmanship, blasting the ball straight up into the sky. It shot vertically through the air like a soap bubble. The fans' eyes followed it upward.
Thwaaaang—!!
I smashed the falling ball straight up again. Then once more as it dropped. It was a skill I'd been practicing—lifting, trapping, and kicking fused into one.
Thwaaaang—!
On the third launch, players from both teams came rushing onto the pitch. Snap—I trapped the descending ball perfectly with a silky tofu touch. By now, the crowd's attention had shifted to the players anyway. That should tide them over.
Clap-clap-clap—Applause rang out, and I saw a white-haired old man in the front row giving me a thumbs-up.
"Nice footwork, lad. You in the academy?"
"Yes, sir. Just signed. Korean, name's Hero."
"Hero? That's your actual name?"
"Yep. HERO."
"Hahaha. The grandest name I've heard in eighty years."
The old-timer looked like a grouchy character from a fairy tale—Oliver Twist or Scrooge—and he asked again.
"What position do you play?"
"Defender. I'm gonna be a defender like Bobby Moore."
His face soured even more at Bobby Moore's name.
"You know Bobby Moore? Guy's from before you were born. Impressive."
"I watch his old match tapes on video every day. Love his style."
"Heh heh heh. Video, eh? I watched Bobby play right here every week. His game was like a miracle."
"Whoa... You saw him live? Lucky."
"Listen, young fella. If Bobby's your goal, work harder. He was a genius of geniuses."
Even that genius couldn't win West Ham the league. I bit back the joke. What must it feel like to support one team for eighty years without a single title?
"You bet. I'll work till I drop."
"See you in the first team before I kick the bucket, lad. Heh heh heh."
"Count on it. Watch for me, gramps."
I turned back to my ball-boy duties. Quick throws for our ball on the sidelines, slow ones for theirs—that was basic.
But.
"Our first team's fucking hopeless."
Regardless, West Ham's senior side put on a dismal show with amateurish play. Glenn Roeder, the first-team manager, scowled from the sideline like he had a stomach bug.
It was eye-gougingly bad, but the one bright spot was young ace Joe Cole. He tore through Tottenham's half single-handedly, fighting valiantly. But no one supported him.
Transfer next season? West Ham academy product Joe Cole would eventually move to Chelsea, win the league, and hit his career peak. The post-West Ham glow-up, I guess.
Tweet—tweet—twEEEEET—!!
The constipated match finally ended with West Ham losing 3-1 to Tottenham. As the game wrapped, beautiful soap bubbles rained down again, and West Ham fans unleashed a torrent of profanities.
"Soap bubbles and double curses..."
What a bizarre atmosphere.
After the soccer, the bonus event unfolded outside the ground. West Ham hooligans versus Tottenham hooligans in an inter-gang brawl royale. I waited it out in the club office and didn't get home till late. Shattered beer bottles littered the streets—dangerous as hell.
"Damn soccer lunatic bastards. Lock 'em all up."
Emma was fuming when I got back. Drunken hooligans heading home from the match had chucked bottles into her lovingly tended garden.
"You're right, Granny. Too many soccer psychos in this world."
I agreed. And so passed the absurd weekend.
Monday morning at the youth training ground, everyone fretted about relegation. West Ham sat 13th. Five games left—if they bombed like yesterday, it was straight down.
"Worry about that later. Kick the ball one more time instead."
I tuned them out and focused on my game. I knew West Ham would get relegated next season anyway. Climb back a few years later, then drop again. In my memory, that's how they yo-yo'd through the 2000s. Owners changed, managers got the axe like flies. Stars fled, and West Ham became the poster child for cursed clubs.
"Still popular, though. Weird."
From my view, it wasn't bad. Meant easier first-team debut. But my goal wasn't debut. It was leading as the core player, delivering West Ham their first league title in a century.
"Long road ahead."
I dove into training.
A month passed. I skipped up another age group to the 18s. Competition ramped up here. The youth pyramid peaked at first-team debut, so higher levels meant fiercer fights and better players. From U13 to first team: one in five hundred made it.
"So why's the first team so shit...?"
Survive that grind, and you hit the pro wall. That's the world. My brief pro stint in my past life helped big time. I knew how to schmooze club staff, coaches, teammates. Plus, grinding English beforehand paid off. South American and African kids who struggled with the language envied me.
I earned respect for skill and personality, pegged as an academy prospect.
Thankfully, West Ham rallied in their final five, ending respectably. Confirmed it.
"Relegation's next season."
Knowing the future, I pitied the club staff and fans clinking beers in joy, oblivious to next year's tragedy.
"Happy with 7th? Something's wrong with this club."
League over, academy got three weeks off. I trained daily anyway. Rest? Nah, growth. I knew how blessed I was—top facilities, train as much as I wanted.
One solo session, I hit a massive event.
Hiddink's legendary semis run began. Even in London, rosy predictions bloomed.
Michael Owen, superstar Beckham—England's media hyped the star-studded squad. Solid defense with Ferdinand and Campbell, midfield locked by Scholes and Butt.
They probably crashed out in the quarters to Brazil? Knowing the future made their hype kinda sad.
Then.
The most shocking discovery since regressing. Pure coincidence passing by—bam, lightning-struck idea. How to rake in World Cup cash.
William Sports Betting Shop
The shop near the station always buzzed with guys. Sports toto betting den. London's shock: this country's a betting paradise. Private bookies legal. Old folks to kids—everyone gambled on sports. England's industry? Over 22 trillion won. Untouchable scale vs. Korea.
"Took me this long to realize..."