Psycho Simon says

During my time in Chuncheon I’ve signed up to a football team called FC9020, a group of Korean men, all between 30 and 50, supplemented by four foreigners. At first my position seemed to be similar to back home; in my eyes that’s wherever they find a weakness in the side, I plug that gap. Others seem to see it, and in my manager’s case, tell me, that it’s a case of fill all positions, then put me wherever is left. The last year has seen that be right back for the most part, with the odd foray to the substitute’s bench when we have had more than eleven.

When I arrived there was a man called Greg playing striker for us. A traditional English striker; unfit, strong with odd moments of brilliance / fluke and an ability to head the ball. I did my part, floating round the pitch, showing my uncanny ability to be where the action isn’t. When Greg left, things changed. I was moved to striker, and so far it’s suited me. I generally play against a back two of 50 year olds with 10 year old knees, both of whom seem intent on setting an offside trap on the half way line.

Whilst I’m no Darren Campbell, I don’t turn down a gift when one is presented to me, and they’ve been presented in the 100s. By the sheer law of averages the multitude of chances I receive has seen a few goals come my way, and I had started to feel happy in my footballing skin. That is until I met Simon.

Psycho Simon, as he has come to be known, does his best to make every man feel inadequate. He works at an English camp in the mountains. Doing what exactly I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain that it’s a place where cocky kids are sent to decrease their sense of self worth.

Allow me to explain, Simon runs around at maximum speed for the whole game, so it’s hard to say where he plays exactly. The first time I came up against him I panicked, he shouted whilst he ran, roaring towards me like a hunting dog. I was centre forward, this wasn’t supposed to happen. In my frightened rabbit like state I stood still. For too long; he was on me, snarling, dribbling; his testosterone only matched by his baldness. I had no choice, I went into a 50 / 50 tackle with him, expecting not to emerge. And then. A moment of calm bliss... I had the ball and Simon was not there. I had won. I waltzed off like Pepe le Pew and passed the ball onwards. Simon did not come near me again, just near the old and weak. I heard him once in a while screaming PASS TO ME, GOD DAMN IT PASS TO ME, but we never clashed again.



Whilst I’m no academic, I understand that if a Korean , who doesn’t speak English, doesn’t respond to my requests, there’s a chance that he may not understand me. Simon sadly has yet to grasp this concept. GO RIGHT ... GOD DAMN IT WHY DIDN’T YOU GO RIGHT? gets louder each time, until it’s a scream, a blood curdling scream, which has led to Simon’s aforementioned nickname.

Sadly his actions point to a darker trend; the view that we westerners are in a foreign land, and not the foreigners. Simon has seemingly yet to make an effort to learn the language of his compatriots, although I think FOR FUCK’S SAKE PASS TO ME is fairly universal.
I must state at this juncture that I’m no linguist, but I have learned to either say ‘yogi’ (here) or simply stay quiet, but then maybe that’s just because I’m never near the ball.