As much as I enjoyed the premise, the execution here was spotty at best. The author acknowledges in the foreword that this manuscript largely sat on tAs much as I enjoyed the premise, the execution here was spotty at best. The author acknowledges in the foreword that this manuscript largely sat on the shelf for 17 years, and that leads to too many asides where he takes us out of the flow of the season to let us know how (for example) Jamie Cureton reflected much later on his time with Busan I'Cons, or to point out where 2020 technology would have fixed a problem or a certain practice rang oddly in a post-COVID world. Readers can figure those last few out on their own, and reminiscences would have been better saved for a few critical points. As is, I'm reading with 75% of my brain in 2003, but 25% in 2020 because the author keeps reminding me that's where he is now, and it's not a good experience.
And I think the reason the manuscript languished for so many years is that the author simply couldn't find a reason for us to care. The results on the pitch are awful; Ian Porterfield's managerial style is best described as self-harm; Jamie Cureton's half-season becomes a footnote in an incredible itinerant career up and down the English football pyramid; the team barely escapes being moved after a season of attendance even worse than the football. Rowcliffe wants to share Korean football and Busan's fan culture rather than making it about himself, and that's laudable, but we never get to know any of the Korean fans or players as more than names on a sheet. I'm left to guess that he didn't have the language skills to engage past a superficial level -- he doesn't want to be the story, but he doesn't seem to have access to the story he's trying to tell. The result is that the whole narrative feels curiously distanced, save a few rants from Porterfield. And that alienation is the expat experience, but Rowcliffe won't let me care about him to share that feeling....more
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