What we talk about when we talk about Son Heung-Min

I’ve had it easy.

I can only imagine what it must be to have suffered through the lean years. Relegation. Coventry City. 3-0 at the half v. United. 3-0 and a man up at the half v. City. Judas. Lasagnagate.

I began following Spurs from afar in America in 2010, when my euphoria over Landon Donovan’s injury-time winner v. Algeria in the World Cup spilled over into a habit of watching Fox Soccer Channel every night. I’d thought little of it when their preseason match with Red Bull New York appeared on a TV screen across the room at a party in Brooklyn. But now here they were again on my tiny flatscreen in a replay of their Champions League playoff match with a team called Young Boys. The supporters sang “When the Spurs Go Marching In.” I liked what I saw, not just for the charm of this appropriated jazz spiritual but in the relationship I sensed between the fans and this club I knew little about. I saw them lose 0-1 at home to Wigan. For some reason, I still liked what I saw. I picked an FPL fantasy team, and a bargain-priced “defender” named Gareth Bale began tallying double-point goals for me. At the end of August, an FSC personality breathlessly reported the deadline day transfer of Rafael van der Vaart to Spurs.

That fall, I got a crash course in the roller coaster ride of supporting Spurs. In October, the team imploded in the opening minutes against Inter at the San Siro, yet Bale’s heroic hat-trick delivered a Rocky blow to Serie A’s Apollo Creed and inspired my first-ever tweet: “Gareth Bale’s second-half performance against Inter was one for the ages.” (To date, it has garnered 3 impressions.) A day before Halloween, a dead ball suddenly live was slotted past Heurelho Gomes in a 2-0 loss at Old Trafford. Just a few days later at my desk at work, I followed ESPN commentary of Tottenham’s revenge match v. Inter. I paid to watch a replay of Bale’s triumphant taxi ride with Maicon later that night. Spurs followed that with a 2-4 league loss away to Bolton. What exactly had I gotten myself into?

Later that month, I enjoyed my first North London Derby at the house of one of my groomsmen, an Woolwich supporter, as second-half goals from Bale, VDV, and Kaboul gave Tottenham its first away win in the NLD in 23 years. What had I done to deserve such good fortune? In the spring, Azza found Crouch at the San Siro Part Due. By then, I had fallen, and I’d fallen hard.

No doubt, there have been some particularly gut-punching moments along the way. Balotelli’s winner after Defoe’s near winner. Getting Chelsea’d in Munich. Adebayor’s PK in Basel. The Waste Land with AVB and Tim. 5-1 at Newcastle. Chiellini’s smugness. Sissoko’s armpit. Aurier’s goal disallowed by Sonny’s scapula. The FA Cup semis. The League Cup final. Joseball. Lucas’ “handball.” Gary Neville on the links. Nuno’s DNA.

But even with all that, I know I’ve had it easy these last dozen years compared to the supporters who’ve been there through the lean years. I’ve seen Pochettino. Jan and Toby. Danny and Kyle. Dembele and Wanyama. The highest point total across two seasons. Dele’s wondergoal at Selhurst Park, his two goals at the Lane v. Chelsea, and his devilish brace at Stamford Bridge. The finale to an undefeated season at White Hart Lane, narrated by Kenneth Branagh, scored in operatic fashion, sanctified by a rainbow. A season tops in London. CR7 shaking his head as Eriksen’s goal put Spurs in dreamland. Hugo raising the World Cup and Llorente’s raising his hip. The miracle of Amsterdam. Six straight seasons and counting above Woolwich. And Harry Kane, he of the Golden Boots in both Premier League and the World Cup, and a Playmaker award, too, gloriously One of Our Own, and perhaps the greatest all-around player we may ever see in a Spurs kit.

And then there is Son Heung-min, who was even better than Harry last season, and is now even more beloved.

Comparing our two undeniably world-class attackers reveals what it is like to be a Spurs fan at this moment in our history. Both took some time to make it at the club—Kane with his annual loan spells, Son with his sporadic debut season in England—and now they have combined for more goals than any other pair in the history of the Premiership.

But even though he is One of Our Own, there has been something unattainable to Kane. Much like his NFL pal, Tom Brady, Kane has a mystique we cannot comprehend. He is simply better than anyone else at most things he does in a team uniform. When he scores a howler, when he buries yet another PK, when he delivers assist equal to THAT one from Eriksen to Dele in the FA Cup semis, it’s like watching an alien life form. His greatness, his near perfection, is awe-inspiring yet unrelatable.

And then there’s Son Heung-min. When Sonny scores—something no one in England did more than he did last season—his celebrations exude a childlike glee. He celebrates every goal in the same manner you or I would if we suddenly found ourselves on a top-flight pitch and, somehow, in a fluke of physics, put a ball past the keeper. When Sonny scores, we score. We see the goal in his smile, and we are him.

Except we are not; we are decidedly not. But he allows us the illusion that we are—not in the goals he scores but in what they mean to him. His signature “take a picture” celebratory pose is, as he explains, a reminder—to himself, and most likely to us, too—that he, too, is mortal, and every goal could be his last. And so we bestow on each tally the gilding of immortality.

It was not always so easy for him. When Spurs bought his services from Bayer Leverkusen, Danny Rose probably had to google him. The South Korean international had never scored more than 12 goals in a Bundesliga season. His tricky flick winner for Spurs v. Watford, past former Tottenham keeper Gomes, and his late-season strikes against Chelsea and Southampton showed his promise. But after a season of eight goals in total, just four in the league, Sonny reportedly wanted out.

Yet he stayed, and he proved his worth the following season with 14 league goals, 21 in all competitions. But even in that Peak Poch ‘16-17 season, he was not yet a guaranteed starter in the manager’s preferred 3-4-2-1 lineup. If the most memorable image of Son that season is not his winner in the crazy ending in Swansea, it would have to be his naïve yet adorably spirited challenge on Victor Moses in the FA Cup semis.

The following season brought more of the same spark, with 12 league goals and 4 in a promising Champions League campaign. At 4’ into the team’s first group stage match, he hailed a taxi for Dortmund’s entire right side and drilled one into the back of the net, setting the tone for the team’s European campaign.

Yet the book on Sonny said he was marked by inconsistency. As the team collapsed against Juventus in the knockout stage, he squandered his chance at a late equalizer. Nevertheless, he had become one of the more popular members at the club. He was back on his horse in the team’s very next match away to Bournemouth, which he clinched with a breakaway goal that had him smiling again and had the travelling supporters singing, “Nice one, Sonny! Nice one, Son!” He now had a song, one that linked him with highlights of Cyril Knowles and the silverware of ’73.

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If the old Yankee Stadium here in old New York was the “House That Ruth Built,” one might say the new White Hart Lane was the House That ‘Arry Built. Yet when the stadium finally opened for match play in April 2019, it was Sonny who christened the place with the opening goal in a tense match with Crystal Palace. After Kane left the home leg of the Champions League quarterfinal tie with Man City injured, Son also scored the first European goal at the stadium when he mishandled an Eriksen pass but managed to pull it back on the end line, cut back in, and shot it through traffic past keeper Ederson. Son ran to the sideline camera and said something no one else would have said: “You know what? We’re going to win!” After the match, he was caught telling the wantaway Eriksen: “Sign contract.”

In the away leg, Raheem Sterling’s goal at 4’ looked to have taken the wind out of Spurs’ sails. But then Sonny seemed to have found a fissure in the universe, scoring at 7’ and again at 10’, the last one a brilliant, curling shot after Eriksen found him inside City’s box. Before his shot had sailed past Ederson, Son was already headed to the touchline, a muted celebration with serious face. It was as if the player was catching onto his own greatness at the same time we were.

Pochettino’s overachievers came crashing down in the fatalistic season that followed, the squad having gone stale after the club had brought in just one new player across three windows. Heralded new boys Tanguy Ndombele, Giovanni Lo Celso, Ryan Sessegnon, and Jack Clarke failed to make immediate impacts. Son found himself in another sliding-door moment in a loss to Leicester City that extended the team’s losing streak away from home. Serge Aurier looked to have scored a potential winner before VAR found Son had been offside in the buildup by mere millimeters, a preposterous decision based on technology with a margin of error significantly greater than that. Daniel Levy fired Pochettino soon thereafter, something unthinkable just a couple months prior, and brought in Jose Mourinho, a move that remains unthinkable for most of the team’s supporters.

Even in the midst of that Amazon-sponsored circus, Sonny provided one of his signature goals, a Puskás Award winner. Time seemed to stop as he collected a defensive deflection from Jan Vertonghen just outside the Tottenham penalty area and sprinted box to box, leaving behind two…three…five…six…eight Burnley players and, with immaculate composure, opened his body to direct a shot past Nick Pope. It was a museum piece. The supporters erupted. Sonny flew off with airplane arms and, after sliding to a stop, simply stood and smiled at the supporters with the hint of a nod. This time, it wasn’t his trademark gleeful grin that moment but a cool one, his cocky countenance revealing his own realization that he’d just delivered one for the ages. It was an uncharacteristic show of pride from Sonny, yet entirely deserved. Even Lucas Moura offered his own standing ovation in awe of his teammate.

Next season, Son and Kane put on a two-man clinic in the team’s second match away to Southampton. Sonny scored 4, all assisted by Kane, who added one of his own. In the post-match spot, Jose walked past the on-camera Son and told him Harry should be Man of the Match. Son politely nodded. Jose wouldn’t last the season.

Things seemed dire in the summer of 2021. Kane looked destined to join Man City. The club reportedly were considering hiring Gennaro Gattuso, who was last seen choking Joe Jordan on the touchline in Milan. A #GattusoNo hashtag killed the deal. But when Levy promised supporters the next hire would match the club’s DNA, he brought in Nuno.

Yet amidst all this, Son Heung-min signed a contract extension.

He could have gone elsewhere for higher wages and virtual guarantees of annual Champions League campaigns. He would’ve walked into any top team’s XI. But he wanted us. What’s more, he scored the only goal in the team’s season opener with Man City. The home crowd sung, “Are you watching, Harry Kane?” Nothing made sense anymore.

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Kane might well have been the best player in the world during his historic Golden Boot/Playmaker season in 2020-21. Prior to his round of golf with Gary Neville, he had been universally loved. One of our own.

Yet with Son, our love has always been different.

Why? Do we love Sonny because he appeals to paternalistic notions as a “model minority”—a hard-working Asian player, the product of a “Tiger Dad” training regimen who scores with factory-like precision and prolificity, who consistently outperforms his xG, yet who is eternally enthusiastic, offering an ever-present smile? The greatest of all Asian players, he plies his trade in the West where, for complicated reasons, bigotry against Asians is sometimes spoken about as if it is somehow a lesser form of racism. Sonny recently spoke about racism he encountered while playing in the Bundesliga. Tottenham fans will remember an incident from the Aughties when one of the most popular players in the club’s history was alleged to have used a racial slur against a bouncer of south Asian ethnicity while intoxicated. Does Son Heung-min fulfill a stereotype that makes us feel better about ourselves?

Or does he dispel the stereotype? Just as he grants us the illusion to think he is like us, he also allows us to act out the imperfect drama of our own lives. He admitted the sight of seeing “German people cry” after South Korea knocked them out of the 2018 World Cup gave him a sense of “revenge.” To be sure, he is no angel—ask André Gomez or Antonio Rüdiger. He is not perfect on the pitch—ask team captain Hugo Lloris. For a time there, we might well have wondered if Joseball had broken Sonny’s spirit as it had broken ours.

But far from having his spirit broken, he has emerged as the team’s spirit animal. When the team flew to Seoul to kick off its preseason schedule, Sonny was there to meet them at the airport, sign in hand. “It’s very meaningful that you came to my Country,” he wrote in a note he had left in every player’s hotel room. “I’m always happy to be with you at Tottenham…Lets go this season for something special.”

Does our love for Sonny redeem us? Is this why we have been so fascinated by his bromances with Kevin Wimmer, Dele, Gentle Ben? Witness the recent wedding photo released by Davies, in which Sonny looks even happier to be there than the groom. How can a player who trains so incomprehensibly hard always have so much fun? How can a player so great carry himself so humbly—a player who scores a record-setting goal and then slides to his feet in honor of his record-setting assister, as he did to Harry in Elland Road.

Alas, for much of the 2021-22 season, few players looked to be having fun under Nuno ball.

Enter Antonio Conte.

Enter Rodrigo Bentancur and Deki Kulusevski.

Enter Kane at the Etihad in a majestic performance against the filthy rich oil club that wanted him, the club that needed him, yet that never bid enough for him.

And for the final act of the season, enter Son Heung-min.

Sonny’s legacy from the 2021-22 season was how he came up big in the crucial matches. He netted three goals and assisted two combined against champion City and runner-up Liverpool. Down the stretch, as Spurs made an improbable ascent up the table, he scored 15 in 14 matches. When Woolwich mustered up enough courage to play the Derby in N17, Son undressed Rob Holding, earning a penalty and ultimately getting him sent off with a second yellow. The South Korean then added a goal to make it 3-0 in their season-defining drubbing of their used-to-be main rivals.

Now sitting one goal behind Mo Salah for the league lead, Son’s humanity shown through as he was visibly upset when Conte removed him with 20 minutes left and the match all but done and dusted. It was the right move for the team, which would need their leading scorer’s legs to be fresh for yet another must-win match just three days later against Burnley. The South Korean star struck the right note in his post-match comments: “I mean obviously I want to play always, but what can I say, he is the manager and it is the gaffer’s decision and I need to accept that. He said we have an important game on Sunday, so it is no big deal. I am not angry, I am disappointed because I came off.”

He would need every fiber of muscle in the waning minutes of the season finale at Norwich, in which Spurs were very un-Spursily blowing away the Canaries to clinch a Champions League spot. All that remained was whether Sonny would catch Salah for the Golden Boot.

Tottenham players did their best to help him. Kulu tried finding him…and tripped over himself in the process, wasting a sitter. Kane served him a golden chance in the 60’ minute, but Tim Krul denied Sonny. Krul again rejected him ten minutes later on a breakaway chance. Sonny seemed to smile in resignation. In a video clip that would circulate after the match, Dier appears to ask Krul, “What’s Salah giving you?”

We were on our way to the world’s biggest club competition, but it seemed the individual prize would evade Son, and us. Surely, Spurs fans cannot expect both.

But then, before we were done with that thought, and as the camera was still focused on Krul for his post-save reaction, Kane found Lucas who found Son who finally slotted one past the keeper. Now tied with Salah, Sonny ran his with teammates to celebrate in front of the traveling supporters.

With a Golden Boot in his grasp, Son’s individual brilliance shone five minutes later. A free kick from Lucas was headed away by a man marking Kane. It fell to Son, whose back was to goal. He turned, cut in, evaded the reaching arms of Teemu Pukki, and fired it around Krul into the top right corner.

No Spiderman webs. No pantomimed camera poses. Just pure, unadulterated joy. Find a video of the goal. Ben Davies is already running to the corner, arms in the air, charting the path toward the supporters again. Sonny runs toward him and jumps into his arms. The two fall to the ground and are mobbed by their euphoric teammates. After several moments of sweaty love, he’s on his feet again and lifted into the air by Lucas, who loves a good celebration. Sonny raises his hands in triumph to the travelling supporters like a light heavyweight champion, and their cheers perfectly punctuate his emergence from the happy mob.

Meanwhile at Anfield, Mo Salah had come on in the 58th minute and managed to grab a garbage goal against Wolves, pulling back into a tie with Sonny. One might have wondered whether referee Chris Kavanagh had a stake in the race when he inexplicably halted Tottenham’s match just four second into added time, denying Son a chance to retake the lead outright. Some nervy minutes remained as the Liverpool match went four minutes past the 90’, with Salah goal hanging in search of one more goal. But when the final whistle blew, Sonny and Salah had finished tied for the lead with 23 goals, the former having scored 5 from 6 penalty kicks for Liverpool.

Spurs had qualified for Champions League, and Sonny had grabbed a Golden Boot while not taking a single kick from the spot all season.

I delighted in the post-match clips that flowed onto Twitter. Sonny in the locker room being lifted into the air by his exuberant teammates. Sonny posing with the Boot. Sonny and the Boot posing with Harry. Sonny with the Boot thanking his teammates. The congratulations for Sonny rolling in from supporters’ clubs throughout the world. I wanted to inject it all into my veins. In a refreshing counterpoint to his outing on the links with Kane the previous spring, Gary Neville would reveal on his podcast that he’d named Son his Player of the Season.

But in the classist culture of club football club that consistently values brand names above all else, not enough voters agreed. Tottenham’s Golden Boot winner was not even nominated for Premier League Player of the Year (see Kane, Harry, ‘20-21) and, even more preposterously, neither he nor Kane made the Premier League Team of the Year. The South Korean sniper spoke of his disappointment, recognizing that peer recognition was out of his control, and he vowed to stay focused on the things he could control. For Son Heung-min, this includes how he asserts control over a ball in its artful path past the keeper, which at this time he does better than anyone else in the league.

I’d watched the Norwich match with my seven-year-old son, who owns a SON shirt from the ‘18-19 season, a family pun in combination with my FATHER number 7 away shirt from ‘20-21. Four and a half years ago, that brilliant third goal against Real Madrid had sent my son jumping into my arms. I have a framed photo of the team celebrating it, a moment made poignant by our own midair celebration.

Now, at the end of the Norwich match, I told my son, “Remember this day.” I heard my own voice choke as I explained we had just seen what can happen with hard work and determination. I reminded him how the other teams, their fans, the media, they all put us down. How they said we were going nowhere. How they talk about silverware this, silverware that. Well, our club had just qualified for the Champions League. And the player on my son’s shirt had just won goldenware. “And no one,” I told him, “no one, will ever take this day away, not from Sonny, not from Spurs, and not from us.” He looked at me with a curious smile, trying to comprehend my sudden outburst of passion yet, I sensed, feeling connected to it. Later that day, my wife took a photo of us in our FATHER and SON shirts as we cast webs and snapped phantom photos.

Man City may win the league with its oil money, but do their fans even care? Liverpool win trophies, yet Klopp and the Kop still cling to victimhood. Chelsea’s oligarchic titles are forever tainted. Arteta’s Woolwich? They keep pointing to the FA Cup like a high-priced Wigan.

Let them have all that, for none of them have felt what we felt that day, when one Son achieved a golden life goal, and another son’s smile became a golden memory for his father.

Remember that moment. Take a picture of it and frame it. Freeze it in time. That’s our moment, and they will never, ever, take it away from us.