Get busy winning, or get busy losing, or...get busy drinking?

Maldini, Totti, Tony Adams, Müller... The epic tales of "one-club legends" never fail to enchant football fans. These icons conquered cities with their artistry and loyalty, their names eternally etched into club lore.

Extend that illustrious list far enough, however, and you'll stumble upon an unexpected entry—a man whose boots might lack global stardust but whose legend glows undimmed in the beautiful, peaceful Dutch town of Velsen-Zuid:

Anthony Correia, born 1982. At 18, he pledged allegiance to SC Telstar, weathering 15 seasons (2001-2016) like a steadfast lighthouse keeper, logging 354 appearances.

Retirement? Merely a costume change. By 2017, he'd swapped cleats for clipboards as assistant coach, a role he's kept warm until 2023.

Telstar is no titan—modest to a fault, forever barnacled to the Dutch second tier, never tasting Eredivisie glory. When manager Mike Snoei abruptly fled to Greece after the 2022/23 season (leaving fans and players scratching their heads over souvlaki cravings), the town collectively shrugged. After all, every farewell whispers a prologue. Now, the stage creaks open for Correia—the man who outlasted eras, fixtures, and probably the stadium's plumbing—to finally step into the spotlight. The unlikeliest of football fairy tales? In Velsen-Zuid, they're already dusting off the storybook.

Yet, fate's screenplay took another pirouette. Days later, a bombshell dropped in a prominent Dutch sports magazine: "...Few loved the club more than Anthony Correia—precisely why he yearned to see it shed its cocoon and soar. In a letter to the chairman, he penned: 'I take pride in my career. Always first to training, relentless in my work. I can stand tall as a "competent" player, a "competent" coach. Ah, yes—"competent." Just "competent." That word haunts me. It sharpens my awareness of the chasm between mere adequacy and genius. A "competent" man like me can only steer this club to "competent" horizons. But Telstar deserves more. So, I propose Thijs Veldhuizen...'"

Telstar, ever loyal to their living legend, duly signed Thijs after "due diligence."

The news barely ruffled Dutch football's tulip fields—what's odd about a fringe club hiring a rookie coach? But in Velsen-Zuid, it landed like a cosmic punchline. Every soul there knew Thijs Veldhuizen: hometown dropout, son of the folks running De Drunker Koe tavern, a man who'd traded textbooks for troublemaking. His resume? A masterclass in petty chaos—pub brawls, vandalized parking meters, and a perfect attendance record at Telstar matches... as the stadium's resident ale-chugging anarchist.

And now this human tornado was being handed a whistle? The town collectively snorted. Telstar's board had either gone mad... or Anthony Correia had just orchestrated football's most audacious redemption arc. Place your bets.

But here's the kicker: Anthony Correia's love for the club ran bone-deep. He watched Telstar morph into a sinking ship—not from lack of effort on the pitch, but from the boardroom's political viper pit. Director of Football Gilbrano Kalk and ex-manager Mike Snoei had waged a petty Cold War over power, while Managing Director Leon Annokkee, ever the self-appointed referee, seemed content to let them brawl, lest either side gain the upper hand.

When Snoei—the one who actually cared about football—finally threw up his hands and fled to Greece, Kalk turned his crosshairs squarely on Correia. The problem? Anthony had zero appetite for power games. To him, Telstar needed someone immune to office politics, someone who’d prioritize football over petty squabbles. Enter Thijs Veldhuizen, the town’s resident troublemaker—a man who’d sooner chug a beer than kiss a bureaucrat’s ring.

Promoting Thijs wasn’t about tactics or league tables (let’s face it, the Dutch second tier has no relegation). It was a calculated grenade toss into the boardroom. Let the suits claw each other over this hire. Meanwhile, Correia’s masterstroke? Buy time. Let the dust settle, let the club purge its rot. After all, once the club stabilized and refocused on football, they could always hire a proper coach later.

Genius or madness? In Velsen-Zuid, the jury’s still out—but the popcorn sales are booming.

Leon Annokkee, mid-call, voice dripping with scheming glee: "Ha! Ha! Rest assured, this isn’t some half-baked brainstorm. Think bigger—Manchester United saw their global engagement spike under Ten Hag’s chaos theater. I hire a pub brawler as coach, and boom—tripled our X followers in 24 hours! Sure, the pitch might combust, but who cares? Engagement’s the new silverware. Besides, if it all goes sideways, we’ll just blame… let’s say, the stadium pigeons. Always works."

(Silence on the other end.)

Annokkee, shrugging audibly: "What? It’s not like we’re getting relegated. Chaos pays the bills, my friend. Chaos. Pays. The. Bills."

Reporter 1: "What tactics will the team employ this season?"
Reporter 2: "The transfer window’s closed—are you satisfied with the squad?"
Reporter 3: "What’s the season’s objective?"
Reporter 4 (dropping the mic): "Screw this—I’ve known you since you were in diapers! How much did you grease the club’s palms to land this job?!"

Thijs Veldhuizen, mid-guzzle from a suspiciously labeled water bottle: "Hic—Tactics? That a new whiskey brand? Ha! Jokin’… sorta. You lot look down on me? Well, I look down on those gegenpress-obsessed hipsters. That ain’t football. Real football’s about… hic… wingin’ it. Improvise! Adapt! Like my ex dodgin’ bailiffs!"

The interview racked up millions of YouTube views overnight. Fans hadn’t seen such gloriously unpolished chaos since a raccoon hijacked a weather broadcast. And secretly? They vibed with it. The meta gegenpress tactics gotten so stale, even the halftime pies were bored.

As for Thijs? He stumbled out of the press room, muttered "Job’s done" to no one, and ordered a kebab. Telstar’s new era: one part football, two parts dumpster fire.

Leon Annokkee, architect of chaos, unveiled his next chessmaster move: the Director of Football would now exclusively scout players, while Thijs Veldhuizen—a man whose contract negotiation skills peaked at haggling for kebab extras—would mandatorily sign every recommendation, "at all costs." Meanwhile, the DoF was barred from meddling in tactics or training.

Annokkee’s logic? Force everyone to do what they suck at, creating a gloriously incompetent equilibrium. "Let them claw each other’s eyes out over spreadsheets and training cones. Within a year, my club will be the Eerste Divisie’s hottest soap opera—bad football, but spectacular drama!"

As for Thijs? He reportedly celebrated by attempting to sign a literal goat (typo intended) and drafting a contract on a beer coaster. The DoF, meanwhile, has begun scouting toddlers—"Long-term investment!"

Thus, Telstar’s new motto: Job security through glorious incompetence.

Settings & Rules in this save:

1. Only take charge in matchday stuff.

2. Gegenpress is banned. Meta tactics? Yawn-inducing.

3. Install realism mods, latest transfer updates, and tweak ME.

4. Prioritize "realistic" choices over "optimal" ones.

On Thijs Veldhuizen’s first day as manager, Leon Annokkee made his stance brutally clear: “No summer transfers. Winter window? The club’s budget’s thinner than a stale cracker—you and Kalk sort it out. ‘Cooperation’? Let’s not pretend. Call me only if the stadium floods. Season goal? Avoid the basement. Cheers.”

Later, staff and players arrived, half-expecting fireworks. Instead, they found Thijs holed up in his office, the hallway reeking of liquor. At least he’s consistent, they shrugged.

Thijs had been drinking—yet, against all odds, he ignored the half-finished TV series on his laptop. His assistant, Gert Jan Tamerus, had left player reports (first team, reserves, U18s) on his desk. The handwriting was a scribbled mess—lines zigged where they should’ve zagged. Or maybe Thijs’ vision was just blurry. Either way, he pored over the pages.

By dusk, as the last staffer left, Thijs’ door stayed shut. Inside, his mind churned. Telstar’s players shuffled like puzzle pieces in his head—a chaotic jumble. Then, a flicker of clarity. The fragments snapped into place, forming a structure only he could see……

Assistant coach Gert Jan Tamerus herded the squad into a huddle. Time for Thijs’ grand introduction. Soon, Thijs entered the room with his tactic board:

Before he could utter a word, a roar erupted from the group: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” All heads swiveled to Mees Kaandorp—a summer signing, fresh-faced and seething.

The club had clung to the 4-2-3-1 for years—previous manager, the one before him, even DoF Kalk’s recruitment blueprint. It was the tactical equivalent of a security blanket.

“Mr. Kalk promised I’d be the cornerstone of this club! The architect of our ‘glorious revival’! The undisputed star winger! And now you’re axing attacking wingers altogether?!”

The veterans held their breath. They’d seen Thijs’ streetwise rep—a man who’d stared down brawlers and bailiffs. Instinctively, they scanned for exit routes, half-expecting a stainless-steel chair to go airborne. But Thijs? He stood perfectly still. Grinning. Not a smirk, not a sneer—a genuine, almost childlike beam of delight. The kind that makes hardened pros exchange “Is he… okay?” glances. Turns out, chaos has a type. And Thijs had just found his muse.

Kaandorp, now a one-man Greek chorus of outrage: "I’ve seen madmen—one who gave zero individual instructions, another who handed out novel-length match briefs. But you? You make them look like tax accountants! Look at these TIs—no pressing, no counter-press, and that slogan bigger than your tactic board: ‘Be More Expensive—’"

Thijs, cutting in: "Expressive."

"—Expressive?! Do you even know what you’re doing?!"

The room froze. Thijs just grinned wider. "Expensive’s good too. Maybe we’ll sell more shirts. Tamerus, put this one in the reminder please."

Silence. Then a snort. Then another. The locker room dissolved into laughter—Even Kaandorp too.

Kaandorp still simmered with resentment, the uncertainty gnawing at him like a bad kebab. Yet, like the rest of the squad, he’d endured tactically sharper coaches, kinder coaches, saner coaches. For reasons even they couldn’t articulate. Would they win? Unlikely. The media still penciled them in for 20th. But under Thijs, training felt less like drills and more like a pub darts tournament—messy, unscripted, and weirdly euphoric. Players swapped positions like drunken karaoke singers swapping mics. Tactical meetings doubled as stand-up comedy roasts. In Velsen-Zuid, where the wind smells of seawater and stale fries, that counted as a revolution.

Thijs dragged out a metal drum and burned the old 4-2-3-1 tactics board inside. No one would be surprised by his antics anymore. The first team meeting ended in a cloud of acrid smoke.

The next day, Thijs slapped a half-peeling sticker reading “Be More Exp—” above the locker room door. (The “ensive” had fallen off, leaving players to debate whether it stood for “Expressive,” “Expensive,” or… “Expendable.”) Officially, it was a call to “unlock potential and savor the game.” Unofficially? Working hard to raise your market value!

Thijs, for all his street-smart swagger and diehard fandom, understood the weight a manager should wield—the kind that makes transfer windows tremble and boardrooms sweat. Reality, however, hit him like a rogue pub stool within a week. His “reign” amounted to babysitting matchdays, while decisions on staff hires, janitorial schedules, and even the canteen’s questionable meatball recipe sailed clear over his head. He was less a gaffer, more a glorified substitute teacher with a whistle. Club control remained firmly clutched by Leon Annokkee (a smile that could curdle milk) and Gilbrano Kalk (a face sour enough to pickle herring)—the former dangling passive-aggressive pleasantries, the latter serving open contempt. The sole silver lining? Their mutual loathing kept them too busy scheming against each other to micromanage Thijs.

The mystery of Thijs’ sudden dedication baffled everyone. This was a man whose prior commitment peaks included never missing last call and perfecting the art of evading parking tickets. Yet here he was, dissecting match footage like a grad student cramming for finals. The secret? Pure, unadulterated rebel’s reflex. For over 30 years, expectations of him had been subterranean—“Just don’t get arrested before kickoff.” Now, with the entire town awaiting his spectacular implosion, he felt an itch to… double down. Not for glory, not for pride—but to spite the script everyone had already written. Local bartender’s take: “It’s like watching a stray cat adopt a library—weirdly endearing, probably doomed, but you can’t look away.”

Thijs dove headfirst into his first scandal with the finesse of a bulldozer in a china shop. On July 16th, Telstar’s U18s were slated for a friendly against Excelsior’s youngsters—a match now orphaned by the lack of a youth coach. While Annokkee and Kalk bickered over who’d temporarily fill the role, Thijs bypassed the bureaucracy entirely. He herded Telstar’s grizzled first-teamers—men whose legs had seen more seasons than Amsterdam’s tulip fields—onto the pitch against Excelsior’s starry-eyed teens. The outcome was less a football match than a cautionary tale. Eight goals later, Excelsior’s U18s trudged off the field, their confidence in tatters and their parents in full pitchfork mode. 

By the time Annokkee and Kalk emerged from their power struggle, the club gates were besieged by a mob demanding answers, apologies, and possibly a lifetime supply of therapy vouchers. As for Thijs? He patted his shell-shocked squad on the back, mumbled something about “bonuses… or maybe free gym towels,” and vanished—already three pints deep at the local pub, where the bartender began tallying a tab that could fund a small island nation.

Next morning’s backpage:“Telstar’s ‘Friendly’ Fire: Veterans Crush Kids 8-0, Parents Crush Club’s Reputation.”

Thijs, paranoid that Kalk would install some nepotism-born puppet, took matters into his own hands—or rather, a very large knife. He handpicked 10 scouting candidates, stapled their CVs with the precision of a deranged librarian, and stabbed the stack into Kalk’s desk like a pirate claiming buried treasure. For added dramatic flair, he returned that night to spray-paint fake blood on the knife handle. ("Subtlety," he reasoned, "is for people who own ironed shirts.")

Kalk’s response? A masterclass in ruthless pragmatism. The next morning, Henk Grim—a grizzled scout with a résumé boasting Ajax’s golden-era finds and a face like a weathered road map—strutted into the club. Not one of Thijs’ picks, but twice as qualified as all ten combined.

Even Thijs had to begrudgingly tip his beer to Kalk’s move. The man was an enigma: equal parts self-serving schemer and uncanny knack for talent. Rumor had it Kalk had poached Grim by threatening to leak his rival’s karaoke rendition of "Barbie Girl" from a 2003 staff party.

Thijs’ verdict, muttered into his pint: "Guess even vultures have their days."

Local Gazette Footnote:
"The knife remains embedded in Kalk’s desk—now labeled ‘Employee Suggestion Box.’"

July 26th – Two Weeks Until the Season Opener

Assistant coach Tamerus pulled off a minor miracle—somehow convincing German fifth-tier side Bonner SC to not only play a friendly but foot the bill for renting out their cavernous stadium. Compared to Telstar’s 3,300-seat shoebox, the venue was, in Thijs’ words, “bigger than Europe’s entire sense of shame.”

Tactics? Don’t ask. Still the same chaotic cocktail. Today’s mission? German beer tastings and sausage reconnaissance.

The match itself? A 3-6 Telstar win that Bonner’s coach described as “educational, if you consider a hurricane educational.” Post-game, Thijs led the squad on a “cultural exchange” through Bonn’s pubs, where his scouting report on kölsch beer (“less foam, more fun”) drew louder cheers than the victory.

Kalk’s Post-Match Note:
“Expenses: €1,200 (travel) | Revenue: €83 (merch sold to confused German pensioners) | Social Media Buzz: Priceless. Keep him drunk.”

August 5, 2023 – Saturday, One Week Until Season Opener

Tamerus’ second arranged friendly pitted Telstar against UR La Louvière Centre, a Belgian fourth-tier amateur side who’d also generously footed the bill for renting their grand local stadium.

Naturally, Thijs celebrated this act of hospitality by draining the white wine reserves at Château La Louvière, the town’s historic vineyard, like a man who’d mistaken Merlot for mineral water.

The match? A 2-4 victory—technically. Though beating far weaker opponents twice, Telstar had leaked five goals across both friendlies. Tamerus cornered Thijs post-game, clutching a defensive stats sheet that read like a horror novel: “Boss, league opponents won’t be this forgiving—”

Thijs, swaying slightly, raised a triumphant finger. “One. Hundred. Percent. Win. Rate. Since. Yours. Truly. Took. Over.” Each word dripped with the confidence of a man who’d just discovered basic arithmetic—and decided it was his personal prophet.

Tamerus’ internal monologue: “Our defense has more holes than Swiss cheese at a mouse convention. But arguing with a drunk mathematician? Futile.”

Postscript: The vineyard later sent Telstar an invoice labeled “Tactical Research Materials.” Annokkee framed it beside Thijs’ contract as a reminder that “eccentricity costs extra.”

August 2023 – Week One
As the season opener looms,

Thijs faces his first true managerial crucible. His month-long tenure has indeed brought the club copious laughter... and an equally impressive collection of empty liquor bottles and dubious receipts.

During the pre-match briefing, Tamerus delivers his dutiful reconnaissance: "Our first opponent is Roda JC Kerkrade, managed by Bas Sibum.

They're preseason favorites for a top-half finish, miles above our level. Key threats include Rodney Kongolo, the defensive midfielder once signed by Man City in his youth,

and Tiago Çukur, a 20-year-old Turkish striker from AZ's academy, freshly transferred from Fenerbahçe.

Their primary system is a 4-2-3-1 with a style that..."

Thijs, twirling an unmarked flask labeled "Tactical Fuel", interrupts: "Let me guess – they breathe oxygen and drink water too?"

Thijs strode to the tactics board and scrawled:
"Kongolo good → Çukur good → We're screwed?"

The locker room erupted in synchronized nodding – a sea of solemn bobbleheads.

"Listen up," he barked, "we've drilled one system all month. Same instructions, same chaos. And that's how we'll crush..." He turned to Tamerus with raised eyebrows, "What's their name again?"

"Roda JC..."

"Exactly! JC stands for Junior College! You lot scared of community college kids?"

Players' eyes widened like defenders witnessing a Rabona cross. Victory expectations hadn't factored into their survival calculus.

"Losing by less than three counts as a win!"

And just like that, Telstar's sacred tradition of gallows humor was restored. Someone's water bottle cap popped like champagne.

Press Room Leak:
Scouts later found "JC = Jesus Christ???" scribbled beneath the tactics board, suggesting divine intervention might've been part of the gameplan.

In reality:

Roda JC performed exceptionally well in the 2023/24 season, finishing third place only due to an inferior goal difference. As a result of Roda's successful season, Sibum was named manager of the season in the Eerste Divisie on 15 May 2024.

August 12, 2023 – Matchday 1: Telstar vs Roda JC

Their starting XI raised eyebrows – RB Beerten and AMC Karim seemed questionable choices. Before Thijs could finish muttering "What in the FM editor hell...", kickoff arrived.

1':

Telstar earns a free-kick near the right corner of the box. CB Jeff Hardeveld, the squad's set-piece savant, whips a curler to the back post. Left IW Youssef El Kachati, utterly unmarked, nods it home from point-blank range. The stadium erupts. Thijs, already sprinting down the touchline like a caffeinated greyhound, bellows: "FOUR-NIL UP ALREADY! YOU LOT ARE F*ING LEGENDS!" Roda players exchange glances of pure existential confusion. Their captain mouths to the ref: "Did we time travel?" 

The stadium became a cauldron of delirium, defying all rational pre-match projections. Thijs took a swig from his "tactical fuel" water bottle (contents: 40% mineral water, 60% Dutch courage) and glanced at the scoreboard's bottom line: Attendance 1877. For the first time in his life, his name wasn't being shouted by police officers conducting a pub raid. 1877 voices roared in unison: "THIJS!!!!!" – a primal chorus usually reserved for last-minute winners, not first-minute flukes. The water bottle was later enshrined in Telstar's museum under the label: "Relic of the First Miracle – Contents Still Classified."

23'：

Twenty minutes since the opener unfolded like a fever dream. The match descended into tactical purgatory – two reckless tackles yielding yellow cards, zero coherent attacks. Roda's gaffer Sibum orchestrated his touchline symphony: "Switch play! Overlap! Remember the drills!" His clipboard bore enough arrows to qualify as an ancient war map. Meanwhile, Telstar's XI morphed into backyard BBQ mode. CBs debated who'd buy the first post-match round. Wingers reenacted the goal with imaginary crowds. Roda's players exchanged glances of cosmic bewilderment – had footballing entropy chosen today to collapse?

Thijs shouts: "Keep smiling!" and "Someone mark... something!"

And the fans chant evolution: From "THIJS!" to "We Want Replays!" (of the only highlight)

The commentator: "How do you counterattack a team that's already celebrating victory in the 1st minute? This isn't football – it's performance art with cleats."

HT:
The ball camped in Roda’s possession, their superior quality shining… exclusively in their own half. Each foray into Telstar’s defensive third saw legs turn to licorice. The first half sputtered to a close.

Players bounced into the locker room, buoyed by their accidental competence, only to find Thijs studiously dissecting his laptop. On-screen: frantic Googling of “What brand of champagne did Milan open in Istanbul?”

RB Mitch Apau peering over his shoulder: “Boss… that was Liverpool’s—”

Thijs, slamming the laptop shut: “Irrelevant! Point is, premature celebrating’s bad luck. So from now on, we celebrate… retroactively!”

A local sports journalist somehow sneaked into the locker room and captured the scene. That night’s headlines blared: "Tactical Revolution Under Thijs! Squad Morale Reborn! Midfield Masterclasses via Laptop! Telstar’s Spring!" The article notably omitted the locker room’s distinct reek of alcohol and Telstar’s self-proclaimed status as "Hygiene Pioneers of the Netherlands"—a title unchallenged only because no sober inspector dared venture near.

45’:
Sibum emerged as the calmest soul in the stadium, having rolled the dice with a triple substitution—now fielding their strongest XI: wing-backs paired with wingers to blitz the flanks; a double pivot of a RGA and DM, all teeth and no retreat. Message clear: No mercy for the merry.

Thijs, meanwhile, turned to his bench: “Who fancies a runabout?”
The bench’s consensus? “We’d rather scout kebab stands.”

56':

A sudden roar from the pitch—“Holy shit, we’re playing Roda?!”—jolted Telstar’s squad awake. Reality crashed in like a tidal wave: they’d spent the first half treating this like a middle-school kickabout, all grins and zero stakes. Now, legs trembled as Roda’s players—bigger, faster, angrier—pummeled through challenges like bulldozers at a sandcastle contest. Roda’s Confidence surging, they carved through Telstar’s defensive third with surgical dribbles and one-touch passes. Every 50-50 duel ended with a Telstar player eating turf.

Thijs on the sideline: “Look alive! They’re just humans! Probably!”

The phrase “Roda Reality Check” later trended on Dutch football forums, defined as “the moment a pub team remembers they’re a pub team.”

62':

Telstar won a dangerous free-kick just outside the box. As Mohamed Hamdaoui lined up to take it, Thijs—ignoring the ref’s death glare—summoned him over.

Thijs brandished Hamdaoui’s payslip: €1.1k weekly.
“Who are you? What’s your name?”

Hamdaoui, baffled: “Mohamed Hamdaoui, born 1993 in—”

Thijs slashed the 1.1k to 1.0k: “Who. Are. You?”
“I’m Hamdaou—”

Thijs struck through 1.0k, scribbled 900: “Name. Now.”

Hamdaoui’s eyes narrowed. “My name is Ronald f**king Koeman! Set-piece maestro! This stadium’s my goddamn canvas!”

Thijs nodded, erased the numbers, and patted his back: “Go paint.”

It was close. The payslip later sold at a Telstar charity auction for €4,500—listed as “Minimalist Art: Wage-Driven Existentialism.”

66’:
Sibum threw on another sub. Thijs asked Tamerus: "Can we un-yellow-card someone?." After getting a "No”, Thijs responded by hauling off 2 yellow-carded players.

Commentator: "Thijs God! He’s read the tactical manual’s page on ‘common sense’—yellow cards mean substitutions! Who taught him?!"

A few minutes later, he substituted two more fatigued players. Thijs anxiously stared at the match clock on the stadium’s giant screen, counting down each second internally—time had never crawled slower.

It was football at its most gloriously shambolic: aimless kicks, blind passes, shots launched like confetti cannons—no tactical framework to speak of. Yet the 1,800 home fans couldn’t care less. They whistled Roda’s every touch and roared as if each mundane Telstar pass had clinched the Champions League. Someone struck up the club anthem; voices swelled until the entire stadium—no, the whole town—thrummed with defiant euphoria. The referee’s whistle sliced through the chants and cheers like a conductor’s baton, igniting a volcanic roar—not because the score mattered, but because the spectacle had transcended logic. The final whistle didn’t end the match; it merely paused the town’s collective delusion of grandeur.

Post-match, giddy players carried Thijs to the presser on their shoulders. Bombarded with questions, he sipped his “tactical fuel” and shrugged: “Eh, didn’t prep much. It’s just a game, yeah?” No one interrogated the “how” of victory. Long past midnight, drunken choruses still echoed through Velsen-Zuid’s cobblestone streets.

Tamerus, though, knew a season wasn’t won in a day. He fretted over the fluke—until spotting a notebook in the bonfire barrel. Its pages brimmed with Roda scouting notes ten times more detailed than his own.

August 2023 – Matchday 2 Preview

Telstar’s second league fixture sends them on a drowsy two-hour coach ride to Venlo—a sleepy border town straddling the Netherlands and Germany.

Its roots tracing back to 9th-century chronicles. By the 14th century, it flourished as a pivotal Meuse-Rhine trade hub, joining the Hanseatic League in 1375. Crowned "Europe’s Greenest City" in 2003, Venlo now breathes fresh air through its medieval bones.

The opponents, like Roda JC, are tipped for mid-table ascendancy. Manager John Lammers, mirroring Thijs’ rookie status (one month in charge), carries local legend cred: as a striker here in 1987-88, he racked up 50 appearances and 17 goals—a tally Telstar’s current frontline might need a whole season to match, or not.

Tamerus, clutching a binder thicker than a medieval tome, declared: “They’re stronger overall, but their best assets are clustered in midfield and defense—physical brutes who’ll dominate aerially. Their frontline? Slower than a pensioner’s chess match. Defensive fortress, attacking afterthought.”

Thijs unveiled his tactics board, scrawled with one instruction: “ALL OUT ATTACK.”

Hamdaoui, still basking in his near-miss free-kick glory: “Gaffer! You promised at the kebab stand—no more striker duty for me, right?”

Thijs: “Was I sober when I promised that?”
Hamdaoui: “No.”
Thijs: “What do drunk men do?”
Hamdaoui, grinning: “Make binding vows!”

Thijs sighed: “Christ, how’ve you survived 30 years? Even 19-year-olds know better. Lever!”

Lever, the teenage midfielder mid-nap: “Huh? Me?!”
Thijs: “You drinking last night?”
Lever, sweating: “Who said… I… didn’t?”

Thijs, triumphantly: “See, Hamdaoui? Drunks lie. Sober men lie better. Now shut it and play striker—or I’ll make you negotiate your next contract with Kalk.”

Cultural Subtext:
The squad later voted to ban all kebab-related promises. Lever now pre-games with espresso shots.

August 19, 2023 – Matchday 2: VVV-Venlo VS Telstar

1’:
Telstar charged forward per Thijs' "ALL OUT ATTACK" doctrine. Kaandorp launched the kickoff pass directly into Venlo right-winger Martijn Berden's kneecap. Venlo's counter sliced through like a stroopwafel through coffee: Berden whipped a low cross into the box where their striker Max De Waal tapped in amidst four Telstar defenders practicing synchronized ball-watching.

Thijs grabbed young left-back Elisha Ghartey by the scruff like an angry housecat:

"Know how sandwiches work? You're the fucking ham! That striker treated you like an all-you-can-eat buffet!"
Ghartey, trembling: "Boss... I'm vegan."
Thijs shoved a protein bar into his palm: "Congrats, you're pickled cucumber now. Go sour their party!"

20’:
Venlo left-back Roel Janssen waltzed into Telstar's final third. Two Telstar midfielders engaged in telepathic debate over who should mark him—"Your turn!" "No, yours!"—until Janssen's 20-yard roller glided into the net like a bowling ball on greased lanes. Telstar keeper Ronald Koeman saluted the beer ad behind his goal: "At least someone's hitting targets today!"

HT Stats:

Shots: 1 (Koeman's wayward goal kick that nearly decapitated a Venlo ball boy)

Fouls: 7 (all "collateral damage" from Venlo players laughing mid-dribble)

xG: 0.06 (Koeman insisted he'd score "in 16 more attempts, tops")

52’:
Left-back Elisha Ghartey gifted a penalty with a tackle worthy of a lumberjack competition. Thijs, perched on Tamerus’ shoulders like a drunk parrot, jabbed his finger left. Keeper Ronald Koeman nodded solemnly. The Venlo taker slipped, sending the ball creeping right at sloth-speed. As fans began celebrating, Koeman launched himself left like a magnetized flamingo. 3-0, Koeman remained frozen in his Titanic-style pose, whispering "I’m king of the left post!"

Thijs substituted both fullbacks using a traffic cone as a megaphone:
"Report to the ‘Defensive Masterclass’ seminar—aka washing Kalk’s car with toothbrushes!"
 

60’:
Nobody saw how the ball fell into the nets as everyone in Telstar's side is dizzy enough like a drunk clown.

It's over, Venlo 4, Telstar 0.

Post-Match Presser:
Reporter: "Your attacking approach led to a historic defeat. Any regrets?"
Thijs, sipping "tactical fuel" through a bendy straw: "Does Domino’s fire delivery guys for one late pizza? Nah! They pedal faster—just like we’ll ‘deliver’ goals next week!"

Locker Room:
Thijs balanced on a massage table waving a calculator: "New math! Losing by three’s a win? Then four’s a draw! By Fibonacci logic, next week we win by five!"
Keeper Koeman: "But boss, Fibonacci’s 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8…"
Thijs hurled the calculator into an ice bath: "See? Numbers ruin everything! Next week we play in hexagons!"
The squad cheered, already debating which kebab stall sold the crispiest fries.

Kalk invoiced Venlo for "celebratory dance-induced shirt depreciation".

Koeman’s Titanic freeze-frame became a meme tagged #IcebergMode.

Local chip shops offered "Telstar Specials": four portions for the price of five.
Managing Director Annokkee greenlit "Koeman’s Titanic Lager" merch, citing "brand synergy between sinking ships and our xG."

Crashing fall there, need to put it behind you and bounce straight back. Can't let one result define your season already.

Thanks for reading. Of course not, in the end, guess that's who we really are - underdog predicted to be the last.

No worries, looks a good challenge ahead. I'm trying my own underdog story out in the semi-pro leagues of Northern Ireland where 95% per cent of the squad are on amateur contracts so can leave at any time. Toughest managerial career I've played so far I tell you. KUTGW anyways. 👍