Erling Haaland has scored 37 goals in 46 games for Red Bull Salzburg since leaving Liverpool. Impressive? Well, in Austria, maybe not so much, Austria’s top league doesn’t exactly scream ‘elite competition’ But, here’s the kicker - 10 of those goals came in both the Champions League and Europa League, where he really showed his chops. He netted against PSG (twice), Spurs, Anderlecht, Feyenoord, and even Chelsea. Liverpool should be absolutely fuming, they could’ve used a striker with that kind of firepower, especially when he’s over there knocking in goals for fun in European competition and Liverpool are struggling to score more than once a game

Inter Milan publicly stated their interest in Haaland, and, true to form, Haaland played it cool, like the cool kid at school who knows everyone wants him on their team. A mere €22 million later, the deal was done. €22 million! For Haaland! At this point, that’s pocket change. Meanwhile, Real Madrid shelled out a whopping €121 million for Anthony Martial, who scored less than a struggling striker in a Sunday league game. It’s like someone handing out Ferraris for the price of a used bicycle. Inter Milan, on the other hand, just bagged themselves a steal with Haaland at €22 million and Liverpool are probably still trying to figure out how they got it so wrong.

Turning attention to Southampton, who somehow have money to burn despite being about as financially secure as a gambling addict at a casino, Marco Silva left the club in sixth place to take the England job, following in the footsteps of Claude Puel, who pulled the same move last season. Paulo Fonseca, ever the optimist, took over and immediately dropped a ludicrous €135 million bid to Real Madrid for Martin Ødegaard. Of course, Ødegaard chose to stick with La Liga champions rather than slumming it in Europa League Southampton. But at least Southampton can now say they tried because who needs European glory when you can pretend you’re competing with the big boys? It also shows just how far they’ve come, just not in the direction anyone expected

More bad news for Wolfsburg fans as their Norwegian wonderkid, Joakim Onshuus, has just signed for Dortmund for a hefty €52 million. Onshuus, who showcased his skills at the Euros with Norway seems to have decided that sunny Dortmund is more his style. And as for Wolfsburg? Well, it looks like the potential partnership of Onshuus and Joelinton was more of a fleeting dream than a long term plan. With Onshuus now gone, Joelinton is probably going to be leading the charge on his own though that’s not exactly the dream strike force Wolfsburg fans were hoping for. Talk about a lone striker situation.

The 2020 Champions League Final saw Manchester City vs Real Madrid. A showdown packed with plot twists, drama, and one very awkward transfer decision.

Kevin De Bruyne, now a Real Madrid player, was forced to watch from the stands with a face that said 'I’ve made a terrible mistake', having already played for City earlier in the competition and thus ineligible. Somewhere in the dugout Thomas Tuchel was probably adjusting his tactical notes with the smug precision of a man who’d just checkmated you in four moves and whispering ‘tactical decision’ to himself, referring to the transfer.

The match itself? Cagey, tense, and goalless until the 82nd minute when Kostas Manolas decided it was the perfect time for a red card. Down to ten men, Real tried to park the bus, but someone had clearly let the tyres down.

In extra time, Marco Verratti calmly slotted home a penalty, proving that short kings can indeed carry empires. Then came the moment Evan James, Canada’s finest export since maple syrup, took centre stage. Two goals in three minutes, both struck with the kind of swagger that said 'Who needs Kevin, eh?'

Verratti added another penalty for good measure, because why not? and Manchester City romped to a 4-0 win, claiming their long awaited Champions League crown. Somewhere, De Bruyne probably started Googling 'can I re-transfer before next season?'

Europa League glory once again belonged to Newcastle, who capped off a sensational season with a 1-0 win over Spurs at Wembley. The Magpies had been in near unstoppable form storming into the final with 16 wins and just two draws from their last 20 matches. Spurs, to their credit, arrived in solid form themselves unbeaten in eight and winning six straight but it wasn’t enough on the night.

Aleksandar Mitrović, ever the talisman, coolly slotted home a 33rd-minute penalty to settle it. That was all it took. Newcastle, already FA Cup winners and Premier League runners-up, sealed back-to-back Europa League titles. From years of stagnation under Mike Ashley to stacking trophies like it’s a hobby, Newcastle’s rise has been nothing short of staggering.

Part five - Touchline Ambitions

Scott Lańkowski stared at the email on his screen, his jaw tightening. Górnik Zabrze had bid €30k for Szymon Sobczak.

The offer wasn’t what made his blood boil,it was the fact that it was the exact amount of his release clause. The bare minimum needed to take him away. No negotiation, no room to push back. If Sobczak wanted to go, Ślęza’s hands were tied.

Scott shoved his chair back and stormed out of his office, heading straight for Marcin’s.

‘Thirty thousand. That’s it? That’s all they have to pay?’

Marcin sighed, already anticipating the reaction ‘we agreed to it when we signed him. He wouldn’t come without it’

Scott ran a hand through his hair, pacing. Sobczak had been crucial last season, his movement, his link-up play, his goals and range of passing. Losing him now, just as Ślęza were preparing to challenge for promotion? It was a gut punch.

A knock at the door cut through the tension. Sobczak himself.

He stepped inside, looking….. uneasy. Not like a man desperate to leave, but one who knew what was coming.

‘Górnik have bid, then?’ he said, his voice measured.

Scott folded his arms ‘yeah. You knew they might. What are you thinking?’

Sobczak hesitated, then exhaled sharply.

‘I wouldn’t and haven’t pushed for a move. I like it here. But now that they’ve bid… it’s the top division, Scott. You know what that means’

Scott knew exactly what it meant. A bigger stage. A chance to prove himself against the best in Poland. The same thing he wanted for all his players, but not yet. Not now.

For a second, Scott considered fighting it, convincing Sobczak to stay, telling him that Ślęza could be in that division soon enough. But he saw the look in his eyes. The decision had already been made.

With a slow nod, Scott sighed.

‘Fine. Go prove yourself. But just know, if we do get promoted, I’m not going to regret letting you go’

Sobczak smiled, a little wistfully ‘If you do, maybe I’ll regret it'

Scott Lańkowski didn’t have time to sulk over Sobczak’s departure. If Ślęza were serious about challenging for promotion, they needed reinforcements, and fast.

Marcin had already been working the phones, and within days, they had their first signing. Kacper Chodyna a talented young winger from Lech Poznań, joining on a season long loan. Quick, direct, and fearless on the pitch, Chodyna was exactly the kind of player who could help fill the gap left by Sobczak.

Scott met him at the training ground the morning after the deal was confirmed.

‘Glad to have you here, Kacper’

‘Glad to be here, coach’ the young winger replied

Scott could tell the kid was eager to prove himself. Lech had told him he wouldn’t be in their first team this season and he had a feeling Chodyna would be playing with a point to prove. That was exactly the kind of hunger Scott wanted in his team. But one winger alone wasn’t enough.

Marcin had pulled off another move, a free transfer for central midfielder Marcin Szymczak.

Szymczak was an interesting one. Twenty three, a bit of a journeyman already, but talented enough to make an impact this season. He’d bounced around lower league clubs, never quite settling, but Scott saw something in him. A calm presence on the ball, someone who could control the tempo.

When Scott called to welcome him, Szymczak got straight to the point.

‘I know I haven’t exactly had the smoothest career so far, but I want to prove I belong. I won’t let you down’

Scott liked that ‘good. Because we’re not here to coast we’re here to compete’

Two new signings in and despite losing Sobczak, Scott felt Ślęza were still in a strong position. 

== == == == ==

Scott Lańkowski had always trusted Blazej Radler.

Since the first day they’d worked together at the club, Radler had been one of his most reliable players, someone who got what Scott wanted from his team, someone who never needed to be second guessed. So when the Head of Youth Development position was mentioned Scott didn’t need to think twice.

He called Radler into his office, sitting back in his chair with a grin.

‘Blazej, I’ve got a new challenge for you’

Radler raised an eyebrow ‘oh yeah? You finally realized I’m too good for just coaching the kids?’

Scott chuckled ‘something like that. Look, I need someone in charge of bringing through the next generation of youngsters. I know you’re coaching the youth team, but I’m talking bigger, overseeing the full set up. I want someone who knows what I want from a player, and can make sure we don’t just rely on signings every year. You in?’

Radler didn’t even hesitate ‘Scott, I’d any job you asked me to do. You know that'

Scott nodded. He did know that. That was the kind of loyalty in football a manager needed

Radler leaned forward ‘I appreciate the opportunity, boss. Seriously if you think I can make a difference, then I’ll give everything to make sure our academy produces players that fit what we’re building here’

Scott extended a hand, and Radler shook it firmly.

‘Then it’s settled. Let’s get to work’

– – – – --

Chapter 49

The opening day of the season was always a test. No matter how much preparation, how many tactics discussed, how many drills run, nothing could fully prepare a team for the real thing.

Scott Lańkowski knew that. But after 90 dominant minutes in Bielsko-Biała, he also knew something else. Ślęza Wrocław meant business.

They wasted no time. Mikołaj Koftas was brought down in the box before the ten minute mark and with ice in his veins, he slammed the penalty past the keeper. 1-0.

Stal barely had time to reorganize before Artur Kwiatkowski pounced. The winger, still technically a Wisła Kraków player but still very much Scott’s man, drilled a low shot into the corner. 2-0 No panic. No hesitation. Ślęza took control again.

Koftas was hacked down in the area again. Another penalty. This time, Leandro stepped up, cool as you like. 3-0

And then, 31 minutes in, Leandro struck again with a clinical finish inside the box, punishing Stal for leaving him unmarked. 4-0

At halftime, Scott didn’t need to say much 'keep playing like that, and we finish this properly’

They did exactly that. Koftas made it 5-0, latching onto a ball over the top and rounding the keeper. Game over.

Scott didn’t celebrate wildly, he never did. But deep down, he knew this was a statement.

Ślęza weren’t here just to compete. They were here to challenge for promotion.

The next game would be a test, not just because Wisła Kraków were a big name, but because of who was waiting for Ślęza Wrocław on the other side.

Hubert Antkowiak for a start.

Scott had seen plenty of his former striker over the last few seasons. First, he left Ślęza for a shot at the top division with Odra Opole. Then, after their immediate relegation, he stuck around, tasked with firing them back up. Instead, they went down again.

And now? Now he had jumped ship to Wisła Kraków, another once proud club now drowning in second division football.

Alongside him? Matty Cash. Another player who had failed to keep Odra afloat despite being the best player in the league.

Scott couldn’t help but think, 'how are these two meant to drag Kraków back up when they couldn’t just not take Odra Opole up but they helped send them down?'

But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was making sure Ślęza were the ones celebrating at full time.

As the final whistle blew, and Scott was fuming. 0-0.

A match that was supposed to be a test, a statement, had turned into ninety minutes of nothing.

Neither side did much, and that was what infuriated him the most. No urgency. No real chances. No spark. It was as if his players had been lulled into the same half-hearted rhythm as Wisła. As if the match couldn't get any worse, Bartosz Jaroszek ensured it did.

With four minutes of normal time left to play, a lazy touch from an inbound pass and then a mistimed lunge, followed by a crunching sound, the kind that makes referees reach for their pockets before the player even hits the ground.

Straight red. 

Scott’s hands flew to his head ‘you’ve got to be f*cking kidding me’

Jaroszek didn’t bother protesting the red as he trudged off, head down, knowing exactly what he’d done.

Down to ten men, Ślęza simply held on, but the game had already been a disappointment long before the red card.

In the dressing room, Scott fixed Jaroszek with a sharp look first  ‘you’re better than that, a lot better than that. A simple pass to feet and you f*cked it up. You know better than that. You put us under pressure for no reason, fix it the next time I pick you’

No shouting, just expectation. Jaroszek gave a single nod. He knew.

To the rest of the dressing room, he didn’t explode, not yet. Instead, his voice was low, cold, deliberate  ‘that sh*t? That wasn’t us. That wasn’t the team that put five past Stal-Bielsko-Biała last week and took it to every team last season. That wasn’t the team that’s supposed to fight for promotion this season. That was just eleven guys, then ten (he shot Jaroszek a look) out there walking with their heads down hoping one of the others would make something happen. And if that’s how we play, then nothing will happen, no promotion, nothing’

Silence. He wasn’t asking. They would do better.

– – – – --

Chapter 50

Scott sat in his office, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the squad list on his desk. The Polish Cup was important, but promotion was everything.

Peter Bastista sat across from him, swirling a pen between his fingers, looked up to Scott and saw the concentration on his face ‘penny?’

Scott looked up, confused and said ‘say again?’

‘Penny for your thoughts. I can tell somethings on your mind, what you thinking about?

Scott smiled, exhaled and said ‘I’m not entirely sure Pete. Play the starters, give the top division team a game and risk fatigue or injury, or do we rotate and risk getting thumped?’

Peter smirked ‘you already know what you're gonna do. You're just waiting for me to say it first’

Scott let out a small laugh ‘yeah? And what am I gonna do?’

‘Rotate. Give Koftas, Leandro, Malania, Wellington, and Jaroszek a break. See what the other lads can do’

Scott drummed his fingers on the desk, then nodded ‘yeah, that’s exactly what we’re going to be doing’

However the plan didn’t work. The top division team controlled the match from start to finish, playing their first team and made light work of Ślęza who never really clicked.

A goal in each half sealed a 2-0 defeat, not exactly a cup run for the ages. After the match, Scott kept it short in the dressing room ‘not good enough. But some of you needed this game to step up. Some of you did. Some didn’t’. He left it at that.

If the Cracovia loss stung, the response in the league was exactly what Scott wanted.

Against Arka Gdynia, the first team names returned, and so did the results. A hard fought 1-0 win away, the kind of gritty, ugly result a promotion chasing team needs preceded a 2-2 home draw against Wisla Plock, the other team relegated with Wisla Krakow who are also favourites to go right back up

In the next match Ślęza Wrocław won 3-1 over Podbeskidzie Bielsko-Biała in another statement in their growing promotion push. Leândro was unplayable, twice setting up Chodyna, with Szymczak getting his first for the club. The midfield pressed hard, the defense stood strong. But the victory came with a price.

Mikołaj Koftas, one of Scott’s first choice strikers, his fighter, along with his strike partner Leândro , they’re Scott’s go to in big moments, Koftas went down clutching his leg in the second half. He tried to get up, waved off the physio at first, but when he put weight on it, his face twisted in pain.

Scott knew straight away.

On the sideline, he ran a hand through his hair. Not him. Not now.

Back in the dressing room, the confirmation came from the medical staff: a sprained ankle. Five weeks out if you’re lucky.

Koftas sat with his head down, frustration clear on his face.

Scott crouched in front of him ‘I know it’s a shit time for this, but you’ll be back. Five weeks is nothing. It’s not five months. We’ll need you when you’re ready’

Koftas nodded and didn’t say much.

Back in his office the next day Scott sat with Peter Bastista, eyes on the upcoming fixtures.

‘Five weeks without Koftas we’ll have to tweak things’

Peter nodded ‘Leandro can play up top on his own?’ a question not a statement ‘or maybe Chodyna playing off him?’

Scott sighed ‘we’ll have to figure it out. But we’ll miss him so will Leo’

– – – – --

Chapter 51

Scott sat across from Bartosz Jaroszek and his agent, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The offer had come in that morning, Videoton wanted a center half and they wanted the player that had been a key part of Scotts team.

Their initial offer of €14K was laughable. Scott had pushed it to €40K expecting the Hungarians to withdraw, but to his surprise they agreed.

Now came the hard part.

Jaroszek’s agent leaned forward ‘Bartosz wants to hear what Videoton have to say’

Scott let out a slow breath, nodding ‘I had a feeling he might, and I won’t block the move, but I won’t sanction it until we’ve got a replacement’  his voice was firm ‘II can’t weaken the squad before the window shuts. You know how important you are to us’ he said looking at Jaroszek

The defender hesitated, shifting in his seat ‘I didn’t plan on leaving boss’ He looked down for a second before meeting Scott’s eyes ‘but it’s an interesting move isn’t it. A different league, different challenge. I want to test myself’

Scott hated this part of the job. He nodded ‘I get it, reall I do. You’ve given everything for this club. If this is what you want, I won’t stand in your way... but I need time to bring someone in’

Jaroszek exhaled, clearly relieved. His agent nodded, understanding the stance.

Scott stood up, offering his hand ‘we’ll make this work for everyone’

Jaroszek shook it ‘thanks Scott’

Scott watched them leave, already running through names in his head. Replacing a defender, a key player at that, wasn’t ideal, but if he’d learned anything, it was to always be ready for change.

Scott didn’t waste time. Jaroszek might be on his way out, but Sleza wouldn’t be left scrambling.

He and Marcin sat in the office, a shortlist of defenders pinned to the board. Some were promising but unproven, others experienced but risky. They needed someone solid, someone who could slot in immediately.

Marcin tapped a name ‘Kevin Bonifazi. Italian, 24 but is experienced, and he’s strong’

Scott nodded ‘where’s he playing?’

‘Fidelis Andria, Serie C’

Scott’s brow furrowed ‘are we not a bit of a drop for a player like that?’

Marcin smirked ‘which is why we have a chance. He’s better than that level. Maybe he wants a fresh start and he’ll be a starter here, he’s been in and out of their team’

Scott thought it over quickly then said ‘yeah, fine. Make an offer’

Marcin got straight to work, sending out the €60K bid. Fidelis Andria didn’t hesitate, they accepted.

Scott exhaled ‘alright, now let’s hope Bonifazi wants to trade Italy for Poland’

– – – – --

Chapter 52

The Wroclaw night clung to the city like a damp overcoat, the kind you never quite shake off. The floodlights cut through the drizzle with clinical precision, and down on the pitch Sleza Wroclaw went about their business like seasoned professionals.

Scott Lańkowski stood on the touchline, arms folded, sharp eyed beneath the brim of the rain specked baseball cap he sometimes wore on matchdays. The scoreboard glowed against the air like a confession written in neon — Sleza 3 - GKS Katowice 0.

It had started steady, tense even. A game balanced on the knife’s edge, until Leandro pounced eleven minutes in. The Brazilian forward took a step backwards and drifted off his marker before calmly burying a low finish past the Katowice keeper. No wild celebration, just a fist bump and a round of high fives and that quiet confidence that comes from a man who knew the net would ripple before the ball even left his boot.

At half time the changing room was cool headed. No shouting, no tension and no grand speeches. Just Scott as ever calm but clear ‘stay focussed now. We don’t need to press aggressively or make any stupid decisions. First half is done, so go out there and win the second half, that’s all you’ve gotta do’

Then, just minutes after the restart the match shifted. Katowice’s usually reliable center half Luszkiewicz flew into Kwiatkowski as he cut inside, with the kind of tackle that only ever ends one way. The ref didn’t hesitate, straight red. Katowice were down to ten, and Sleza had a lot more space to move into.

Scott didn’t react wildly. Just a small nod and a wink to Peter on the bench, like a chess player seeing the board open up. He knew the moment to strike had arrived.

Jakobczyk up top, getting the starting nod in place of the injured Koftas made it two with a perfect header from a right wing cross that hung in the air longer than it had any right to, before dropping into the back of the net. The crowd behind the goal erupted, scarves flailing, voices raw with joy.

Then, on 79 minutes, Olszewski put the ribbon on the night. A clever give and go with Leandro as the young midfielder made a forward run then a neat touch past the keeper and it was 3-0. Job done.

Back in the changing room boots were off and laughter spilled like warm coffee on a cold morning as the boys were buzzing with the win. But Scott? He kept his feet on the ground. He moved between players, offering a hand on the shoulder, a quiet word here and there. The kind of presence that steadied the room.

This win mattered. Not just because of the scoreline, but because of how they got it,  controlled, ruthless, professional. No fireworks or flair for the sake of it. Just the kind of performance that made other teams take notice.

And Scott knew it ‘that’s how we do it’ he said to quiet the room ‘with discipline, composure and belief. I know managers always say about belief, but today I had the belief to let you play without much direction from me or Pete on the sidelines’ he looked over to Peter Baststa who nodded back, they didn’t direct or shout much from the touchline in the game. 

Scott continued ‘You all had a job to do and did it to perfection. The red helped but anyone could see we were controlling the game and would’ve won against eleven men anyway. That’s as good a win as we could’ve hoped for, and you’ve all got tomorrow off, you’ve earned it’

The team nodded, understanding and agreeing with the boss. Because games like these  didn’t just build seasons. They built something deeper.

== == == == ==

This season was all about a promotion challenge and it was already heating up early on, and Ślęza Wrocław were right in the thick of it. With each win or point gained the belief grew, not just in the stands but within the walls and the whole structure of the club. The team had come a long way under Scott Lańkowski’s leadership, this now being his fourth season in charge. His tactical tweaks, calm authority, the trust between him, Marcin and Peter and most importantly the close knit bond with the players had transformed Ślęza from a newly promoted side into genuine contenders.

But as the pressure of the promotion hunt was rising so too did the weight of expectation. Around the club, there was talk of plans for the future, of budgets, of what next season might look like in the top division, the Ekstraklasa. Scott smiled and nodded through it all, but a certain restlessness had started to creep in. It wasn’t dissatisfaction. Not exactly. More a question he couldn’t shake - What comes after this?

At training, he was focused. During matches, he lived every moment from the technical area. But in the quieter hours like those long drives home on the team bus, the quiet office evenings when the others had left, Scott found his thoughts drifting. He loved Ślęza and always would. But he also knew how quickly things could change in football. Sometimes the ambition that lifts a team can also pull a man in another direction.

For now, he was all in. But for the first time, the idea of what might be waiting beyond Ślęza no longer felt so distant.

-- -- -- -- --

January 2021 football news

Joachim Löw was finally shown the door at Arsenal with the club floundering in 13th, yes, 13th! The final nail in the coffin? A chaotic 3-2 loss away at Watford, where even the Hornets seemed surprised to be winning. Arsenal's season has been like a broken printer: expensive, frustrating, and refusing to produce anything of value.

Summer signing Kuki hasn’t played a single league minute, he's possibly still stuck in customs. Alexis Sanchez has managed just 8 goals in 22 games, Diego Costa looks like he’s accidentally wandered in from a charity match, and wonderkid Krainer? More cold brew than hot prospect so far.

Somehow though, possibly through black magic, a mountain of cash, or just sheer disbelief Arsenal managed to tempt Carlo Ancelotti to take over. Yes, that Carlo Ancelotti. The man with more trophies than most clubs and eyebrows that have seen it all.

Rumor has it he agreed just so he could prove that even he couldn’t make sense of this squad. Or maybe he mistook ‘Kuki’ for ‘Kroos’ during negotiations. Either way the Emirates is about to get a whole lot more sophisticated and probably a few more 1-0 wins.

And in another twist no one saw coming, except maybe every frustrated Man City fan on Twitter, Thomas Tuchel got the boot from Manchester City. Sacked while the club was floundering in 11th place, just two spots ahead of the chaos circus down at Arsenal.

Considering the squad he had, it takes a special kind of tactical wizardry to turn a team of stars into a mid table mystery. The board had seen enough by November. All the tactics and spreadsheets in the world couldn’t save Tuchel from the swirling storm of bad vibes. It was less football, more existential crisis in sky blue.

Diego Simeone took the plunge and left Atlético Madrid after nine fiery, full throttle seasons to take the Manchester City job. Some say he left behind a legacy of grit, glory, and at least one broken dressing room door per loss. Now he’s swapping La Liga street fights for Premier League chaos, and if nothing else the Manchester City touchline just got a whole lot more animated.

As January 2021 rolled around, Newcastle found themselves top of the Premier League table, proving once again that we might actually be living in a simulation. Chelsea were hot on their heels, followed by Manchester United, Spurs, Southampton..…and a surprisingly dangerous Liverpool side under John Terry. With Terry patrolling the touchline instead of the back line and no reports of wives being visited, he has somehow turned Liverpool into a team that defends like a fortress and attacks like it’s still 2006. Call it Terryball, call it chaos, but it’s working, and that’s the weirdest part.

Over in the scoring charts, it’s less golden boot and more tin slipper territory. West Ham’s Jonathan Calleri leads the way with 14 goals, Charlie Austin is in second with 11 for Southampton, and Wolves' James Wilson (more on him shortly) has chipped in with 9. All solid efforts, but let’s just say nobody’s threatening any records this season, it’s shaping up to be a low scoring slugfest.

2021 January transfer window 

The January transfer window was a bit of a snoozefest all things considered unless you’re Manchester United, of course, who apparently think Bayern Munich is their own personal supermarket. Having already splashed €121 million on Christian Pulisic in the summer, Jose Mourinho returned to the Bavarian aisle and slapped a €113 million bid on the table for Renato Sanches. Someone at Old Trafford clearly just searched ‘midfielders Bayern aren’t using properly’ and hit ‘add to cart.’ He would eventually turn them down, however.

They also shelled out €11.75 million for Vancouver Whitecaps midfielder Marcus Alderson, who was the 15th overall pick in the 2020 MLS Draft. Unproven in England, sure, but who needs Premier League experience when you’ve got highlights from rainy nights in Montreal? Whether he sinks or swims is anyone’s guess, but if nothing else at least now he’s more likely to face some real defenders than deal with turf burn from the rough MLS pitches.

So, Carlo Ancelotti, in his infinite wisdom and presumably after one too many glasses of Chianti, has decided that what Arsenal's leaky defence really needs is... James Wilson from Wolves. For the tidy sum of €62 million!

Now, don't get us wrong Wilson is a decent player and scoring goals this season. Works hard, puts in a shift and does give defences a hard time. But the answer to Arsenal's defensive woes? It's like trying to fix a burst pipe with a particularly enthusiastic plaster. You admire the effort, but you're pretty sure you're still going to end up with a flooded kitchen.

Are the Arsenal board all just nodding along like those Churchill dogs in the back of a car? Have they all been hypnotized by Ancelotti's suave Italian charm? We reckon the scouting meeting went something like this:

Ancelotti ‘we need to fix the defence’

Chief Scout ‘absolutely, Carlo. Any ideas?’

Ancelotti ‘James Wilson, Wolves forward, 9 goals so far’ *sips espresso dramatically *

Scout ‘on it, boss. Sixty Two million it is!’

It's enough to make you spill your Bovril! You'd think they'd be looking at world class center halves, maybe a commanding defensive midfielder to shield the back four. Instead, they've gone for a player who's probably wondering if they accidentally stumbled into a winning lottery ticket.

Look, maybe Ancelotti sees something we don't. Maybe Wilson has a secret defensive superpower he's been hiding. Perhaps he communicates with the ball telepathically and can gently guide it away from danger. It does feel like Ancelotti's master plan involves simply scoring so many goals that the opposition's tally becomes irrelevant. It's the footballing equivalent of saying ‘who needs a sturdy front door when you can just build a really, really big window and climb out before the burglars get in?’

Still, it'll be entertaining to watch, won't it? If Arsenal suddenly become a defensive rock, we'll all have to eat our humble pie. But if they're still conceding a couple of goals a game, well, at least we'll have a good laugh about the £62 million plaster that didn't quite do the trick. 

The only other noteworthy transfers in January saw Nabil Bentaleb pack his bags and leave Schalke for Chelsea in a €30 million deal that had some fans scratching their heads and others Googling ‘Is Bentaleb good now?’

Meanwhile, Romelu Lukaku’s neverending transfer saga; part football story, part soap opera finally reached its conclusion. After being linked to half of Europe (and probably one or two MLS sides for good measure), he landed at… Sassuolo. For €15 million. Yes, Sassuolo. For the price of a decent full back, they got themselves a striker who’s had more transfer links than goals lately. He averaged 18 a season for Everton, although the last two and a half seasons have been in the Championship where he scored 28 and 27 respectivley, and was on 13 before his transfer to Italy.

Young players dominated the rest of the window, with names that even the most die hard football fans had to squint at. Take Dieter Van de Voorde, for instance. Don’t worry, you’re not alone, no one else knows him either. The Belgian left full back was KAA Gent’s supposed gem and somehow convinced Atlético Madrid to cough up €31 million for him.

He probably packed his bags dreaming of crunching tackles under the watchful, growling eye of Diego Simeone. Instead? He arrives to find Jaco Menez in charge, a manager whose tactical philosophy seems to revolve around motivational playlists and hoping for the best.

Then there’s Fausto Vera, snapped up by Real Madrid for €45 million, because nothing says ‘Galáctico’ like splashing the cash on a Bundesliga midfielder with a decent highlight reel. Wolfsburg, ever the pragmatists, replaced him with John Brooks for €19 million. Not exactly like for like, but hey, at least Brooks won’t need a translator to yell at the back four.

Nicolás Magarelli, Boca Juniors’ teenage striking sensation that had attracted interest from some top European clubs, has swapped Buenos Aires for Belo Horizonte in a €29 million move to Cruzeiro. Bold choice, some call it a step up, others call it swapping bombonera pressure for Brazilian chaos. Either way, Cruzeiro clearly saw enough in him to break the bank. Let’s just hope he scores goals faster than the fans learn how to pronounce his surname.

Another youth prospect on the move as Samuel Nwafor, who only just started making waves in Braga’s first team, has landed a €25 million move to PSG. A tidy looking defensive midfielder with a good engine, he’s exactly what PSG need…..said absolutely no one, considering they’ve already got more DMs than midfield space. At this point, it’s less about tactics and more about collecting them like rare Pokémon.

Rounding off the youth signing from America saga, Dortmund have officially joined the MLS bargain hunt by splashing €2.2 million on Andrew Aguado. Yep, that Andrew Aguado that no one knew about a year ago, the second round pick in the 2020 draft, passed over by just about every club in MLS until the Red Bulls took a flyer on him as backup right back cover. Fast forward a season and he’s played every single game for them like he was always destined to start. Dortmund clearly saw enough to believe there’s more to this Cinderella story.  From forgotten draft pick to Bundesliga hopeful. Somewhere a Disney writer is taking notes.

Gladbach weren’t about to let Dortmund have all the fun raiding the MLS bargain bin. They went one better, or maybe one deeper, by signing Patrick Von Steeg, a third round pick by Portland, proving that hidden gems aren’t just found, they’re mined. While Von Steeg hasn’t quite lit up the league like Aguado, he did make enough of a splash at left back to convince Gladbach that there’s gold at the bottom of the draft. Who needs scouting networks when you’ve got MLS highlight reels and a transfer budget?

Chapter 53

The cold had teeth that afternoon. Not the kind that gnawed at your skin but the kind that worked its way straight into the marrow. Scott stood on the touchline, arms folded and the breath of the crowd rising in steady plumes. Fourth place in the league and looking to stay there. A win here before the winter break and they'd cement themselves right in the heart of the promotion fight. It should’ve been a good day.

But something was wrong.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. He just had a feeling, like the sky was hanging lower than usual, pressing down on the pitch, on the players and on him. As if the ground itself was waiting for something bad to happen. The whistle blew and from the first pass Sleza looked off balance. Sluggish. Half a step slow and no spring in the step.

Then it hit, literally. 

Leândro , the heartbeat of the attack if not the full team, went down awkwardly after a harmless looking tussle near the edge of the box. No scream or flailing arms, just a grimace that told the story louder than any shout could. Scott knew straight away that this wasn’t cramp or bruising. This was something worse.

The physios were out before Scott could even gesture. Leândro clutched his ankle like he was trying to keep the pieces from falling apart. Scott closed his eyes for a second, cursed under his breath and turned to the bench. Change number one, not even two full minutes had been played yet.

He hadn’t even sat down before the next blow landed.

Not even ten minutes later, a heavy challenge the kind you hear before you see flattened Zygmunt as he attempted to drive down the left hand side. The Lazio loanee tried to stand, grimaced, then crumpled back to the turf.

Another substitution. Another punch to the gut.

Scott barked instructions without thinking, his instincts on autopilot. Inside though, he could feel the day unraveling in his hands. Piast Gliwice weren’t world beaters. On another day, Sleza would have taken them apart. But not today. 

There was something in the air, Scott thought again. He could feel it. Like a storm that hadn’t broken yet, but would one way or another.

With two of his best players down and over half the match still to survive, he knew this wasn’t just a bad day.

By the fourteenth minute, Scott was standing still as a statue on the edge of his technical area, hands on hips, jaw set tight enough to break teeth.

Mikołaj Koftas, poor, battered Koftas went down chasing a loose ball. No contact, no foul, just one of those horrible moments where a body simply gives up.

Scott didn’t even move toward the bench this time. Just stared out onto the pitch feeling the helpless rage build up behind his ribs. Three substitutes used now. All of them inside a quarter of an hour. And no natural strikers left on the field.

He scribbled something on the back of his hand with a half broken pen. New plan. 4-1-4-1, if you could even call it that without a striker. It was desperation, not tactics. 

He called the midfielders over, barked the instructions in clipped, sharp sentences. Keep it tight. Keep the ball moving. No stupid risks.

But the football gods, if they even existed, weren’t done kicking him in the teeth.

From a corner, Diego Malania a rock at the back all season, a wall in human form was wrestled to the ground and didn't get up. He tried. Scott could see the grim determination on the defender’s face. But when he put weight on the leg, he crumpled again.

There were no substitutions left. Malania was done and the team are down to ten men.

Scott dug his fingers into the side of his coat, biting back every curse word he knew. He felt like tearing the whole day apart with his bare hands. And still, the nightmare kept rolling downhill.

Fifteen minutes from half time and a mere two minutes since Malania was carted off the pitch,Wellington the dependable keeper, the man he could usually trust to keep them in games went down holding his foot after an awkward collision. He tried to wave it off, but one look told Scott the truth. Wellington couldn't even stand upright, let alone defend a goal.

No subs. No miracles. No chance.

Scott turned to the huddle of battered players as Wellington took his time leaving the pitch, doing his part to try and salvage the game, looking for a volunteer.

Latka, the captain, tough as old leather and about as subtle stepped forward leafing by example, shrugging like a man agreeing to go wrestle a bear. 

Latka didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. He just nodded, pulled on the oversized gloves Wellington took off, and jogged back to the goal with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Scott watched him go, jaw clenched, hands shoved into his pockets like they could stop them from shaking.

There were days when you fought for every inch, when grit and belief were enough. And then there were days like this.

When the game decided it wanted to break you just to see if you’d get back up.

– – – – --

Chapter 54 

It was coming and Scott knew it. On 35 minutes, Piast Gliwice swung in a corner, routine and simple straight into the box where the nine men were outnumbered, and Latka, brave as he was never stood a chance. A clean header, no fuss, no fight. 1-0.

Scott just scratched his jaw and turned back to the bench. He didn’t say a word. What was there to say?

At half time it was still 1-0 to Piast, and the away changing room was heavy with silence, broken only by the clatter of boots and the hiss of the bottles being opened. Scott stood in front of them, hands on hips and looking over a team that wasn’t broken, not quite but it was damn close.

‘We all know that this is damage control now’ he said, voice even but tired ‘no miracles and no shame. I don’t expect anything more from you except guts and work ethic. We’re on the back foot but just finish as strong as we can’. No rousing speeches and no wild eyed fury. Just the hard truth of it laid bare.

The second half began and there was no fairytale comeback waiting in the wings. On 50 minutes, another ball into the box, another cruel outnumbered defence, another goal. 2-0.

Heads dropped, legs slowed, and before they could blink it was 3-0. Then 4-0.

Each goal like a hammer blow not just to the scoreline but to the soul of the team. Scott stood there, arms folded and lips pressed thin. He wasn’t mad at the players. He was mad at football for being the cruel bastard it was.

By the 72nd minute, it was six.

Six goals down, two men short, a defender wearing gloves in goal. But to their credit, Piast Gliwice didn’t mock and they didn’t gloat. Each goal was greeted with solemn nods and quick retreats to their half, as if they understood they weren’t playing an opponent anymore they were stepping over a wounded animal. When the final whistle blew, it was almost mercy.

Scott barely moved. His mind was a storm, a roaring, bitter storm he couldn’t shut out. Frustration and helplessness, the kind of anger you couldn’t aim at anyone because fate didn’t wear a shirt you could grab. Injury after injury. No luck, no justice and no chance today.

He clapped the players off, silent and proud of the ones who had stayed on their feet and fought to the bitter end.

In football, some days you climbed the mountain. Some days, the mountain fell on top of you. And this time, Sleza had been buried.

The medical room the next day  looked like a battlefield hospital. Six players, six vital players all laid up nursing injuries that would keep them out for weeks. Scott stood there, arms folded surveying the damage like a general after a losing campaign.

It could have been worse but at least the calendar was on his side. The winter break had come crashing down like a safety net. Two months of no competitive matches. Two months to heal, to rebuild and to refocus.

The physios moved with quiet urgency around the room. Koftas, Leandro, Zygmunt, Malania, Wellington and Latka, bruised and battered from his unexpected time in goal would all return. Not tomorrow. Not next week. But come February, when the snow thawed and the race for promotion lit up again, they'd be ready. That was the only comfort Scott could cling to. The only positive carved out from a wreckage of a day he wanted to forget.

He exhaled, long and low, and muttered under his breath ‘we’ll be back stronger,fitter. And meaner’

– – – – --

That's some hammer blow of a game that mate, never known anything like it.

Hopefully, the mid-season break will allow bodies to start to heal and you come back stronger. You are not out of this, just keep believing and destiny will take its hand. Period.

Aye mate it was chaos!! Couldn't beleive what was happening.

Chapter 55

The office was quieter than usual. Just the soft hum of the small coffee machine in the hall and the occasional knock of wind against the window panes. Scott leaned back in his chair, the light from the desk lamp slicing a warm, narrow path across the paperwork he wasn’t reading. He was waiting.

Jasezc Sadowski didn’t knock. He never did, much like Peter or Marcin who had gained Scotts trust. He let himself in with the easy confidence of a man used to important rooms, choosing to grace this one not out of obligation, but calculation.Jasezc had a knack for showing up when the air got thick. He represented Koftas and Leândro, had just added Zygmunt to his stable, and always seemed to know things a day before everyone else. A football agent, sure, but the kind who played the long game.

‘Scott, my friend’ he said, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes 'you look like a man who’s been thinking too much and not sleeping enough’ he finished with a laugh

Scott smiled then gestured toward the seat across from him ‘and you look like a man who’s about to sell me something, snake oil probably’. Both men had a lightheartedness in their tones, both knowing and respecting each other's opinion of him.

Jasezc sat and smiled, crossed one leg over the other like he was settling in for a fireside chat ‘I’m not here to sell. I’m here to open a door. Whether you walk through is up to you’

Scott didn’t say anything. He’d known Jasezc long enough to know when something real was coming, and this, this had the weight of something serious.

‘You’ve done some good work here that’s obvious to anyone’ Jasezc said, nodding as he glanced around the modest room ‘Ślęza were dead on your arrival a few years ago. Now they’re breathing down the necks of clubs with ten times the budget and a hundred times the ego. That’s not something that’s done lightly or on a whim’

Scott folded his arms and smiled ‘you’re not here to give me a history lesson I’m sure’

‘No of course not’ Jasezc agreed ‘I’m here because people are noticing. Not just me. People who matter in this game. Clubs. Directors. Chairmen who remember what it’s like to believe in a manager again’

He let that hang for a second, then leaned forward ‘you’ve got some of my guys playing like world beaters. I won’t lie, I was worried about Koftas at first coming here, but you’ve got him scoring important goals like he’s back in the school playground. Leândro, been turned from reliable hand at Radiom to an unstoppable jet engine. And Zygmunt, my word don’t think I didn’t see what you pulled off getting him back. Lazio doesn’t loan players out twice to the same second tier club unless someone’s twisting arms and whispering the right things’

Scott looked away slightly embarrassed. There was pride there for sure, but also a storm building behind his eyes. This club, this city they both meant something to him. But so did the feeling he couldn’t shake, that this might be as far as the train ran.

‘I’ve got contacts as I’m sure you know’ Jasezc continued, his voice low and smooth. ‘Bulgaria. Greece. Bosnia. Montenegro to name a few. Even a few in Germany who are looking for a guy who can take broken pieces and mould them into something that bites’

Scott’s fingers tapped the desk lightly, nodded and said ‘you talking job offers? Isn’t this tapping up?’

‘No my friend, and it’s certainly not tapping up. Nothing official, yet. But if you give me the nod, I can start setting things up. Nothing public. Just a few quiet conversations’

Scott looked him in the eye ‘you think I’m ready for that? Ready to move on from what we’ve built here?

Jasezc didn’t blink ‘I think you’ve been ready since this season started. But loyalty’s a funny thing. It feels noble, until it starts weighing you down. There’s a fine line between loyalty and ambition, Scott’

For a moment, nothing moved but the shadow of the curtains waving across the walls. Then Scott stood up and walked to the window. He didn’t look out, not really, he just stood there, jaw tight, heart loud. He was thinking about the games, the team, the faces in the changing room. And the quiet voice that had been growing louder in the back of his mind.

Jasezc rose too, smoothed his coat ‘just think about it’ he said ‘bigger things don’t wait for the right time’ and not waiting for Scott to say anything else he continued ‘sometimes the right people say some names in the right places’ more to the room than to Scott ‘and things start to move before you even know there’s a game on’ he let the silence draw out and said as he turned to leave ‘don’t be too surprised if a call or two comes in. As with Bytom and Ślęza, opportunities have a way of finding you when you least expect them’

And with that, he was gone, leaving only the faint echo of expensive shoes against cheap tile. Scott stayed at the window, staring at nothing.

He wasn’t ready to walk away, at least he didn’t think he was. But he was starting to wonder what it would feel like to run.

– – – – --

Chapter 56

The call came just after dusk, that pale blue hour when the city forgets itself for a while and everything is calm and serene. Scott was still at the office after everyone had left for the day just taking in the silence, mentally preparing himself for the second half of the season. His phone buzzed and the sound reverberated around the small room like a warning. Unknown number. He almost let it ring out and go to voicemail. But curiosity got the better of him.

‘Is this Scott Lańkowski?’ The voice was thick with Balkan gravel, sharp in a way that suggested power more than politeness.

‘Depends who’s calling’

‘Mr. Lańkowski’ the voice said, low and smooth like silk over gravel. ‘We haven’t met, but I believe we will. My name is Ivan Vasilev. You’ve never heard of me, but I’ve heard plenty about you’

Scott didn’t answer right away. The name dropped into the room like a stone in a quiet lake. He’d heard of Vasilev. Most people in Eastern European football had. Oil money, steel eyes, and a reputation for pulling strings in the dark. Lokomotiv Sofia are a big club that has fallen hard. But why is someone in Bulgaria calling? And more importantly, why now?

‘We’ve just parted ways with our first team manager, amicably I will add’ Vasilev continued, the calm in his tone the kind you didn’t trust ‘I’ve been watching Ślęza. Watching you. You’ve done a fine job. There’s a shape to your work, Mr. Lańkowski. I’m curious what form it might take in….somewhere like Sofia’

Scott leaned back in the chair. The hum of the lights above turned suddenly louder, like the room itself could feel the shift in the air. He stared out across the empty street outside. Same place he’d been every day for months. Same street lights, same cars parked in the same spots, the same routine in and out of the building. Except now someone else was holding a map.

‘I appreciate the call, Mr. Vasilev’ Scott said in a careful and slow way, so as not to give away anything ‘but I’ve got a season to finish. A club I care about. I’m not in the market for a job, or even looking for one’

There was a pause. Not a long one but long enough to feel some tension

‘You don’t have to decide anything now’ Vasilev said, voice like a curtain drawn halfway across the window ‘just know the door is open and we’re looking for someone to come in and make foundations out of dust. Someone with a vision, someone just like you’

Scott didn’t know what to say and Vasilev broke the silence ‘I’ve already requested permission to speak to you though official channels, this was just a courtesy call’

The line clicked dead before Scott could answer.

He sat there, phone still warm in his hand like it had whispered something it shouldn’t have. The walls around him hadn’t moved, but they felt thinner somehow, like the world outside was pressing in with new shapes and shadows.

It wasn’t that he was ready to leave Ślęza. He wasn’t, he was sure of it. But the idea had been planted by a stranger with a name like a riddle and an offer that didn’t ask for a decision, just curiosity.

Scott exhaled slowly. He’d take the interview if the caller was serious. It wasn’t that he wanted out, but something in that call made him wonder if he’d outgrown the room he was sitting in.

He didn’t think he was ready to leave, but someone else clearly thought he should. And that changed everything.

– – – – --

Chapter 57

It was early when Scott arrived, the kind of early where the day still felt undecided. Scott was in the office nursing a lukewarm coffee and staring at a whiteboard that had once felt full of possibility but now just looked like a list of names fading in dry ink.

A knock came, two short raps then the door creaked open. Slawomir Sobczak, Ślęza chairman stepped in, coat still draped over his shoulders like he hadn’t planned to stay long.

‘I’ve had a call’ Slawomir said, voice tight, measured with a formal request ‘another club wants to speak with you’. Short, dry and to the point as if he was angered by the conversation.

Scott felt the beat of it in his chest. He leaned back slowly, letting his chair sigh under the weight of his silence ‘Bulgaria, I’ve had a…..’

Slawomir cut him off by shaking his head ‘No, not Bulgaria you got it wrong, it’s Bosnia. Slavia Sarajevo. The chairman is Gojko Drasković. He’s asked if you’ll take a meeting’ and before Scott could say anything he said ‘why did you say Bulgaria, were you expecting someone else?

Scott blinked once. Twice. The name didn’t register right away. It wasn’t the call he’d been expecting, this was another one cut from a different angle. One he hadn’t seen coming or been prepared for.

‘I didn’t think I was on their radar’ he muttered.

‘Well it looks like you are now Scott’

The room sat quiet for a moment, a thin stretch of space between here and whatever might come next.

‘Tell him I’ll take the call’ Scott said finally, his voice calm but a step slower than usual. ‘Doesn’t hurt to listen’

Slawomir nodded, and left the door half open as he walked out. Scott stayed seated, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

The meeting was arranged and was held in a tucked away room at a hotel on the edge of town, the kind of place where the wallpaper didn’t match the furniture and the lighting made everything feel like a secret. Scott arrived five minutes early but waited in the corridor until the minute hand landed squarely on the hour. He walked in like a man stepping onto uncertain ground. Because he was.

Gojko Drasković was already there. Tall, immaculately dressed, but not flashy. The kind of man who could disappear in a crowd or dominate a room, depending on what he needed. His handshake was firm. Too firm. Like he wanted to remind Scott that everything about this was real.

‘Scott’ he said, gesturing to the seat across from him ‘thank you for coming. I don’t believe in wasting time, so I’ll be direct’

Scott nodded. He’d expected as much. He sat, spine straight, hands folded loosely.

‘You know our situation’ Gojko said ‘bottom of the league. One win all season it’s not good enough. Morale shot all the way to hell. But Slavija Sarajevo, we are not a small club. We have history. And now, we need a rebirth. I’ve read about your work at Ślęza. You save a team and then you build. That’s what we need’

Scott listened, eyes steady, his mind less so. Bosnia. A new country. A team in freefall. It wasn’t just a gamble, it was more like stepping off a ledge and trusting that the wind would carry him. Here in Wrocław he had a squad, a system. Familiarity. But comfort didn’t win titles or cups.

He thought of the players, Leandro, Koftas, Malania, Kwiatkowski. The conversations he held daily, the silent handshakes in the tunnel before kickoff. He thought of the cold nights reviewing tactics with Peter, the quiet satisfaction of watching a plan come together on the pitch.

But then he thought of the wall he’d hit. The unspoken sense that maybe, just maybe, he’d taken Ślęza as far as he could. Promotions were dreams. Titles were ambitions. But stagnation…..that was the death of a manager.

Gojko leaned forward ‘I am not going to lie to you, this is a rescue job. If we go down, the damage will probably be long term. We need someone bold enough to turn the tide. You’ve done that before with a points deduction’

Scott looked at him, seeing both a challenge and a warning. The kind of job that could break a man. Or make him.

‘I also won’t lie, I am intrigued’ Scott said quietly.

‘But?’

‘There’s always a but’ He didn’t say it, but it hung between them. The timing. The loyalty. The weight of leaving halfway through a season. Ślęza wasn’t just a job, it was something closer to home.

Still…..Sarajevo. A new language, a new league, a new fight with a new team. A clean slate.

Gojko gave a slight smile ‘sleep on it. But not too long. I can’t wait forever for an answer. I’m against the clock here’

Scott left the room feeling the ground shift beneath him, just enough to make him question whether staying still was the right kind of safe.

Outside, the world kept moving like it didn’t care about decisions made in quiet hotel rooms. But inside, something had changed. And change, once it starts, doesn’t stop just because you ask it to.

== == == == ==

Scott drove through the city like it might offer an answer, headlights tracing a path that felt more symbolic than necessary. He ended up at the training ground not out of duty, but instinct. The place was dark, save for the low glow from the office windows. Peter was there, as expected, his coat slung over a chair, face lit by the bluish hue of a laptop screen. Marcin sat across from him, spinning a pen between his fingers with a casual rhythm that only half disguised his worry.

They looked up when Scott stepped in and the silence that followed was the kind that said everything had changed, even if no one said a word.

Peter leaned back ‘so… it’s not Sofia, is it?’

Scott shook his head slowly ‘no, it’s in Sarajevo.’

Marcin whistled, low and thoughtful ’Bosnia. Didn’t see that one coming’

‘They’re bottom of the league’ Scott said ‘one win all season. The chairman wants me to take over’ before either man could say anything Scott continued ‘I don’t think even we could save them at this point’

Peter frowned like he was bracing himself for bad news ‘forget that for now, what is it you want?’

That was the question, wasn’t it? ‘I don’t know, genuinely don’t know’ Scott admitted ‘they’re in a mess there and will probably go down, and if they do will I get kept on to lead the charge back up? It is a top division job and a competitive league, and a clean slate. I’ve kept thinking all day if this is the next step. Do I, do we (he emphasised the word) jump now from a secure job, a team challenging for promotion to the top league to a team struggling to stay in a top league? What does staying here mean, are we just repeating ourselves?'

Marcin spoke up, tone steady as always ‘you’ve done a hell of a job here. No one can argue that. If you leave, it’s not betrayal. It’s evolution. But leaving now, mid season, I’m sure you’d want to finish what you started, and that’s getting promoted. And if we do we’re definitely staying, if not, well then that’s a conversation for then isn’t it’

‘I’m not asking for permission’ Scott then said but a bit softer than he meant to ‘I needed to hear it from you two’

Peter was already shaking his head ‘you knew exactly what we’d say, so I’ll say it anyway, if you go, I go. Same for Marcin’

Marcin gave a small nod ‘yes, absolutely. We’d both go with you. But I’ll be blunt, Scott, I don’t want to, not yet anyway. Not like this. Walking out with the job half done. Promotion is there, fingertips away’

Scott looked down at his hands. They’d built something together, stitched it together out of loans, cast offs and belief. And here he was, contemplating stepping away from it mid season.

Marcin then stood up, walked over, and put a hand on Scott’s shoulder ‘whatever you decide’ he said ‘you won’t be alone. But just think hard about the timing. You’ve proved you can take a team further than it should go. You’ve earned more than this league can give. But there's a legacy here, too. Don’t walk away from it just because someone flashed the lights in a different direction’

Scott nodded. The truth was, he didn’t know what he’d say to Drasković. Not yet.

But the pull of the unknown was louder than it had ever been.

And whether he admitted it or not, the door had cracked open. The question now was whether he had the guts to walk through it or if he had the discipline to close it again.

The call came early the next morning. The kind of hour that made men nostalgic or reckless, depending on how their week was going. Scott was in his office alone, the murmur of the squad arriving to training drifting faintly through the cracked window.

His phone lit up.

IVAN VASILEV

He stared at the name for a second too long. Then answered.

No pleasantries just the voice. Calm. Measured. A foreign lull laced with control.

‘I hear you’ve had another offer’

Scott leaned back in the chair letting the silence hang just long enough to mean something. ‘Slavija Sarajevo' he said. 
 

'Yeah I’ve….’ Scott was cut off by Ivan’s dry laugh

‘Bottom of the league’ he said ‘desperate men make poor choices’

Scott exhaled through his nose ‘I’m not desperate’

‘Then why are we talking?’

That made him sit forward.

‘Because I respect the call and your time. But the tone and question has made my mind up for me. I won't hide it, I was on the fence about Bosnia, and Bulgaria. And I’ll give it to you straight, Ivan, I’m not leaving Ślęza halfway through the season. Not for Sarajevo. Not for Sofia. I’ve got a group of players who’d run through walls for me and this club, and a staff that still believes we can achieve promotion this season. I’m not going to walk out while the job’s still in front of me’

There was a silence on the line, but it didn’t feel like the end. ‘I was right about you, I told my guys here you believe in loyalty. That’s good. Rare, but good’ Scott could hear the turn in Ivan’s tone. Less persuasion now. More calculation ‘If we stay up’  Ivan said slowly 'and you don’t go up…..I might call again. And when I do, you’ll be ready to build something bigger than loyalty’

Scott didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the whiteboard on the far wall. Formations on the left and current injuries on the right. And slapped right in the middle a hand scribbled note that read ‘next step?’

‘Possibly. If the timing is right and we….’ Ivan cut him off again

‘It will be’ and the line went dead. No goodbye, no sales pitch, just the lingering sense that the ground beneath him in Slęza might not feel like home forever.

Scott sat in the dark a little longer, listening to the quiet and readying himself for the day. The kind of quiet that follows a decision, not a victory. He wasn’t going anywhere, not yet at least

The shadows were moving now, and with the second half of the season to go, he wasn’t sure he’d still be here when the sun came back around.

-- -- -- -- --

== == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == == ==

Chapter 58

The training ground was quiet in that awful, unnatural way where the only sounds were the echo of concerned voices and the distant wail of the approaching ambulance. The kind of quiet that settles in your chest and refuses to leave.

Scott stood frozen near the touchline, boots rooted to the soft churned earth, eyes fixed on the spot where Mikolaj Koftas had fallen. The header hadn’t even been contested, just a mistimed leap, a turn in the air and then gravity did the rest. His landing was all angles and agony. The kind of fall you didn’t walk off.

A broken leg. Clean. Brutal. Season ending.

Scott hadn’t spoken much as they took Koftas away. There wasn’t anything useful to say. He just gave the lad a squeeze on the shoulder as they lifted him into the ambulance. Koftas had tried to smile through the pain, but even his usual fire couldn’t mask the fear behind his eyes.

Now, with the squad dismissed and the sun slipping low behind the trees, Scott remained alone on the grass watching where it all had gone wrong. The pitch looked the same. But something about it felt colder. He rubbed his jaw, more out of habit than thought. Koftas had been more than a reliable player, he’d been his player. One of the first to truly buy into the way Scott wanted to build things. Energetic, brave, the kind of player who made others stand taller just by being around. And now, with his contract expiring in June, the timing couldn't have been worse. For club or player.

Scott wasn’t just sick over the injury. He was sick over the question it raised. If Ślęza earned promotion, maybe there’d be a reason to offer a new deal, to bring Koftas back in slowly, make him part of the next chapter and show loyalty to a player that has gone above and beyond for Scott since the beginning. But if they didn’t?

If Scott was standing in front of an open door himself, ready to walk through it for the sake of his own ambition, then what? Did he hand a contract to a player who might never be the same, only to leave him behind months later? He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration of the situation simmering.

There were no easy calls anymore. Not for him. Not for Ślęza. Not for Koftas.

The night drew in around the training ground like a slow curtain. Scott finally turned away from the pitch, boots crunching faintly as he walked back toward the changing rooms.

His player was broken. His future was uncertain. His own path forked somewhere in the fog.

But the season still had matches left. And the shadows weren’t done with him yet.

The dust hadn’t even settled on Koftas’ crutches before Marcin was on the phone, working angles. He knew the score, Ślęza couldn’t sit around feeling sorry for themselves. Not if they wanted to stay in the fight.

An offer went in fast to Śląsk Wroclaw for Tomasz Budzyn, a promising forward with sharp instincts and the kind of raw potential you don’t teach, only shape if you’re lucky. A few hours later, the deal was done with a short term loan until the end of the season. No frills, no grand promises. Just a handshake and a chance.

There wasn’t much time to bed Budzyn in. The next game was breathing down their necks, and it wasn’t some mid table soft touch either. It was Wisła Płock. Relegated last season, favourites to go back up and currently second in the league. Hungry for automatic promotion and ruthless enough to take it.

Scott sat in his office that night, the thin winter light fading outside and stared at the tactical board. Fresh legs in Budzyn, maybe. And while he was missing a trusted player in Koftas there was still a charge in his blood that he always got on match days, the thrill of standing in front of something bigger and daring it to blink first.

Halting Wisla’s promotion charge? That was the kind of fight he could get behind. As kick off crept closer, the nerves twisted in his gut. Not fear, no, Scott Lanowski didn’t fear but the restless edge of a man who knew nights like this could make or break a season.

He knew the stakes. Knew Plock would come at them like wolves.

== == == == ==

The match started like a punch thrown in the dark, quick, desperate and looking to land early.

Ślęza won a free kick barely a minute in, a scuffle in midfield leaving a Płock defender a fraction too slow. Glanowski stepped up, cool as midnight, and bent the ball over the wall and into the corner.

One-nil. A dream start born from chaos.

But the early strike didn’t settle the nerves, it only made the air heavier, the tension thicker. Wisła Płock weren’t the kind of side to roll over after a bloody nose.They came back snarling, throwing bodies forward, hammering Ślęza’s back line with crosses and cutbacks.

Scott paced the technical area, arms crossed tight against the cold and his own pounding heart. Every ball into the box was a knife thrown blind. Every clearance was met with a roar from the stands, part relief, part prayer.

Ślęza gave as good as they got. Leândro, battered and bruised but still ran himself ragged chasing down lost causes. Malania and Jaroszek, back from injury but not at full tilt, threw themselves into tackles like men possessed. The goalkeepers, both of them, earned their wages twice over with desperate saves.

The rest of the match was trench warfare. End to end. Measured passing gave way to desperation. Płock threw everything forward with purpose, pinning Ślęza back. 

Budzyn came off the bench for his first appearance and chased lost causes up top like a dog after scraps, while Latka barked orders from the back like he was manning the last line at the Alamo.

Then, the moment. Six minutes to go. A tired cross fizzed into the box, too quick for its own good. Nowacki, trying to cut it out flicked it with the outside of his boot wrong footing his own keeper.

Two-nil Ślęza. Game over. Relief. The promotion challenge still on.

Scott didn’t celebrate. Just clenched his fists in his coat pockets and muttered a quiet ‘we take those’

As the final whistle blew, Płock's heads dropped, Ślęza’s stayed high. Scott had walked into this one with half a team, and walked out with all three points.

Promotion might have felt like a fantasy once. Now, it was starting to feel real.

== == == == ==

Chapter 59

The form had stuttered, five wins from ten since that hard fought triumph over Wisła Płock. Enough to keep them in the race, not enough to run away with it. A stretch that included three losses in a row had drained the wind from Ślęza’s sails just as the home straight loomed into view.

With four games remaining, they were clinging to third, two points behind Wisła in second and the last automatic promotion place. The pressure was a constant hum now, under the skin, in every training drill, every team talk.

They responded with a solid 2–0 win over Sandecja. Professional. Efficient. A necessary answer to any creeping doubts. But Wisła had won too, keeping the two point gap intact.

Then came Widzew Łódź. A home game. A chance to apply real pressure. Instead, a 1–0 defeat. A single lapse at the back. A miscommunication. And another opportunity wasted.

After the game, the dressing room was a quiet pit of regret. The lights harsh, the silence harsher. Scott was in his office, still in his match day jacket, staring at the tactics board like it had betrayed him, when there was a knock at the door. It was Leândro, asking if he could talk with Scott

Scott motioned him in without a word. The striker stepped inside, closing the door behind him. For a moment, he just stood there, hands in his tracksuit pockets, eyes fixed on the floor.

‘This isn’t about tonight’ he said finally

Scott leaned forward slightly, sensing the weight in his voice.

‘I’ve made a decision’ Leândro said, his voice low but steady ‘I’m going to retire at the end of the season’

Scott blinked. It landed like a punch that came without warning, silent, clean, but with a thud in the chest ‘retire?’ Scott asked, then said ‘you’re 32, you’re the leading scorer in the league’

‘Almost 33’ Leândro said with a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes ‘my body’s talking more than it used to. And I’ve been thinking about it a while. This feels like the right time’

Scott leaned back in his chair, the words hanging in the air like dust motes in the afternoon light. Leândro. His and the leagues top scorer. His link between midfield and miracle. Gone after this.

‘Well Leo, I wasn’t expecting that’ Scott admitted ‘not now’

‘I didn’t want to say anything mid-season’ Leândro said ‘I didn’t want it to become a distraction. But I thought you should know now before anything is planned for next season’

Scott nodded slowly, mind already working through the implications. No Leândro. Koftas will still be recovering well into next season. If they did get promoted they'd be going up with holes in the front line.

‘I appreciate you telling me’ Scott said eventually ‘I’ve got to admit… I’m worried’

Leândro gave a quiet chuckle ‘you and me both’ 

He stood, placing a hand briefly on Scott’s shoulder ‘we’ve still got time to make this season mean something. Let’s finish it right’

Scott watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him like a final note. He stared at the tactics board again, suddenly less like a plan and more like a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

Promotion was still possible. But what waited on the other side? A front line in ruins. A squad losing shape. And the question he’d been dodging for weeks now breathing down his neck again; what happens to a builder when the foundation cracks?

Three games left. Two points to make up. One striker with his eye on the horizon. And a manager who didn’t know where he’d be standing when the dust settled.

Three games to go. Two points off second.

Everything was still possible. But everything could still fall apart.

== == == == ==

Chapter 60

Bytovia made them fight for everything. Ninety minutes in a cramped little ground where the grass looked tired and the stands felt closer than they should. Ślęza never found rhythm, never found air, but they found enough grit. A scrappy tap in from Szymczak in the first half, an early strike in the second from Leândro and the job was done. 2–1.

Scott stood on the touchline at full time, the air cool, the sky flat. Victory should’ve tasted sweet. But as the players trudged toward the changing rooms word came in from Płock. Wisła had done their job. Second place at worst was theirs. Promotion for Scott, gone.

The dressing room was silent on the ride back. Nobody said it out loud but everyone felt it. A season of chasing the promotion shadow for the second season in a row, of clawing and scraping, ended with the cruelest of truths; they had come up short. Again.

For Scott, the silence was heavier than any loss. He stared out of the bus window, city lights flickering by like half formed thoughts. This was what he had feared, being good just not being good enough. Ślęza had punched above their weight all year, just like the last two seasons at this level, but above a man’s weight is only so far you can swing before your arms give out.

One game remained. Piast Gliwice away. On paper, nothing left to fight for. No promotion and certainly no glory. But Scott knew better. Football never gave you clean endings. His players needed something to hold onto. He needed something to hold onto. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was proof. Maybe it was just the refusal to let the season die with a whimper.

Whatever it was, he would take it into Gliwice.

Because even if the dream was gone and his heart was gone, the fight wasn’t. Not yet.

The Piast game had an odd silence to it. The kind of hush that hangs in the air before a storm. Their ground was nearly full, banners ready, champagne bottles waiting in the wings. Piast knew a win would hand them the title. Ślęza were supposed to be the footnote, the patsies in someone else’s celebration. But football doesn’t read scripts.

For eightyeight minutes, it was cagey, tense, as if both teams were waiting for the inevitable. Piast pressed, corner after corner, their fans roaring at every half chance. Ślęza bent, but didn’t break. Wellington pulled saves out of nowhere, the back four throwing bodies in front of shots like men possessed.

And then it happened.

A clearance, high and hopeful, broke the other way. Leândro took  touch and flicked it on after a slip from the covering defender Bialoruski. Suddenly Kwiatkowski was through, grass in front of him and only the keeper to beat. He didn’t hesitate. Low, precise, ruthless. He met the keeper rushing out, opened his body on to his right foot, he gently glided the ball with his stronger right foot, the ball hit the net as softly as could be and the stadium gasped in disbelief.

89th minute. 1–0 Ślęza.

By the final whistle moments later the Piast players dropped to the turf, champions turned nearly men in the blink of an eye. Wisła Płock’s fans somewhere else were celebrating instead.

Scott didn’t celebrate. Neither did his players. They shook hands, walked off with their heads low, as if winning away to the champions elect was just another reminder of what they’d failed to do themselves.

In the dressing room, the mood was flat. Shirts peeled off, boots unlaced but there was no laughter, no dancing around. Kwiatkowski sat alone, staring at the floor despite having scored the goal that won the game

Scott looked around the room. The smell of sweat, adrenaline and liniment hung heavy, the sound of dripping showers filling the silence. His players had just beaten one of the best sides in the division, but it didn’t feel like triumph.

It felt like the end of something.

Ślęza would finish third for the second season in a row. For a club their size it was remarkable really, more than anyone outside the club had expected. But here, with tape still clinging to shins and bruises fresh from ninety minutes of resistance, it felt hollow. Third wasn’t promotion. Third was being close enough to see the promised land but still locked outside the gates.

== == == == ==

Scott lingered a moment longer, watching his players shuffle out, heads down, kit bags and boots dangling from tired hands. His eyes settled on Leândro. The striker sat quietly, towel still over his heavy shoulders, as if the weight of all the years had finally caught up to him.

Eightyfour league games. Sixtytwo goals. Those numbers only told half the story. Leândro had been the man to drag Ślęza out of tight corners, someone who could turn half chances into lifelines. He wasn’t just a forward, he’d been the heartbeat of their rise.

Now, this was the end of the line. No speeches, no fanfare, just the silence of a man who had given everything and decided it was time to step off the stage.

Scott felt the ache of it. Promotion or not, losing Leândro meant something would never be the same again, and with that Scott didn’t say a word. Some things didn’t need saying. The room felt emptier already.

== == == == ==

Summer 2021

With two games left in the 2020/21 Premier League season, Newcastle sat top of the pile on 75 points. Manchester United lurk just behind on 74, while Liverpool, now led by self proclaimed defensive mastermind and top shagger John Terry, are third on 72. Spurs, in a shocking plot twist, somehow make the top four at all, sitting fourth on 64 points. After that it’s the other Manchester team and Arsenal, both hanging around like uninvited guests at a house party

Drama at both ends of the country as Manchester United waltzed by Bournemouth 3-1 away, just about proving that throwing money at problems sometimes does work. Meanwhile, Newcastle’s title dream took a brutal punch to the gut at St. James’ Park, as Man City rocked up and nicked it 1-0 thanks to Paulo Dybala scoring what might be the goal of the season, cutting on his right before outwitting the defence and keeper with an audacious curler on the outside of his left foot just inside the area, a strike so good half the Gallowgate probably clapped out of sheer disbelief.

Liverpool weren’t about to let the party stop either, grinding out a win away at Hull, because of course John Terry’s Reds weren’t going to bottle it just yet. 

So, with one game left Man United are now top on 77 and just need to match Newcastle & Liverpool's result to win it, Newcastle and Liverpool right behind both now tied on 75, and a whole lot of nerves jangling across the country.

Final day, everything to play for and Liverpool did what Liverpool and John Terry do best; bottle it. At Anfield, they somehow contrived to lose 2-1 at home to West Brom, leaving fans wondering if ‘Terryball’ was really just a tactical system built on good vibes, motivational speeches and the threat of wives extra marital affairs with the boss.

Up north, Newcastle’s title hopes went begging too. Spurs, in true Spurs fashion, had no business being involved in the title race but still managed to spoil the party, nicking a 1-1 draw at St. James’ Park. The Geordies very nearly tasted league glory, only for Spurs to show up like uninvited wedding guests who drink all the champagne.

That left Manchester United with the clearest path and they didn’t even blink. A straightforward 2-0 win over Leicester at Old Trafford sealed it. Manchester United are champions again, Newcastle and Liverpool left kicking themselves, and Spurs…..well, Spurs just Spurs’d it up for everyone else.

== == == == ==

In Italy, it was business as usual, by which we mean Juventus lifted the Serie A trophy again for the millionth time. Ninety points on the board, and another title for a club that treats Scudetti like fridge magnets, collect them all, stick them in a neat row, and move on. Roma gave it a good go with 83 points, Inter weren’t far behind on 76, and Napoli rounded out the top four. The real eyebrow raiser? That would be Sassuolo, yes that Sassuolo, sneaking into fifth like the uninvited guest at a black tie event. And just behind them, Torino, Turin’s 'other' club claiming sixth and reminding everyone they still exist.

As for AC Milan, they wobbled, stumbled, and ultimately limped home in seventh. For a club with their history, that’s less ‘European giant’ and more ‘awkward relative no one wants to sit next to at Sunday lunch’

Erling Haaland stole the show banging in 28 league goals and 33 across all competitions, because apparently even Serie A can’t stop the Norwegian freight train. Alexander Isak chipped in 19, while Sergio Aguero added 18, proving that if you want goals outside Juventus, you better have a proper striker on your hands.

Player of the season? Inters main man Erling Haaland, obviously. Juventus dominance aside, the league still has its stars, but if you were waiting for a surprise, you probably spent most of the season blinking.

Barcelona snatched La Liga with 91 points, because when Messi, Suarez and Neymar are in your squad, silverware tends to follow like night follows day. Real Madrid weren’t far behind on 89, though you can bet half their fanbase is still filing complaints about referees and imaginary offsides.

Rafa Benitez’s Sevilla side turned heads, finishing third on 77 points, proof that Rafa can still wring every last drop out of a squad without losing his trademark scowl.

Atlético Madrid, on the other hand, were the league’s cautionary tale this season. Fourth place with 75 points, their lowest finish since 2011/12. A harsh reality check for a club that’s been dining at the top table for years, only to suddenly find themselves pushed toward the kids’ section.

Top scorers? Bellotti continued his reliable ways with 25 league goals, Messi chipped in a still impressive 20, and Ronaldo hit 18, showing that even when the league belongs to Barca, the Portuguese star is never far behind.

Pep Guardiola restored order in Germany, marching Bayern back to the Bundesliga title in his first season back at the club, because apparently gravity, taxes and Bayern winning the league are life’s only certainties. Klopp’s Leverkusen put up a decent fight with 73 points but came up short in second, while Wolfsburg (65) and Dortmund (64) rounded out the Champions League spots, or as Bayern like to call it ‘our warm up acts’

Lewandowski (more on him shortly) did Lewandowski things, topping the Bundesliga scoring charts with 22 goals. Wolfsburg’s on loan hitman Joelinton wasn’t far behind on 20, not bad for someone whose parent club didn’t want him, while Moise Kean (also more him too)  chipped in with 19, reminding everyone that he’s still young enough to be filed under ‘potential’ rather than ‘what could’ve been’

In France Monaco stormed to their second consecutive Ligue 1 title with 95 points, edging PSG’s 89 and proving that money can’t always buy happiness, unless you’re Monaco, where it apparently does. The real eyebrow raiser? EA Guingamp finishing third. No, we don’t know how either. Their captain is none other than ex-West Ham stalwart Mark Noble, and their top scorer was **checks notes** Franco Di Santo with 18 goals. Ligue 1, everybody. Marseille salvaged some dignity in fourth, and Nice rounded out the top five.

The 2021 Champions League final saw Manchester City face off against Juventus, and things went brilliantly for Juve….. for about two minutes. That’s when Pierre-Emile Højbjerg decided the occasion called for a straight red card, and off he went. City, perhaps more out of politeness than professionalism, waited until the 34th minute to take the lead, Toby Alderweireld rising like a man who definitely practices set pieces in his sleep to thunder a near post header home from a corner.

Former Juve star Paulo Dybala then twisted the knife in the 68th minute, tapping in after some slick work by Canada’s golden boy, Evan James. Dybala kept it classy and didn’t celebrate, but City certainly did, cruising to a 2-0 win and their second Champions League trophy in as many years.

The domestic cups in England were painted black and white in the 2020/21 season, as Newcastle edged Liverpool 2-1 in the League Cup final before outlasting Arsenal 3-2 after extra time in a dramatic FA Cup final. Alexander Mitrovic scoring the goals in both finals to give Newcastle both of the wins.

That FA Cup triumph means Newcastle have now lifted the famous old trophy three times in the last four seasons, adding it to their 2019 Europa League success and this year’s League Cup win. Long gone are the days of bargain bin signings, broken promises and existential dread under Mike Ashley, Newcastle are now a genuine force to be reckoned with, and now allergic to finishing a season empty handed, as since Rafa Benitez’s first season in charge in the 2016/17 season, they’ve won something every year, Championship included.

The first big move of summer 2021 saw Karol Linetty head to Manchester City for a staggering €86 million, more than double what Paris themselves paid just three seasons ago. Clearly, financial fair play is just three words on a piece of paper. To cover the loss, PSG splashed €65 million on Saúl from Atlético, who in turn picked up Dortmund’s Julian Weigl for €42 million. A neat little merry-go-round of midfielders, with each club pretending they’ve pulled off the deal of the century. In reality? It feels less like strategy and more like three rich guys swapping cars just to keep from getting bored.

Another domino fell in the summer shuffle as Moise Kean, Hoffenheim’s brightest spark with 19 league goals last season, packed his bags for Arsenal in a €60 million deal. He arrives to replace James Wilson, whose Arsenal stint went about as well as a paper umbrella in a thunderstorm. Signed for €62 million in January, Wilson managed just 11 appearances and 4 goals before being shipped off on loan to Porto. You know it’s bad when even Arsenal fans are relieved to see a striker leave and that’s saying something.

Renato Sanches waved goodbye to Bayern as PSG handed over another €60 million for yet another midfielder. Not content with €146 spent in the first week of the summer transfer window, they also snapped up Thiago Maia from Juventus for €58 million. At this point, PSG aren’t signing players out of need, they’re basically collecting midfielders like they’re Pokémon. Gotta catch ‘em all, even if half of them end up sitting on the bench wondering why they’re in Paris.

James Rodríguez has left Real Madrid for Chelsea in a deal worth just €19 million. Nineteen! For a player that played in all but two La Liga games, while he is 30 years old is still a class player. Which makes you wonder what’s being hidden here? Did Chelsea find out he only plays well every other leap year? Or maybe Real just slipped a ‘no returns’ clause into the fine print. Either way, that fee looks less like a transfer and more like a clearance sale.

Joe Hart joined Torino permanently last season, racked up an impressive 18 clean sheets, and naturally, the reward for that was…….leaving the club again. Arsenal swooped in for just €11 million. Classic Gunners logic; buy the one keeper who actually looked settled somewhere else and see if London traffic can break him faster than Serie A strikers ever could.

Callum Chambers leaves Benfica for Bayern in a €36 million move, and honestly it feels like daylight robbery. In his solitary season in Lisbon, lining up alongside captain John Stones in defence, Chambers played every single game, chipped in with four goals from right-back which included a derby winner against Sporting, and even finished runner-up in the Player of the Year award. A season like that and he’s gone already? Benfica fans must be absolutely gutted.  Somewhere in Munich, Bayern are probably wondering how they managed to get him for less than what PSG usually pay for a random 17-year-old midfielder.

Other noteworthy transfers saw Steven Bergwijn pack his bags for Madrid, joining Atletico for €33 million. Youssef En Nesyri traded Málaga for Napoli at just €24 million which is a bargain really, considering he was basically a coin flip away from scoring in every other game in La Liga. Meanwhile, Raheem Sterling’s extended holiday in Germany became permanent, with Bayer Leverkusen snapping him up for just €15 million. From Manchester City to the Bundesliga bargain bin, he did well last season and the feeling is he will help Leverkusen topple his former boss Pep at Bayern.

The other big transfer stories saw Ross Barkley, twenty three Premier Leagues games, zero goals and four assists, leave Manchester City to join Real Madrid for €34 million. Is he worth it? Well, let’s just say Madrid fans might still be wondering if swapping James Rodríguez for Barkley is really an upgrade, or more like trading in a Ferrari for a Ford Focus.

Meanwhile, Bayern inexplicably let Robert Lewandowski go to Newcastle for the paltry price of €7 million. Read that again, SEVEN MILLION, for ROBERT LEWANDOWSKI. The same Lewandowski who bagged 26 in 40 last season. Now he’s teaming up with Aleksandar Mitrović, giving Newcastle a front line of two massive, angry forwards who look less like a strike partnership and more like two nightclub bouncers sent to batter defences into submission.

Mikel Merino leaves Newcastle for PSG in a deal worth €51 million, more than double the €18 million Newcastle originally paid for him. Do PSG need another central midfielder? Absolutely not but at this point it feels less like squad building and more like stockpiling, Paris are basically running a central midfielder warehouse.

Roberto Firmino leaves Dortmund after three solid seasons, 36 goals in 71 games across all competitions, for what can only be described as career purgatory at Spurs, who shelled out €49 million for him. Meanwhile, Gabriel Barbosa continues his disappearing act in North London; 32 appearances bringing just 5 goals, and about the same threat level as a damp sponge.The big question now is will Firmino succumb to the same curse that’s turned Gabriel Barbosa into a five goals a season ghost, or will the two somehow form a strike partnership? At this rate, the only thing they’re likely to link up on is missing sitters in perfect harmony.

Young players for stupid money also dominated the summer transfer window. 

Carlos Artola, the highly rated right back from Real Sociedad, packed his bags for Champions League runners up Juventus in a deal worth a jaw dropping €87 million. Yes, that’s €87 million for a defender who has got a solitary one season of first team football to his name. This feels less like a carefully planned signing and more like Juve panic buying after their latest Champions League final heartbreak. When in doubt, throw nearly 90 million at a fullback and hope the pain goes away.

Gastón Paniagua, Sassuolo’s teenage attacking midfielder wonderkid, who Bayern happily threw €57 million at. Fiftyseven million for a kid who still probably gets asked for ID at nightclubs.

Hans-Jürgen Menze, a promising young left back at RB Leipzig, somehow convinced Dortmund to part with €34 million for him, which is probably about €20 million more than anyone else would’ve paid. Either Dortmund know something the rest of us don’t, or they’ve just paid Champions League prices for a kid who still gets lost on the way to training.

Leipzig splashed €36 million of that Menze money on defensive midfielder Slobodan Cvetkovic from FC Köln. In four seasons he’s managed just 63 games, not exactly tearing up the Bundesliga, but if there’s one thing Leipzig love, it’s turning ‘meh’ prospects into first team players a few years later.

Hoffenheim wasted no time reinvesting some of the Moise Kean money, dropping €47 million at Manchester City’s door for young striker Thibault Elie. To be fair, the kid did smash in 26 goals in 32 games on loan at Nice, but Hoffenheim fans will be hoping he’s not just another City youth prospect who peaked in Ligue 1 highlight reels.

Miguel Cardoso, Chelsea’s mysterious leftback, the one nobody outside Chelsea has ever heard of, has somehow convinced former Chelsea manager José Mourinho to fork out a staggering €67 million. No, that's not a typo. But get this, he’s never actually played a single minute for Chelsea in his five years there. Rumor has it he hasn’t even trained with the first team, instead spending the last four seasons on loan at Vitesse, Sevilla (twice), and Vitória de Setúbal. Absolute madness. Mourinho must really like mystery boxes.

Sticking with Chelsea and their transfer madness, Adam Vesely, a right winger nobody outside North London has ever heard of, somehow commands €35 million. His résumé? Three appearances for Arsenal over three years and a season on loan at Austria Vienna, where he played 32 games and scored nine goals. Somehow, that was enough to justify a cross London move.

The season was over, but the silence in Scott Lanowski’s flat felt louder than any stadium. The league table said another third place finish, overachievers by anyone’s measure. But numbers didn’t soften the ache of falling short, nor did they answer the question gnawing at him; what now?

Leândro was gone. Koftas was still a question mark. Zygmunt would return to Lazio and Kwiatkowski’s loan from Wisła Kraków had run its course. The spine of his team was being pulled apart piece by piece, and the promises of tomorrow felt thin against the weight of reality.

Scott stood by the window, city lights bleeding into the dark, and let the thought settle. He could stay. He could fight again with whatever scraps were left and patch the squad together whilst chasing the promotion dream that had just slipped through his hands again. Or he could leave. Either take some time off or maybe go somewhere new. Somewhere that tested him, demanded more and maybe gave him the chance to step into becoming the manager he kept telling himself he could be.

He thought of the call earlier in the year from Sofia, as well as from Sarajevo. The calls he hadn’t really wanted to take, but they were reminders that people were watching. That he wasn’t just a small time story in Wrocław. The season had ended. But for Scott, the real decision hadn’t even begun.

Indecision clung to him like a second skin. Part of him wanted to fight again with Ślęza, with the club that had given him the chance to show what he’s made of and to prove that third place wasn’t the ceiling but a stepping stone, a necessary rung on the ladder. Another part whispered that he’d already done his proving here, dragged a modest club further than anyone thought possible. To stay might mean loyalty, but it might also mean stagnation.

The papers only twisted the knife. Wisła Kraków, the big team fallen on hard times, had sacked Tomasz Kafarski after failing to claw their way back up. Within hours, Scott’s name had been mentioned, tucked neatly among a list of candidates. A rumor, maybe. Or maybe someone had decided his work in Wrocław wasn’t just a fluke.

He wasn’t sure how he felt reading it. Pride, yes absolutely, but fear too. A name like Wisła wasn’t just a job; it was a weight, a stage where failure echoed louder than success. And he wondered if he was ready for it, or if walking into a fire like that would burn away everything he’d built. He’d refused to comment on the speculation when asked by a member of the media on his last obligation before breaking for the summer.

Scott sat alone in his flat that night, the city outside humming with its usual noise, oblivious to the storm in his head. A glass of whisky sat untouched on the table. He stared at it like it might hold an answer, but none came. 

What now? Start again with Ślęza, try to get over a line they might never cross? Or walk away before the weight of loyalty pinned him down for good?  He thought of Koftas and Leândro, a pair of unspectacular forwards that formed an unbreakable bond on the pitch and that shared most of the club’s goalscoring burden. He also thought of the players who had bled for him on cold nights in the forgotten corners of Poland whilst doing everything he asked, and more. He thought too of Kraków, of Sofia, of Sarajevo and of the voices telling him he could be more. One road promised comfort, the other danger and opportunity. Both carried the risk of regret.

When he finally switched off the light, he hadn’t chosen. And maybe he didn’t want to, because the moment he did, one part of him would be lost.

== == == == ==

The office smelled of stale coffee and damp training gear. Marcin Lachowski, his director of football leaned against the desk, arms folded, eyes on Scott like he’d been waiting for this moment all year. Peter Basista, his assistant, sat opposite, tapping a pen against a notepad but not writing a word.

Scott didn’t know where to start, so he didn’t. He just let the silence hang until Marcin broke it.

‘You’re leaving, aren’t ya’? he said flatly. No accusation or malice, just pure fact.

Scott rubbed at the back of his neck and shook his head slightly ‘I haven’t actu…..’

Marcin cut him off ‘you don’t need to say it’ his voice quieter but sharper ‘we’ve seen it in your face these last few days, maybe even weeks. The way you look past the pitch or the walls sometimes, it’s like you’re already somewhere else’

Scott looked down at the desk. There was no way to dress it up ‘it’s not that I want to, it’s more like that I have to leave’

Marcin gave a small nod, like he’d rehearsed it in his head already ‘well whenever it’s settled, when or if you go, we go. The next man will want his own people. And we won’t hang around pretending to be wanted. If you stay, we stay, if you go, we go, that’s it’

Peter leaned forward, finally stilling the pen ‘if you’ll have us that is. Doesn’t matter if it’s Poland again, Bulgaria, Bosnia or Mexico. We built something here, we’ll do it again at the next place’

Scott felt his throat tighten. These were two of the men who had carried the weight with him, the ones who’d patched the holes when everything looked like it might cave in. Leaving Ślęza was one thing, but leaving behind these two, it twisted the knife deeper.

He gave them both a slow nod ‘whether the next step is here or somewhere else, I want you there’

For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the radiator, filling the silence of three men who knew a chapter was closing, even if the book hadn’t shut yet.

Marcin broke the silence by asking ‘do you have something lined up? Krakow want you I’ve seen, and didn’t the chap in Sarajevo say he might be back in touch?

Scott shook his head ‘nah, nothing yet. It could be a while, months even. If we leave any time soon it could happen quicker but, I don’t know, that’s what scares me the most, the waiting, the uncertainty’

The words hung in the air, heavier than any tactic board, late night or early morning team talk. Waiting. Uncertainty. Scott had lived with both before, but never like this.

His eyes drifted to the training ground outside the window, half lit by the sinking sun. How many hours had they bled into that grass? Scott sat there a while longer after Marcin’s question, the quiet pressing down on him like a weight. The thought of waiting months, maybe longer, scraped at the back of his mind. He hated drifting. He hated not knowing.

His mind then wandered and it carried ghosts. Alain Ngamayama, the center half scoring twice in the away win at Polonia Bytom in Scott's first game against his former team, the same season they survived in the ii liga. Koftas celebrating with arms outstretched after scoring the equaliser away at Znicz Proszkow that secured promotion to the i liga the season after.  And Koftas scoring a hat trick away at Chojniczanka Chojnice, there were many more memories, and that's all they would be now, there would be no more to add.

Ślęza wasn’t just where he worked. It was where he’d bled, where he’d grown and where he’d been reminded what football could mean when you stripped it of money and glamour and only left the fight.

But every memory pulled at him the same way, they were already in the past.

Scott stood, slow but deliberate ‘I need to talk to Slawomir’ he said. His voice was steady now, firmer than it felt inside. The decision had landed, even if his heart still lagged behind it.

Scott didn’t knock, he pushed the office door open like a man carrying a weight he couldn’t set down anywhere else. Slawomir Sobczak was behind his desk, papers stacked neatly in front of him, glasses perched low on his nose. He looked up, and for a fleeting second, Scott thought the chairman already knew.

‘Scott’ Slawomir said evenly ‘come on in and take a seat, I hope you’re well’

Scott did as he was told, though it felt less like an order and more like walking into a confessional booth. The air in the room was heavy and not hostile, but charged and with a spark, like both men understood something was about to shift.

Slawomir folded his hands, waiting. Scott cleared his throat, the words slow to come ‘I won’t dance around it, it’s taken a while but I’ve made my decision. I’m leaving Ślęza’

Silence. The kind that fills a room like smoke, heavy and suffocating. The chairman’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but more in calculation, trying to weigh the words against the man he’d come to respect.

‘You… you’re serious?’ he asked finally, the words seemingly struggling to come out.

Scott didn’t flinch ‘yes, I am. I owe this club a debt of gratitude. But I need to see what I can do somewhere else. I feel like I’ve done all I can here with finishing third twice in a row. It’s good enough to be proud of and seen as overachieving, but not good enough to get us over the line, and maybe that’s the ceiling for me here and as far as I can take us. I can’t keep wondering if there’s something more out there for me’

Slawomir leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing just a touch and hint of a smile forming ‘the ceiling, eh? Funny thing about ceilings, Scott, sometimes they’re real, sometimes they’re just in your head. Are you sure this is the club’s limit, or are you just afraid of trying and failing again?’

Scott let the words hang and was hurt by them. They stung because there was a truth in them, but also because he knew his own answer.

Slawomir softened, his voice carrying more weight than reproach ‘I can’t stop you if your heart’s already made up. But don’t dress it up as the club’s failure if what it really is that it’s your own ambition pulling you elsewhere’

Scott shifted in his chair, jaw tight ‘It’s not fear of failing again, Slawomir. We’ve all fought for every point here. I’ve wrung this squad dry at times, but twice we’ve been this close, twice we’ve fallen short. I know the team weren’t expecting to even stay in the league, but coming so close twice, I can’t ignore the thought that maybe I’ve taken them as far as I can’

Slawomir tapped a finger on the desk, slow, deliberate ‘or maybe you’ve built something that just needs one more year to break through. You think another man will do better with these players? With this fanbase behind them?’

Scott didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence betrayed him.

Finally after a long enough silence to be classed as awkward Slawomir let out a long breath, the fight leaving his voice ‘you’ve done more than anyone associated with the club ever thought you would when you took over 4 years ago, and with that I feel you’ve earned the right to choose your path, Scott. No one can hold that against you. If your ambition takes you away from here, then go with my respect. Just don’t forget that you’ve given this club belief and the feeling that the underdog can rise up, and that’s no small thing’

Slawomir leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy but steady ‘it’s settled then. I won’t stand in your way. But I’ll tell you this, Scott, you’ll always have a place here. Ślęza will remember what you’ve done’ he waited a moment before saying ‘just promise me that you leave with the same honesty you’ve always shown’

Scott rose slowly, the scrape of the chair loud in the stillness. He extended his hand, and Slawomir took it, firm and lingering ‘thanks’ Scott said, voice rougher than he’d intended ‘for trusting me and keeping me on when you took over, and giving me this chance to see what we could do’ he waited a moment then said ‘I won’t forget what you and this club have done for me’

Slawomir had the final word as he said ‘good luck out there, you’ll need it, although we both know you’ll be fine’

Scott left the office with the words echoing in his head, heavier than any victory or defeat.

== == == == ==

Scott lingered in the empty corridors, the hum of the old floodlights bleeding through the walls. His footsteps echoed in the silence, each one a reminder of the four years he’d spent here, the arguments in these halls, the discussions with staff, the laughter, the nervous pacing before matches that mattered more than they should have.

He paused at the dressing room door, running his hand along the scarred wood. How many times had he stood here, about to deliver words meant to steel the team for battle? But this time, there would be no tactics, no rallying cry. Just the truth.

He drew in a breath. Heavy. Final. And then he pushed the door open.

The room was thick with chatter when Scott stepped in, the kind that always buzzed after training and was filled with a different kind of energy, the energy of a season well done and dusted. Boots scraped against the floor, tape was ripped from ankles, and the smell of sweat clung to the air. But the noise died the second they saw his face.

He didn’t bother with small talk. Not this time ‘gents’ he started, voice low and steady ‘listen up, I need you to listen as this isn’t easy’

A ripple of unease moved across the benches. Leândro leaned forward, arms on his knees, eyes narrowing despite his knowing his time as a player was up. Latka sat straight backed, ever the professional when Scott spoke, sensing something big was coming. Malania froze mid lace staring at the floor. Young Zygmunt shifted uncomfortably, already sensing what was coming.

Scott took a breath ‘I’m leaving the club’

The silence that followed was deafening. Then it broke.

‘You’re doing what?’ Malania’s voice cracked with disbelief.

‘No… no way’ said Latka, shaking his head ‘you can’t mean that’

Scott raised a hand and nodded ‘I do. It’s not about you, or the season, or any of the battles we’ve fought. You’ve all given me and the club everything. But I feel like I’ve taken us, you, as far as I can. Twice we’ve overachieved, twice we’ve finished third, twice we’ve knocked on the door and hit the ceiling. Maybe someone else can take you through it’

It was Koftas, Scott’s first signing at the club who exhaled sharply, jaw tight ‘so that’s it? You build this team, this club up just to then walk away?’ His voice was more wounded than angry.

‘Miko, my boy’ Scott said softly ‘you’re someone that has carried this club on your back. You’re a big reason why we’ve come this far. But I can’t keep asking you, or anyone else for miracles. Not anymore’

Koftas had looked at his feet when Scott had spoke, let the silence linger before finally looking up, eyes glassy ‘you brought me back here after the first loan season, told me that I belonged and helped me develop, you’ve told me you’ll stand by me while I recover from injury. I don’t know who I am in this team without you’

Scott crouched down a little, leveling his gaze with him ‘listen, this is football. Players move on. Managers too. It’s all part of the career. Doesn’t make it easy, but it’s the game we chose. Clubs survive us all’

Koftas shook his head ‘it’s different with you. You’re not just any manager here. You’re…..you’re the one who made us believe. You made me believe’

Scott put a hand on his shoulder ‘and that belief doesn’t vanish just because I’m gone. You’ve got it in you, you’ll keep fighting, no matter who sits in the office. I promise you that’

There were other voices now. Malania nodded slowly, quietly ‘I knew this day would come, just wasn’t expecting it so soon’  Takas, still just a kid in football terms, asked in a small voice ‘so who do we play for now?’

Scott let the question hang, heavy as lead. Then he said ‘you play for Ślęza. Same as always. This club’s more important than any of us. And if I’ve done anything here, I hope it’s made you believe you can fight anyone, anywhere’

Scott let the question hang, heavy as lead ‘you play for yourselves and for each other. For the badge on your shirt and the fans that come every week. The foundations we’ve built here…. it’s real and it doesn’t vanish just because I’m not on the touchline. This club will keep fighting, with or without me’ He waited for a response, and when none came he continued ‘as for me? I need to see if I can build something again, somewhere else and take the next step. That’s how I’ll grow. That’s how we all do’

No one moved for a long moment. Then, slowly, the players began to nod. Reluctantly. Resentfully. But with respect.

Scott stood there, drinking in the sight of them. His team. His nearly men. He wanted to etch every face into memory before turning away.

The silence that followed felt like it might swallow the room whole. A few of the younger lads kept their heads down, jaws clenched, as if looking up would make the truth sting worse. Koftas shook his head slowly, hurt etched across his face.

But from the back of the group, Marcin gave the faintest of nods. Not agreement, not quite approval, just the recognition of a man who understood why another might need to take a step into the unknown. Peter’s eyes met Scott’s next, and he offered the same quiet acknowledgement. They didn’t like it, but they got it.

Before leaving the room he turned and said ‘thank you, all of you, for everything’

And then he walked out, leaving the silence behind him, broken only by the sound of boots tapping nervously against the tile.

The office was stripped bare now. The walls where tactics once hung looked naked, like they’d forgotten their purpose. Files had been boxed, the desk cleared, the chair pushed back for the last time. It didn’t feel like his room anymore.

Scott wasn’t the only one leaving. One by one, his lieutenants had made the same decision. Piotr Anusiewicz, who’d kept the team sharp and fit when the schedule chewed them up. Peter Basista, his right hand, the voice that echoed his own on the training ground and from the sidelines. Marcin Lachowski, the quiet architect behind the transfers and contract negotiations. Blazej Radler, who’d looked to shape the future through youth. And the scouts Ortner, Drechsel and Pepic who’d gone into the shadows to find the names that gave Ślęza that fighting chance. They all stepped away now, clearing the decks for the next manager to come in with a clean slate.

Four seasons. That’s what Scott had given them. Four seasons that felt like a lifetime. Survival in season one finishing a remarkable fifth in the league, sticking to the game plan and winning fifteen games through grit and sheer determination. Season two, the promotion year, chaos, momentum and belief. Seasons three and four, back to back third place finishes in i liga, the second tier, coming ever so close to promotion to Ekstraklasa. Close enough to taste the top flight, never close enough to bite it. 

His record sat there in the books, cold numbers to measure warm nights and bitter mornings; 76 wins, 32 draws, 39 losses. A 51% win rate. Enough to prove he could survive, build and to prove he could overachieve. But not just enough to take Ślęza that one step higher.

And that was the truth he carried with him as he walked away. 

The press releases were done and the news confirmed officially, the handshakes and photographs filed away and time would continue on. By the time Scott wandered back down the tunnel, the stadium was empty. No chants from the crowd, no media, cameras or facilities staff going about their day. Just silence.

He stepped out onto the pitch one last time. The grass still carried the scars of another long season, torn divots waiting to be stitched back together by the groundsman’s hands during the off season. He walked to the dugout, let his hand rest on the worn wood of the bench where he’d lived and died through ninety minutes at a time.

For a moment he closed his eyes. He could hear the roars, the groans, the laughter of victories that had seemed impossible and the hush of defeats that had hurt like open wounds. Four years. A lifetime packed into them.

Then he turned, gave the ground one last look, and walked away.

Ślęza didn’t wait long to fill the void. Within days the announcement came - Ryszard Klusek, fresh from stepping down at Radomiak Radom, who’d finished third in ii liga, the division below. Not a big name or a headline grabber, but sometimes clubs don’t chase fireworks, they reach for a man who can steady the ship, keep it afloat while the waters calm. Can he do what Scott couldn't? Time will tell.

The irony wasn’t lost on Scott when he heard the name. Klusek had replaced him at Polonia Bytom, inheriting the team that survived relegation despite an eight point deduction, that Scott left behind after that lone season. He’d overseen their slide into relegation, the same year Scott was lifting Ślęza into ii liga. Football’s full of shadows like that, careers criss-crossing, names haunting you from old dressing rooms.

This time Klusek wasn’t coming in to chase dreams. He was coming in to hold the line.

== == == == ==