Managerial livestock: we need only grass

Thanks for stopping by. Herein will lie the tale of one man's attempts to scale the heights of football management. Whether those heights provide a view of the surrounding horizon, or whether they are scarcely taller than the frayed corners of carpet laid in the 1980s in the bedroom he was brought up in, is yet to determined.

However, those early, formative years are long-since a distant memory. Now 38, Matthew Connolly, originally of Islington, London, has set out on an adventure to reconnect with his Polish roots and, possibly, even finally make use for the second language his mother insisted on teaching him since birth.

Born in Islington, raised on Premier League dreams and force-fed rosól soup when he caught a cold, Connolly grew up in a household where Match of the Day was sacred and his mum shouted at the telly in Polish whenever the Eastern European national side turned up at a major international tournament.

His dual heritage has left him uniquely qualified: in true Brit fashion he apologises like there is no tomorrow, but also yells “SĘDZIA!” (REFEREE!) with enough Slavic intensity to ensure that the league's officials will soon become acquainted with the spelling of his surname. Connolly’s coaching journey began when he formed a Sunday League team in 2008, consisting of school friends and whatever local rabble would cough up the £60 annual subs in advance. Nearly 20 years later, with that club finally folding, he hopes his experience of negotiating frozen-solid pitches - against fellow Sunday League Turkish Supporter Club sides, Irish pub teams with ex-Watford Under-21 ringers and dubiously-well-organised clubs whose home kits comprised of Primark t-shirts, amongst others - would serve him well as he attempts to make the first step into the 'real' world of football.

A disciplinarian at his core, Connolly hopes to seek employment in an area of mainland Europe - his definition of which liberally includes Cyprus, because he recalls a nice holiday there from a number of years ago - where he can instil his tactical brand on whichever club shares his vision. He has promised (himself) to abide by a few simple principles - notably, ensuring he takes a hands-on approach to all club matters. He will not be a 'yes man' to any overly-involved chairmen, nor report to a Director of Football. Given the calibre of clubs within his grasp, it is highly unlikely that these principles of engagement will be tested.

Despite the self-assuredness needed of any budding manager, he also recognises the complete lack of experience and the importance of keeping his reputation intact, should he forge a successful career in the long-run. With that in mind, he has deemed the major footballing nations in Europe and Poland off-limits for his first managerial appointment. Furthermore, Connolly has discounted a number of nations that - for reasons valid or whimsical - he feels uncomfortable about. Those include the likes of Hungary, Russia & Ukraine for reasons of a political nature, but also Albania on the grounds of a terrible series of Eurovision Song Contest entries. Actually, on the basis of that final criteria - this could be a short story, indeed, as this author is not sure if that leaves any valid hunting ground for employment at all.

Despite the ecclectic mentions of far-flung lands and a peek into his discerning political palate, however, Connolly continues to be based in his home in North London, for now, and his exciting adventure is being conducted solely via email applications to any of the numerous association football clubs who are currently without a manager. Within the last 48 hours, Connolly has made initial contact with no fewer than 41 clubs, narrowed down to within the handful of acceptable nations - two in Austria's third tier, one in Belgium's fourth tier, a whopping six in Croatia's fourth tier (that sounds like it should be the third tier), a conservative five based in the Cypriot third tier, two in Czechia, a number too high to accurately count in Greece's lower divisions, as well as a handful of others from a variety of other places that haven't been documented along the way. The bias towards the latter is, undoubtedly, the influence his long-term girlfriend and mother of his two children (who is of Greek descent…in fact, no, she is Greek) has on the matter. However, this is not her story and her sway on footballing matters will surely find their way into this saga in due course.

According to the wonderfully-connected - and undeniably ethical and in no way corrupt - world of central European bookmaking, Matthew Connolly has even been instilled as the odds-on favourite to land the managerial post at two of that list of clubs: Chalkanoras Idaliou of the Pankypriou Protathlima G' Katagorias, alongside Petřín Plzeň of the Fortuna ČFL Divize A. Both slightly concerned about his internet security and, at the same time, pondering the mechanics (and legalities) involved in placing a bet on himself to secure one of these vacancies, Connolly closed the lid on his laptop and considered it a good evening's work. Perhaps one of these sleeping giants of the beautiful game will offer a meaningful start to this chronicle…

The following morning, Connolly woke before his alarm. Nine- and two-year-old boys have a habit of making that the regular routine. He lay still for a moment, letting his nerves catch up to his breath. Today could be the day. Sliding out of bed, he moved with the sort of discipline he used to demand from his Sunday League midfielders - methodical, purposeful. A black notebook lay open on the kitchen table, scribbled with the names of some of the clubs he'd applied to the night before: Vojvodina 1928, Ermionida, Rudar Labin, SK Bischofschen. The latter of these sent his brain thinking of a caffeine fix and a biscuit or two to go with it.

He brewed his coffee strong, hoping it would instil in him a sense of business-as-usual about the day's proceedings. The ritual grounded him. As it brewed, he stretched, stared out at the overcast sky of north London and allowed his mind to wander to the possibilities of what might lie ahead.

Dressed in gym shorts and last night's t-shirt, he finally sat in front of his laptop. His finger hovered over the mouse. No fanfare. No crowd. Just this quiet moment before possibility. He clicked refresh.

To his disbelief, there were a handful of formal-looking emails, arriving from a variety of email domains that he was surprised didn't get filtered into his spam folder. The first two, written in broken English, signified his contact to Proodeftiki and Sloga, of Greece and Serbia respectively, were appreciated but impractical to take further. The majority of the others were written in languages - many of them using the Cyrillic alphabet - that he would need to decipher using online translators. However, there was one that stood out: it was in English, from a lady named Sophie Purves, and definitely indicated the club's interest to discuss the managerial vacancy at Tonbridge Angels FC.

“Errr…babe?! What was the name of that friend of yours that you had lunch with last week in Kent? The social media guru that manages the socials for that football club?” he called out, without diverting his eyes from the low light of the laptop's screen.

“Oh, Sarah?”

“What exactly did you discuss? Because Tonbridge want to talk to me about a job…”

And thereafter followed the sort of shouted conversation, spread across three rooms, that would leave an imprint on not only their family, but those of their neighbours and any particularly-keen dog-walkers happening to pass by. Amongst the revelations were the fact that a Powerpoint version of Connolly's CV had been ‘presented’ and that there was a follow-up Powerpoint for the family to consider that went into great detail, in pie charts, comparing monthly expenses of staying in the UK versus relocating to mainland Europe.

“You sabotaged my dream,” Connolly concluded, deflated.

“I saved our mortgage. And your children being enrolled into a Czechoslovakian school. The interview is set for Thursday. You're welcome."

Out of a mixture of curiosity and mild marital fear, Connolly crafted a reply to Sophie's email, thanked her for her contact and confirmed he would be delighted to attend the interview that Thursday, casually acknowledging that he needn't forward on his CV or any associated documentation as he understood she had already been provided it in advance.

Deep down, he remained headstrong that this would not be the end of his European adventure and so Connolly plotted the almost-perfect assault on the Tonbridge Angels FC application process: competent enough to stand up to the guaranteed scrutiny of his very own domestic general, but patchy enough to ensure a more suitable candidate would be selected. This was a scenario that, when imagining the many scarcely-believable challenges that lie ahead, he had not thought about for even a moment. The challenges associated with entering the world of football management were taxing indeed.