A Scotsman Abroad: The Careet of Mark Pearce

For some unkmnown reason, my previous saves aren't behaving as they should so I'm going back in time to Football Manager 2020 and ideally bring you a new career save: 

A Scotsman Abroad: The Career of Mark Pearce

As always, we won't start with an established club side: in fact we're starting very obscure indeed as you are going to find out.

So, let's get this show on the road.

Yours,

HockeyBhoy

PS: The name Mark Pearce was created using my own first name and my Mam's maiden name.

Football, the beautiful game.

It was the only thing that interested Mark Pearce.

As a young boy growing up in the streets of Whitburn, a small town 22 miles west of Edinburgh, all Mark wanted to do was to kick a ball about with his three brothers and school pals. The Pearce boys lived there with their parents John “Jock” Pearce, a postman, and their mother Anne who was a stay at home housewife by day and part-time office cleaner in the evenings. It was a happy childhood.

They grew supporting Celtic and Sunderland just like Dad, and his forefathers before him. Mark was the gifted one of the four, a technically gifted but tricky right winger with blistering pace and provider of assist after assist in his school team. His impressive displays caught the eye of scouts representing both Glasgow giants Celtic and Rangers as well as the two big Edinburgh sides: Hearts and Hibernian. Even sides south of the border were watching him closely too, Middlesbrough, Hull City and West Ham United were keen to prise the boy away from Scotland.

But Mark only wanted to sign for one of them, and pull on the famous green and white hoops - making his faither (as he called him) a very happy man indeed.

However, fate would deal a cruel hand one day in 1999. In a game for Celtic Boys against their Rangers counterparts, Mark was speeding down the wing with Celtic leading 3-0, and getting ready to whip in another dangerous for one of his centre forwards to run onto and ideally convert. Then he pulled up sharply and seconds later, collapsed onto the turf with nobody near him. There was a sound of a rifle going off, Mark screamed in absolute agony. His team mates looked on in distress, his Rangers opponent swiftly put the ball out of play: knowing this was a serious injury unfolding. With seconds a stretcher was on the pitch, and an ambulance radioed for us. “Jock” Pearce stood on the sidelines, powerless.

Mark was rushed to the Southern General Hospital, and prepped immediately for emergency surgery. Whilst the surgery to repair Mark's shredded Achilles Tendon was successful, there was unfortunately more damage which culminated in the surgeon telling Mark and his parents that his football career was as good as finished with. Mark blubbed his eyes out, what else could he do? He did his GCSE's, getting top grades in every subject whilst assessing his now re-mapped out future. It was then when Jock stepped up once more, getting Mark a job on deliveries with him as soon as his schooling had finished with whilst getting time to study for his A-Levels at West Lothian College.

Although his professional career was over, Mark played amateur football for Whitburn Junior and started to take his coaching badges to keep his footballing interest well and truly piqued. He started coaching kids and Sunday League sides, and it was being noticed by others. Then one phone call changed everything again, it came from his old school friend Simon Dell:

“Mark, grab yourself a suitcase with clothes ready. Got you on a flight to Copenhagen in the morning, someone I know will be meeting you there.”

“What for?” Mark enquired.

“A football related job. Time to leave Scotland and pounding those streets mate."

“Eh?”

“Just be on that 0830 flight tomorrow morning, that's all.”

Intrigued, Mark wondered what next.

The alarm clock went off at 05:00 hours.

Mark was used to waking early, normally at 04:30 to do his postal delivery duty so waking half an hour later represented a bit of a lie-in for him. He still had no idea why Simon had got him booked on a flight to Cppenhagen. It all appeared so mysterious, very cloak and dagger.

He approached the SAS check-in desk at Edinburgh Airport at 6:00am, showed his passport and checked in his luggage. Mark put his earphones on, the sounds of AC/DC flooding in for his listening pleasure. But Mark couldn't sit still for a minute, he was completely on edge and spent time pacing up and down to departure lounge much every other passenger's strange look. Another glance at the departure board, Mark's umpteenth in a short space of time, showed the flight was delayed by 15 minutes. Reason: problems with the fuelling.

Eventually, Mark and his fellow Copenhagen-bound passengers boarded the flight. Mark's seat was at the rear of the aircraft, at the window on the right hand side. He didn't talk to anyone on the flight, bar the air steward when presented with his in-flight meal. Two and a half hours later, the aircraft landed in Copenhagen and Mark couldn't wait to disembark. He hated flying, full stop even when he went on summer holidays with his mates. Collecting his suitcase from the carousel, Mark made his way through the airport complex whilst looking for any indication of what was happening.. Then he saw a man, smartly dressed with a grey suit, white shirt and a chauffeur's peaked cap.

“You are Mr Pearce?” came the inquisitive voice.

Mark nodded in the affirmative.

“I have come to collect you, We must drive away for the ferry, Elisabeth has arranged it.”

“Who's Elisabeth?” Mark asked.

“My boss, friend of Mr Simon. Come quick please, we cannot hesitate.”

“Whatever you say pal. I just want to know what's going on.”

“Nothing to worry over. Elisabeth will tell you when we arrive.”

“Right.”

Mark was still baffled. Who was Elisabeth, and what connection did she have with Simon Dell? Questions remained unanswered, still. 

A stranger in a strange land, that how it felt as Mark Pearce walked through the exit doors in Copenhagen Airport.

The driver was giving nothing away, ignoring any direct questions Mark had for him. All he was saying was: “Elisabeth will sort it.” every time. But who is Elisabeth and what connection did she have with Simon Dell?  The Red Volvo  sped its way through traffic, Mark still perplexed. Eventually two and a half hours, it drew to a halt at what looked like a ferry terminal, the driver got out and walked towards a uniformed guard in the gathering gloom with Mark locked in the vehicle: unable to get out. Mark witnessed the driver produce some papers to the guard who checked them and handed them back with a nod of the head.  It was then the driver approached the passenger rear door where Mark was sitting and beckoned him to lower the window. Mark complied.

“Mr Mark sir, all our paperwork is good but they need to see your passport?  You have this yes?” asked the driver.

“Yes it's here, why though?” Mark responded.

“So we can board ferry, just a security check like in airport.”

“Right.” Mark handed the passport to the driver who showed it to the guard. “All okay?”

“Yes excellent.” Mark's passport was returned. “We board ferry now for Tórshavn. You can sleep in cabin if you like, Elisabeth has paid for it.”

Tórshavn - it was a place name that Mark had vaguely heard of somewhere but the memory was hazy to say the least. With very little mobile signal, Mark couldn't search the internet for detail. It was certainly different to being in Whitburn. The car boarded the ferry, and once a parking spot had been acquired: driver opened the passenger the door and escorted Mark to a state cabin room.

“You rest here Mr Mark, I will call for you when we are near Tórshavn. There's fruit and some drinks for you if you feel hungry or I can get you some Skerpikjøt with some rye bread if you like.”

“What's Skerpikjøt  when it's about?” Mark enquired, a puzzled look across his face.

“Skerpikjøt is a traditional dish of ours, I think you call it sliced mutton. With rye board, you could call it a, er, sandwich.”

“Yeah whatever.”

At that point, the driver left the cabin and Mark flopped himself on the bed: eyes towards the ceiling. What had Simon done, and more so immediately: where was Tórshavn for that matter? The pieces of the puzzle weren't exactly locking into place at the moment. Mark just hoped they would do, and sooner rather than later. Simon Dell had some serious questions to answer.

Oh Bhoy! It's so easy to read this, great start, I am really curious to see what will come of this.

"Mine damer og herrer, vi ankommer snart til Tórshavn. Alle passagerer bedes venligst vende tilbage til deres køretøjer og gøre sig klar til at gå i land.  Tak."

Was the announcement that came about four or so hours later. Mark had no idea what it meant, so started to fall asleep once more but was awoken from his slumber by the sight of the driver bounding into the cabin. He appeared to be in a rush.

“Mr Mark sir, did you hear the announcement?” asked the driver.

“I heard something but it made no sense, like it was someone eating with a mouthful of that skerpikjøt you got me. Which was actually quite nice.” Mark responded, whilst rubbing the grit from his eyes.

“Glad you liked it Mr Mark, you will be eating lots of that here. Basically we have to go back to car, we're almost in Tórshavn.”

“Just answer me this please? Where the bloody hell in the world is Tórshavn?”

“You not heard of Tórshavn Mr Mark? It's the capital of the Faroe Islands, my home country. Oh sorry for not introducing myself, I'm Kai.”

“Kai. What am I doing in the blooming Faroe Islands?”

“Let's go Mr Mark, we meet Mr Simon here and then onto Elisabeth.”

“I'm on my way Kai, lead us forwards my man.”

The port of Torshavn, capital of the Faroe Islands - a Danish speaking municipality but with its own home rule since 1946. Kai admitted to Mark that English wasn't a language that was commonly spoken here as the locals spoke their own language as well as Danish. When quizzed how Kai learnt his English, Kai just laughed:

“By listening to great English band Iron Maiden.”

Mark laughed back, and after going through more security checks: the two men were met by a tall, ginger haired guy whose face Mark tried his hardest to place.

“You made it here bud, so good to see you again after all these years.”

It was Simon Dell. The man responsible for this adventure. Simon jumped into the Volvo, and explained that he was now working with the Faroese government these days in finance but had never lost touch with things back home. As Kai continued to drive, Simon stated he had been watching Mark's football coaching exploits from here in Torshavn and had a vision their paths would cross again someday. Football was clearly the common denominator here. But where did the mysterious Elisabeth come into the equation? Simon explained.

“I got to know Elisabeth through working here in local government.” Simon began. “And she's quite into her football actually. Like proper addicted to it.”

“And me?” Mark queried.

“Well she's like the chairperson of a third tier amateur side here. Who kinda need a new head coach…”

“Wait a bloody minute Simon! You're telling me you've flown me all the way out to the Faroe Islands to become a head coach of an amateur football side that are a lower standard than Buckie Thistle?”

“Er, yes.”

“So what's the craic wages like?”

“Head coaches here at this level don't earn wages mate. They do it voluntarily…”

“Naw. Nae having this - turn this bloody car around Kai. I don't care what Elisabeth ruddy thinks, I'm not managing any football club on zero wages.”

“But she's got great contracts in the fishing industry there, and…”

“I'm not going to be a damn fisherman, it's bad enough dodging dugs as a postie in Whitburn. Turn the car around Kai, please."

Kai continued to drive forwards.

“Look mate it's all arranged, you will have a desk job in the fishing port - sit on your erse all day and do paperwork. Then manage the footy club on a part time basis. You always said you wanted to get out of Whitburn and be a football manager somewhere. Well, this is your chance mate. Think aboot it.”

“Aye  I did say that.” Mark responded, a calmer demeanour now replacing the previous angry one. “But I cannae speak their lingo.”

“This is where Kai comes in again, see him as your translator type gadgie. I'll still be around for a couple of months or so, my work contract expires here soon before I'm away to Oslo where my wife and weans live."

“I'm no making a mistake am I?”

“Naw mate, you're going to make a name for yersel. This is just the start. Let's go to meet Elisabeth, she's gonna love you pal. Literally love you.”

“Whatever.”

So eventually Mark knew why he had been asked to swap Whitburn for the Faroe Islands. Football.

Whilst the [prospect of becoming a Head Coach of a football team was tempting, the fact that Simon Dell hadn't been up front and honest initially still rankled in Mark's subconscious mind. Now he was set to meet the mysterious Elisabeth. The car pulled up eventually outside a museum in the village of Miðvágur, Kai went through the front door and disappeared into what looked like a café inside. He re-appeared a few minutes later, his left arm signalling come forward like a policeman directing traffic.

Elisabeth Haraldsen was sat at a table festooned with two glasses and a bottle of water. She was a slim brunette, dressed smartly as if she was about to conduct a job interview. Her football interest was as genuine as Simon had described it, a former player (she was a goalkeeper, despite her lack of height) who was now calling the shots at her local side. Quite the journey. Of course Kai would act as translator between both parties. The discussion lasted a good hour or so, well it seemed longer due to the fact of the translation required.

Mark listened intently to Elisabeth's vision for her football club, she clearly didn't want much. The main objectives were simple:

The side was obviously one that needed a kick up the backside, Mark thought especially now he knew what was expected from him. The job would be on a month to month basis which meant either party could walk away if they so desired. But Mark was in his mind, thinking bigger. Elisabeth had also, as Simon had stated previously, secured Mark paid employment in the office at the fishing port where he would just do basic administration. He arose from his seat, and signalled to Kai that he wanted a few moments to himself. Mark walked back to the car where Simon was still sat there, playing a game on his mobile. He rapped the window, and Simon wound it down.

“Mate, she's not wanting much in terms of club demands is she?”

“Nope, that's the attraction there - if you can get them winning games then it's a bonus. I wouldn't have recommended you to her if I didn't think you could get a tune of that side. They're just not accustomed to success.” Simon responded.

“Well you know I'm used to that winning feeling.”

“I know. Gonna take it?”

“Now I have got an understanding of what's expected, I think this could be an interesting proposition.”

“Every manager has to start somewhere.”

“That they do, that they do”

Mark walked back to the café where Elisabeth was wondering what his decision. His smile provided the answer. Elisabeth had a new Head Coach for her football club, Mark had just agreed to take his first steps into the world of football management. He would meet everyone in earnest the following morning, and take in his first sight of the MB Arena. Mark saw his journey similar to that of Graham Potter, the Englishman who took a then fourth tier Swedish side in the shape of Östersunds FK from obscurity to the top flight and the Europa League. Wouldn't that be something to replicate, even surpass. Seeing them walk out of the cafe, smiling, made Simon Dell happy too - his work was done. Now at the end of a long day, it was time for Mark to get his head down and sleep.

The new adventure would begin at 08:45 hours Faroese time.