bigmattb28 - Comments

Can I request SS style kits for my upcioming Sleza Wroclaw save please

Team Name: Sleza Wroclaw

Kit Maker: Jako
 

Sponsor:  Wroclaw.pl

 

Badge:

Home - Red and yellow halves similar to this please

Away - Any style please but white with a red trim

Third - Any style, just black as the main colour please.

Chapter 8

Rain, more fucking rain. I could hear it banging on the floodlights in the Victoria Stadium, not that the lights would be needed for this game. As the game kicked off I reminded myself that Bruno’s Magpies are meant to have this game wrapped up before the game even reached 10 minutes in. They’re the favourites, the big bad wolf with silverware in their eyes. Us, we’re just a bunch of part timers who are all back on site or in the office tomorrow, using borrowed boots for the game today. But in the sixth minute, when the Magpies players should be a few goals up, the script started bleeding ink.

Luke Lloyd, our main striker and scorer of most of our goals, a young lad with a chip on his shoulder told me before the game he couldn’t afford mistakes yet alone new boots, found himself with the ball at his feet and just enough daylight to see glory six minutes in. The defence, which is usually tighter than a nun’s chuff, parted like a set of curtains as Luke put his foot right through the ball, the shot starting low and hard but rising at the last moment as it just kissed the inside of the post as it went in. 

For a split second no one realised what had happened. It took Luke a moment to understand we’d just taken the lead, and when he did he ran towards the corner flag, arms aloft and instantly joined by most of his team mates.

I looked to my left and saw the scoreboard. Bruno’s Magpies 0 - Boca Juniors 1. The scoreboard didn’t know how ridiculous it looked. I cracked a wry smile, I wasn’t expecting it to stay 1-0.

While my boys were still celebrating the unlikeliest of goals, I saw the Magpies manager calmly giving orders to his players. They didn’t panic either, in fact I saw an intensity in them not shown in either of the 2 previous games against them, and they turned the heat up like a furnace, throwing wave after wave of precision passes, relentless pressure and shots at goal over and over again. Their midfield 3 danced around our midfield 4 like a lion chasing prey.

Half chances came and went, luckily for us. A header from the first of 4 first half corners for them mercifully straight at Hermida in our goal. A long shot, about 30 yards out, thankfully took a deflection off Zamboglu to go out for another corner. There was the closest effort to an equaliser that saw their forward break the offside trap, or so everyone thought, as Hermida ran off his line only for the ref to blow for an offside that no on else saw. I screamed at Hermida to take his time with the ball. He did, and we regrouped for a short period of time before the next onslaught came. But we held on until half time as if the full team had sold their soul to the devil for a clean sheet.

By the time half time arrived the Magpies didn’t look tired or even like they’d gotten out of second gear yet. My boys, by contrast, looked to be struggling for air. As they all sat down for a much needed and earned rest, I was pacing the room like a caged animal. I’m not 1 for poetry or sensational speeches, but I know how to speak the language of desperation

‘Lads, let me tell you, you’ve done expertly well there’ I said, my voice harsher than the rain that was now picking up ‘These lot think you’re nothing, just another number, part timers that they’ll brush aside. Well, all I can say is fuck that! You've got them rattled, you’ve got them on the ropes, but if you let up for a second they’ll bury us. Just like Rocky did against Clubber Lang in Rocky 3, we’ll keep on the defensive, we’ll let them have the ball, let them play it around, but when we defend, when we do get a break, cos we will get 1 I’m telling you, we wll fight, and I mean fucking fight! Fight for every loose ball, clear up every rebound, fight for every blade of grass, and for the love of God, if you believe in any, keep it simple. Dismissed’

The message was simple, but it stuck.

The second half was a war. Magpies as expected came out swinging, throwing everything they had at us. They’d ditched the 3 in the middle and 2 up top and gone 4-2-4 to start the half. The 4 up top ran like men possessed, taking our rigid back 4 out of position with ease. The 2 widest of the 4 were hitting crosses that rained down on us like artillery fire. We bent and bent, but we didn’t break, holding the line with desperation, the back 4 regularly becoming a back 6 and even a 7 during 1 attack. Hermida in goal, who was back in the office as a recruitment adviser tomorrow, made saves that I bet he didn’t know he had in him.

Seconds went by that seemed like minutes, and the minutes crawled by that seemed like hours, each one heavier than the last. We barely made it to the halfway line pinned back by this relentless onslaught. That sixth minute goal seemed a lifetime ago, and Luke Lloyd had only touched the ball once in the second half, and that was only because he took the kick off. 

Bruno’s Magpies were the better team by a mile but the ball just wouldn’t drop for them. A couple of chances went wide, passes fizzled out in the final third and I could see frustration starting to creep in.

The clock ticked into the last two minutes, and the air in the stadium felt heavy enough to drown in. The scoreboard still blinked the unthinkable: Bruno’s Magpies 0 - Boca Juniors 1. This was an insult to the Magpies and we all knew it, they’d spent most of the 88 minutes absolutely peppering us but the game wouldn’t cooperate.

Now desperation turned the beautiful game into a bar fight. The Magpies' manager barked orders like a drill sergeant, their forwards throwing themselves even more into every attack as if the next pass might rewrite the game. And we most certainly weren’t playing football, we were surviving, just.

And then, out of nowhere, the whistle.

We’d done it. Against every odd and every prediction, we’d beaten the heavy favourites Bruno’s Magpies 1-0 to lift the Chestertons Cup. Luke Lloyd’s early goal was the dagger that opened the skin, but it was the entire team's blood, sweat, defiance and grit that had written the story.

As the players celebrated, drenched in rain and disbelief the Magpies players all slumped off the pitch, their faces etched in anger and disbelief. I stood there taking it all in, and had witnessed the impossible.

It wasn’t just football, or just another game. It was a miracle really, a moment in my career I’d never forget, the kind of thing that would echo in locker rooms wherever I would go, I’d be reminding anyone that listened exactly what happened here today. For Boca Juniors though this was everything. For Bruno’s Magpies it was a nightmare. And for everyone else, Steve Kean included, it was proof that even in the dark, even against the odds, sometimes the underdog gets to howl at the moon.

== == == == ==

Chapter 7

As has been a staple of my time in the Gibraltar, the rain was coming down in buckets the morning of the game. It was slashing down across my face like a member of a football firm pissed up waving a knife around just all over the place with absolutely no rhythm to it. The streets smelled of wet concrete and gasoline dreams as I made my way into the Victoria Stadium. Underneath the blanket of torrid weather, a story was unfolding. My own story, a story of glory, grit and the possibility of heartbreak.

Today is the final of the Chestertons Cup, which is the division 2 cup, a cup for the lower league teams in Gibraltar. We’ll be playing Brunos Magpies, the same team that beat us 2-0 in the opening game of the season, and it’s a day where the stars are meant to algin for the Magpies and see them win the cup. However little ol’ Boca Juniors and Scott Brown had stumbled our way into the picture, a wildcard duo that didn’t know when to fold.

But we’re not supposed to even be here. This season had seemed to drag, and was more of a slog than an enjoyable ride, like trying to push the car up a hill with no petrol and 3 flat tyres in the snow. I didn’t think my team, made up of part timers with other full time jobs, were built for a cup final.

Granted we’d beaten Hound Dogs FC (great team name) who had heart and muscle but fell apart at the hands of our main man Luke Lloyd. We also narrowly beat FC Olympique, the stylish pretenders thinking they could get by us, but we held strong and took the lead late on from a well converted free kick.

Those 2 wins in the games before this were full of grit, there’s that word again, and hustle and heart, but we all know hustle, heart and grit don’t win you trophies, not when you’re the overwhelming underdogs in the game.

Bruno’s Magpies, compared to us are like a well oiled machine and have won the competition a few times over the years, as well as gaining promotion and relegation form the Primera League. We’d lost to the Magpies on the opening day of the season 2-0 and that scoreline flattered us massively, and felt more like a public execution for me than it did my debut as a football manager. We can take some solace in the fact the second league game with them ended in a 1-1 draw.

Now we meet again in the season closer. For the Magpies this final was just another formality, a coronation for another trophy to add to the cabinet. For me and Boca Juniors, it was going to be an ambush, an impossible task against a team we’d already tried and failed to overcome twice.

The little publicity the second division got in Gibraltar was clear about what was going to happen in the game. Bruno’s Magpies are the class act, they have players there that didn’t have a second job and even had a couple on contracts. They are the aristocrat with a hard woking, combative midfield, with forwards that could sniff out a goal like bloodhounds out on the hunt. But us, Boca Juniors? We are scrappers, a rag tag bunch of part timers, alcoholics, dreamers and players that didn’t know when to give up.

There might well be a decent sized crowd for this game. The tiny exposure in the local press estimate a whopping 1,000 might turn out for the game. Whatever number of people are in attendance it’ll be mostly the Magpies fans making up the crowd I’m sure, wearing the black and white stripes of the name sake birds, the overwhelming favourites for the game. We’ve averaged around 200 fans for our own games, I’m sure the handful of die hards will show up too, hopeful but nervous, hopefully wearing the iconic strips of Boca Juniors, but with the word Gibraltar underneath the name.

As kick off loomed on the day, my starting 11 picked, team talk done and the players going through their own pre match rituals, the stadium hummed with anticipation. There’s a couple of bars nearby, I’m sure there’s been a few predictions over pints already and I’m even more sure they’ll be filled after the game too.

The smart money is on Bruno’s Magpies to beat us convincingly, but like all good Cinderella stories there was a bookmaker or 2 that are giving decent odds on a Boca Juniors upset, of us being too stubborn to let the Magpies have it easy. It’s the kind of story that makes for a great back page article and gamblers to lose sleep over.

By the time the referee blew that first whistle to start the game, there’d only be one truth left standing.

== == == == ==

Chapter 6
 

January 2017

Football headlines

In England Arsenal lead the way at the top of the Premier League, showing impressive form and consistency so far and even going on a 18 game unbeaten run in all competitions. Tottenham Hotspur follow closely in second place, maintaining pressure on their North London rivals. Manchester United occupy third spot, while Chelsea are in fourth. Manchester City round out the top five after having a stop start campaign so far, having not won back to back games all season

In the Championship, Newcastle United have been dominant, holding an 8-point lead at the top of the league. The Magpies have been the standout side, combining defensive solidity with attacking flair with the likes of Matt Ricthie (11 goals, 12 assists), Darryl Murphy (15 goals) and JonJo Shelvey (7 goals, 15 assists) showing Newcastle will make this a 1 and done season in the second division. Behind them, Wolves, Barnsley on the back of on loan striker Adam Armstrong's impressive 17 goals, more than any of his team mates at parent club Newcastle, Sheffield Wednesday, Nottingham Forest, and Bristol City complete the current top six, all vying for the chance to join the Premier League bound Newcastle in promotion.

In Scotland Celtic obviously dominate the Scottish Premiership with a paltry 50 points, sitting a whopping 14 points clear of second placed Aberdeen. Hearts occupy third place as they push to solidify their European ambitions. Kilmarnock, under the stewardship of Ally McCoist, find themselves respectively in fifth, while the other side of Glasgow are struggling in sixth.

In the Scottish Championship, Greenock Morton surprisingly lead the league, displaying consistent performances only losing once (to Dundee United) to secure their spot at the top of the table. Queen of the South are in second, while Dundee United hold third place as they aim to return to the Premiership. Hibernian, currently in fourth, remain in the promotion mix, hoping to reignite their form and climb the standings.

A dramatic turn of events at Anfield saw Jurgen Klopp dismissed as Liverpool manager on December 10th. They had been struggling to meet their high expectations and sacked Klopp after losing to Wigan in the FA Cup. The club acted swiftly to appoint Marcelo Bielsa as Klopp's replacement. 

Steven Gerrard also departed Liverpool at the same time as Klopp, stepping down from his role as youth team coach at the club. On New Year’s Day, he was unveiled as the new first-team manager of Cardiff City, who themselves have had a torrid season and occupy 21st place in the Championship. Gerrard’s appointment is seen as a fresh start for the Welsh side as they aim to climb the Championship standings under his leadership.

In Italy, Napoli have managed to coax former AC Milan and Ajax player Frank Rijkaard out of retirement to try and steer them away from danger in Serie A. The Dutch legend returns to management after a prolonged hiatus, taking charge of the Naples based side languishing in 16th place.

In the ‘I did not see that coming’ sweepstakes of football bingo cards around the world, Ole Gunnar Solskjær left his role as manager of Molde FC in Norway to pursue a lucrative opportunity in Chinese football. The Manchester United legend and collector of medals as a player has been announced as the new manager of Harbin Yiteng FC, a club looking to make waves with big investments in both players and coaching talent.

Solskjær’s decision to leave the 2016 Norwegian league runners up and cup winners to join Harbin  reflects the growing allure of Chinese football, where clubs continue to attract high-profile names with substantial financial backing. For the Norwegian, this marks a fresh challenge in a league vastly different from his familiar European experiences.

Harbin Yiteng, currently aiming to establish themselves as contenders domestically and beyond, hope Solskjær’s expertise and pedigree will help elevate the club’s status. In his first press conference as Harbin manager, Solskjær refused to rule out a move for wonderkid and highly thought of Norwegian forward Erling Haaland, instead deflecting this line of questioning by saying he won’t be discussing transfers at that time.

Boca Juniors in Gibraltar are making their own case for promotion in the second division. With a record of 4 wins, 2 draws, and 3 losses, they remain in the hunt for the top spot as the season progresses.

The main player for Boca is forward Luke Lloyd, who has been in inspired form, contributing 9 goals in those 9 games played which also makes him the leagues leading scorer. Leo FC lead the way in first place on 19 points, having won 5 and drawn 4

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

I was sat in one of the small offices at the Victoria Stadium catching up on the football news from around the world, something I tend to do every now and then, not that much of it mattered to me other than Dundee United really. I do like to see Hearts do well though, my old man is a Weegie and has followed Hearts all his life.

I leaned back in the chair as the dim light from outside the window got darker as the night wore on. I’d thought about how we as a team have been doing, and it’s been alright all things considered. But my train of thought was stopped as the phone rang in the dark room. I answered it cool, calm and not expecting who was on the other end

‘You still at it lad, this fucking bollocks you’ve been playing I see’ Steve Keans instantly recognisable voice spitting daggers down the line at me. His voice gravel rough, more accusation than enquiry ‘still pretending you’re Scott Brown, the good one’ he said with a hoarse laugh

‘You again. Have you got nout better to do than bother me. I’m doing my job, a job that was given to me, Scott Brown, and doing it well I’ll have you know’

The idiot on the other end chuckled, an exaggerated chuckle if I’ve ever heard one, with no warmth and just enough of an edge to be threatening ‘your job eh lad. Like you just woke up today and carried on this lie of yours, playing the part of a guy who belongs’

I just shook my head and tightened my jaw, I’m not someone for theatrics, especially over the phone to some priik in Singapore ‘I don’t need to prove myself to you. 

I show up, I do the work and that’s enough. If you haven’t noticed we’re second in the league and…..’ he cut me off

‘Show up and do the work’ he said with another stupid laugh ‘that’s not enough, not by a long shot. Especially not when you’re faking it, every move you make, it’s like watching someone rehearsing for a role they’ll never get’

I snapped back ‘you think it’s fucking easy do ya. I’ve got you ringing me literally the day I step foot in this job giving it the big I am down the phone. I can feel you breathing down my neck you fucking cretin. I can just see you walking down some dirty back end street in a ghetto in Singapore, you’re all mouth and no fucking trousers, strutting about about like you’re something special, when really all you are is a wee fat gob shite that stuffed it at Blackburn and went off to Singapore with your 3 inch priik tucked between your fat legs’

He laughed long and hard, longer than he had any right to before saying ‘ahh ya’ Scottish that’s for sure lad. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you, as has my friend and he tells me you’re careful, very careful. Too careful all things considered, but real people make mistakes Scott and you, you’re just like clockwork. I don’t trust clocks, they always tick all the way until they explode. Before long you’ll explode and I’ll be laughing all the way to Parkhead’

‘So that’s what this is, you want the fucking green and white dog nonces job? Or is it cos you’re scared, you’re the one pretending to be some hard nosed exceptional football manager when all you really are is scared. Scared some other Scot is gonna get the opportunities you want and scared someone else might actually be better than you, not that that’s hard’

The silence that followed my second rant of the phone call was thick, the kind that could choke a room. I could hear him breathing down the phone and then he said slowly, almost cautiously ‘you’ve got guts Scott, I will give you that. But guts don’t make a man real’

Not letting there be any silence I quickly said ‘and suspicion doesn't make a man real either. I’ve had enough of you now but I will say this, you can keep watching, you can send your so called pal to watch me, you both clearly haven’t got anything better to do. But one day you’ll realise two things’ 
 

He cut me off this time and said ‘like what lad?

‘One, you’re gonna regret pissing me off. And two, you’re going to realise the only thing I’ve been faking is patience’ and I ended the call at that.

== == == == ==

Chapter 5
 

The rain, surprisingly on this day, was falling in relentless sheets, sticking to everything around me and was drumming on the hoods of the cars as I walked into the Victoria Stadium. Inside the ground I could feel a buzz in the air that was complemented by my own nervous energy. My first official game as Boca Juniors, of Gibraltar not Argentina, first team manager.
 

I’d done my team talk, chose the line up and was the first out to the dug out. Barely 500 fans for this second division clash against Bruno’s Magpies. No, me nether. But here I was ready to get started. My shirt was drenched from the rain and my jaw was set like stone, fully concentrated on the task at hand. This was no ordinary season opener, this my career opener, and would it set the tone for my full career after this? Probably not, but you always remember your first of everything. Your first pint (legal one anyway), first girlfriend, first football match you attend, the list is endless and my first match as a football manager is no different.
 

I come from playing in the shite regional leagues and watching Dundee United every week, so I felt going with a simple philosophy, early on at least, would serve me well. Direct long ball up top, solid lines and grit. Andy always talks about grit so why should I not want my team to play with a lot of grit. The set up is simple, 4-4-1-1 and a throwback to the glory days of Dundee United, whenever that was, a set up that promises muscle over magic.
 

And as the whistle blew I was surprised as my boys were on the front foot straight away and just like a boxer that lands an ealry haymaker, we landed the first shot on goal. The long ball form the full back nodded down by Lloyd into the onrushing Moreno to hit it on the half volley. Anywhere else in the world it’s a shot on target at goal, here in Gibraltar the keeper simply extended his arms to catch it before it went anywhere near the 6 yard box.

But just like how life has a way of laughing in your face and fu*king up your plans, so does football.

The Magpies weren’t here to give me an easy win in my first game as a manager, not that I was expecting it easy. They were more organized, precise and frustratingly calm whenever we attacked, and kept cool under pressure. I looked over at their coach and he wasn't saying much, no shouting, no arms flailing around, no emotion. After that half chance from Moreno, every long diagonal ball from us was cut out and swallowed up by the Magpies back line. Lloyd up top cut an isolated figure, to borrow a cliche, he was fighting both center halves with little support from Moreno in the AMC position or the rest of the midfield. 

The first goal came in the 28th minute, a dagger to the rhythm I was trying to get my team to orchestrate. The Magpies forward slipped through our defence like a ghost, turning a basic 1-2 just inside the box with his strike partner into a clinical finish in which our keeper didn’t even make a move to stop. I didn’t scream or shout, I just looked at the pitch with arms out wide in a ‘what the fuck’ motion as I squinted into the rain. It wasn’t quite make or break, we’d not been the better team upto this and the scoreline now refelcting that.

I walked in at half time after all the players had gotten back to the dressing room and slammed the door showing them I’m not happy with what I saw. The air inside the room was thick and heavy with sweat and frustration. The players all sat down, slumped against the wall some staring into space, some waiting for me to speak. The scoreline wasn’t lying, 1-0 to Magpies and it felt worse than the rain pouring down that was getting heavier.

I stood by the whiteboard, something I’d not noticed was even there earlier, then slammed my hand on the table and shook my hand. I wanted my silence to do the work for me, as really I didn’t know what to say that didn’t include a lot of swear words and shouting.

‘You call that football?’ is all I could muster up, voice low but sharp. No response from the players. I stood up strraigher and said ‘I know Gibraltar isn’t known for fancy technical one touch football and is full of boozer standard players, but we’re only losing because they’re better than us, and you lot are f*cking letting them!’ the anger found it’s way out despite my best effort.

I was looking for a reaction, inspiration from 1 of the players, but it never came. I looked at Luke Lloyd, the forward and said ‘you, where’s your fire? You’re out there walking around the pitch chasing fucking fairies. And you’ I pointed at Javier Moreno ‘who told you not to track back when we lose the ball?’ No reaction. No words of defiance, nothing.

I assume these part timers just accepted mediocrity and knew better than to argue. I paced the room without saying another word and headed back to the dugout.

As they made their own way to the pitch I shouted at them ‘you’ve got 45 minutes to turn this around’ and sat back down. The whistle started to signal the second half and I was half tempted to make some changes right away, but thought better of it.

As the game was continuing on the storm from the clouds seemed to mimic the storm of shit my players were producing. They seemed desperate to fuck it up even more, loose passes here, stopping short when closing down there, no movement through the middle. I was getting restless and impatient and even my own words were finding it hard to convey what I was thinking. Our opponents however found third gear and moved with the efficiency of a well oiled machine

The second and game killing goal came after only 10 second half minutes. A long clearance from their defence turned into a defence splitting pass coupled with a counter attack of blistering speed that unfolded like clockwork. Our midfield 4 just stood and watched the ball go over their head as the Magpies forward ran through the defence breaking the offside trap, if there was one that is.

The ball fell nicely to their forward who had enough time to take a touch, do a couple of 360 spins, a handstand and dance a little he was that wide open, but he instead just buried it in the bottom corner.

It was the kind of finesse finish my side were sorely lacking, but it ended the game with over 30 minutes left to play. When the final whistle did go, the scoreboard read 2-0, but in reality it could've read 22-0 and it still would’ve flattered us.

If there were any reporters in Gibraltar that actually cared about the second division they would call out performance a disaster. If we had any number of fans they’d demand answers I’m sure. I would be heading back to the training ground first thing in the morning and review my notes, and come up with some plans and ask some questions I know there’d be no answer to.

It’s going to be a long season, isn’t it.

== == == == ==

Good this 

Chapter 4

As I was working my way through notes and reports, the phone on my left rang on the small desk I sat at. The sharp brrrrlliinnnggg cutting through the silence like a jagged knife, it startled me to be fair. It was getting on a bit, 21:43 to be exact. The few street lights I could see in the staff car park outside casting long shadows, accusingly I thought, across the cheap blinds of the window. I stared at the phone for a moment, an uneasy kind of stillness creeping in, the kind that wraps itself around you when you know you’ve done something wrong.

And I have done something wrong, haven't I?

I picked up the receiver ‘Scott Brown’ I said.

‘Scott Broon eh’ the voice said, the accent on the Broon instantly telling me it was a fellow Scotsman on the other end. The voice growled, thick with rage that seemed barely controllable. I feared it was the other Scott Brown calling, but whoever it was I got the feeling they didn’t want to catch up.

‘Erm, can I help you?’ I said, not knowing what to expect back

The silence that followed was heavy, and almost suffocating. Then came the laugh, a low gravely and bitter chuckle

‘I think we need to have a word laddie’ the voice said. My heart dropped like a stone in a river. I didn’t recognise the voice but I didn’t need to. It was the real Scott Brown. Or the police ringing me to get me for fraud. Or at the very least it was the voice of a man that knew more than he should, a man that has put the pieces together.

‘Who is this?’ I asked, trying to sound uninterested, but I got the feeling the nervous edge betrayed me.

Another little chuckle, then he said ‘when I was asked by the agent about Broony getting that job, I had my doubts. Why would Broony stop playing for Celtic at 31 and manage that absolute shite of a club?’ the voice said, dry as a whisper, smooth as a blade and delivered with the venom of a snake ‘you’re good at pretending Scott, I’ll give ya’ that laddie’

I felt a chill crawl up my spine, the kind that starts at the tailbone and creeps all the way up and doesn’t stop until it’s gnawing on your nerves. I didn't even try to hide the deception, but it wasn’t my fault was it. Andy Montegriffo had assumed I was Scott Brown of Celtic and offered me the job. I’d told him enough times I’m not that Scott Brown, hadn’t I?

’What are you talking about?’ I said down the phone but my voice sounded about as a firm as a chocolate fireguard

‘Don’t play silly bollocks with me’ the man said, a hint of amusement in his tone now ‘I know all about you, pretending to be someone you’re not just so you could get your foot in the door of this management game and no one would be wise to it. Schoolboy error Scott’

I’d stumbled into this semi borrowed identity, but never thinking there would be risks to it, and I’d convinced myself at some point I’d do well enough to be able to get through it. It seemed so naive now, pathetic even. He was right, schoolboy stuff.

‘What do you want?’ I asked flatly, my voice all but drained of any swagger I had when I walked into this job and when I picked up the phone 30 short seconds ago

‘What do I want? Now there’s the question’ the man chuckled, voice low and humorless. ‘Simple Scotty, the truth. You admit to your wrong doing plain as day. And maybe at some point in your miserable little life you’ll earn your way into a managers seat instead of pretending to be something you’re not, and getting the job based off someone else’s achievements’ he paused, not long enough for me to think of anything before he continued ‘you see I know people in this game Scott. I can make it so you never work a day in your life again’

‘Are you threatening me you doss cunt?’. You can take the boy out of Dundee but you’ll never take the Dundee out the boy.

‘Oh no Scotty lad, no threats, just promises. Maybe I let you crack on in that shitty job you’ve landed in, see how you do, who knows you might actually do alright in it’ he said with another half laugh ‘I doubt it though. Let me give you a piece of advice, next time you steal something, make sure the reward is worth it. You could’ve gotten a decent job somewhere, somewhere like the actual Boca Juniors, not a job in the arse end of the football league in Gibraltar. Look at me and where I am, maybe one day you’ll have the ability to makes things happen’

‘And who the fuck are you anyway’

‘Oh I thought you knew? The agent your boss knows, he’s the agent for my star forward Ramazotti. I’m Steve Kean, DPMM manager and currently on route to winning the league in Singapore again. Read the press and you’ll see I’m lined up for big things over here’

I let the anger flow out of me ‘hahah Steve Kean, that bell end that stuffed it at Blackburn and who’s ran to the other side of the fu*king world where no one knows how much of a shite you are’

He let the silence drag, just long enough to tell me he was still in charge of this phone call. I swear I could hear him breathing down the phone before he said ‘what happens now Scott, is that I’ll be in touch. Either letting you carry on the charade or putting you out of your misery’

And with that the line went dead. I sat there, holding the phone in the dim light, feeling the cold weight of the situation pressing down on me. The silence had settled in like a thick fog and outside in the small vibrant center of Gibraltar the faint sounds of the country's nightlife felt like a taunt or an insult, I couldn’t decide. 
 

There was no way out now, Steve Kean, Steve fucking Kean of all people had decided to ring me and get involved, no doubt Celtic or even Scott Brown himself would be next.

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

Chapter 3
 

Scottish football news:

Ally McCoist has been named the new Kilmarnock manager. 

Scotland have been drawn against the English, Lithuania, Slovakia, Slovenia and Malta in their group in the World Cup qualifiers.

Dundee United have signed Oli McBurine & Wallace Duffy on loan for the season from Swansea and Celtic respectively.

The real Scott Brown puts in a man of the match showing against Red Star Belgrade as Celtic progress to the Champions League play off against Bulgarian champions Ludogorets. He also assisted Liegh Griffiths for the only goal in the SPL season opener at home to Hearts.

The only thing of note out of Rangers is they’re still looking for a permanent first team manager, and struggled in the opening game of the season at home to Hamilton 1-1.

I’d managed to get comfy waiting in the office area in a small business estate around the corner from the Victoria Stadium. It’s a small ground holding 2,000 or so fans, even Lincoln Red Imps, the country’s biggest team just about that many only if it’s a Champions League night. Not that I’m too concerned, the less eyes on me the better.
 

Things moved fast, nearly as fast as my first time with a woman. But I wasn’t half as embarrassed this time as I was then. This time it was all about me. This time it was business.
 

I’d been stood outside the door, the boss’s door for around 20 minutes. My boss for now still inside debating in Spanish something I can’t quite understand. I could see the obligatory scantly dressed young female that looks like she’d be impregnated if you looked at her flirtatiously, and she did that stupid giggle thing those receptionist types do and titled her head to the side and smiled, not for the first time either.

She disappeared and then reappeared in a flash with a tray with 3 glasses of some liquid, champagne maybe? It tastes like warm p*ss but I down it along with the other 2. As I do 2 portly men leave the room and are making their way over to me. ‘¿dónde se ha ido mi champan moza? One of the men asks to which the girl just nods my way. I smiled back in the most awkward way possible. Try me fatso. The larger man I’d never seen, he walked away, but the other was my new boss Andy.
 

After going through the motions of plenty of 'hello’s, thank you’s, I’m glad to be here’s, oh yes I’m sure we will’ I decided to accept that this guy has done something no one else would, or had the stones to do. And that was give me a job, an opportunity at a football club. Boca Juniors no less. Except it was different, he's given me the job thinking I'm someone else entirely.

I wasn’t sat in a club soaked in history in Buenos Aires. I wasn’t sat admiring the accolades and busts of such legendary names as Tevez, Palermo, Ruquelme, Banega or Maradonna. Not yet anyway. No, I was sitting in the hallway of an office block called Tower Heights at the slightly less successful but just as much named Boca Juniors of Gibraltar, admiring, in the absence of any notable players, the bust of the receptionist, who’s smiling at me again.

The taller of the men motioned me over and into his office, finally. He said ‘thanks for coming in today Scotty, I hope you’re ready to get to work’ and closed the door behind him.

I didn’t get a chance to speak before he started speaking ‘Right, we both know why you’re here. I needed someone with the stones, the passion and fire who will come in and oversee the team for this season. After that one of a few of things might happen. One, we get relegated and you leave. Two, we stay in the league and you leave. Three, I sell the team and the new owners sack you and you leave. Four, we do alright and I ask you to stay but you say no and you leave anyway. Or five, you stay. Any questions?’ A few actually. When is he going to click on I’m not the Scott Brown he thinks I am. Or what time does that boozer on the end of the road open? And what is that smell?!?
 

He continued ‘I’ve got one of my guys to look after you whilst you’re here to make it as comfortable as possible. Any questions?’ Yes, you asked me already but didn’t give me chance to speak. I’ll not bother trying again.
 

‘No I think you’ve just about covered everything there. When do I get to meet the squad then?’
 

‘Whenever you want. You can go today, tomorrow, next week whenever. The league starts at some point this month so I’d probably go speak to them before then of course’ he said laughing. A joker as well, nice.
 

‘Right. I’ll er, get going then?
 

‘Right on’
 

I was hopeful that the rest of my managerial career was going to be as easy as getting my first job in it was. 

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

Chapter 2

Lets take a step back for a moment. You’re maybe wondering how I even got offered the mangers job of a small second division club in Gibraltar despite never managing a team before. If you’re not, well I’m going to tell you anyway.

We’d been on a lads holiday to the Costa del Sol, as you do. 8 of us had gone and as a group of lads does we got split up after being out drinking and getting upto no good all day

On the Thursday before we left we found ourselves in a night club called Lisbon Falls and it was quite full for a Thursday. I can’t remember anywhere near roughly what time it was, but the scene unfolded like the end of a weird dream, somewhere between the last shot of Jager and the next bad decision.

I was talking to some fella, older than me, easily. He had the complexion of a lobster and eyes like saucers that were glassy with the booze. His eyes swayed under the dim lights of the backroom of the club we were in. His English was remarkable and he was talking of days long past and seemed like a relic from another era, talking about when football was about blood, grit, determination and deals hammered out over cheap scotch and even cheaper cigars. Now though it’s all numbers and agents.

Eventually he calmed down and took a sip of his drink. He then grabbed my arm and gave me a haunted expression, the type of look a man has after he's just walked out of a car crash. He squinted at me closing his left eye, I reckoned to focus his vision on me as he was probably seeing 3 of me in his line of sight. He leaned in, and the smell of whiskey on his breath nearly made me gip, but he patted me on the shoulder like he was petting his prized racehorse

‘Look, amigo’ he swallowed and carried on ‘No need, hick, for modesties, hick. I know you and who you, hick, are’ the hiccups were annoying me so I waved a waiter over and said 2 more pints. The man continued his drunken speech ‘People like you hardly ever show up in a place like this’ his words were slurred and sounded like they were tripping over each other, but I understood what he was saying ‘yet here he is, Celtic captain no less’

I tried to laugh it off, I’d said it enough times over the last few years, I've just got the same name as the current Celtic captain, and we’re both players, him being slightly better than me, that’s what got the biggest laugh usually. ‘Wrong Scott Brown’ I said again.

He stared back, half confused but half amused as he laughed, the type of fake laugh you do when you don’t know the other person all that well and you want to show you mean no harm. I could tell this guy liked football, he said he owned a football club, I didn’t believe that and thought it was just the type of drunken lie we all tell from time to time. But he clearly didn’t know what the better Scott Brown looks like, and I look nothing like him. But there was something about his sincerity that kept me frozen in place because he was adamant that I was the real Scott Brown.

‘I don’t usually offer jobs to people in a night club, but you’re a big deal aren’t you Scotty’ Scotty, how I hate being called Scotty. ‘You’re not my first choice for the job, that guy’s left for China’ I just shrugged and said ‘what can ya’ do eh’

‘Money Scotty. It’s always money these days’ Another shrug from me, I didn’t know what else to say. ‘But seeing you here tonight and you saying you’re ready for management, well it’s a sign from God I’m sure’

Now at this point I need to point out that religion isn’t my strong point, and despite Celic being built on the back of some Catholics, or is that the blue soap dodgers? No they’re Protestants I think, anyway I digress.

‘Never mind the local media or the agents that are trying to fleece more money out of me, Lord knows I’ve overpaid for that Robba kid’ he waved his hand dismissively, nearly knocking a drink over in the process. ‘You though, you represent everything I want in a football manager. The heart of a lion, you’ve got that. Passion. Blood and guts. Desire to put the fear of God into the opposition. You’ve got, what’s it called charisma. Yeah charisma, oh and leadership, you don’t captain Celtic and win all you’ve won without that do ya’ Scotty’

At this point I was on the verge of laughing, drunken unfiltered side splitting laughter was on it’s way. I looked over at the other table and saw my mate Jonno, who just raised his glass at me, winked and turned the other way, and as he did Motley Crue’s Kickstart my heart came on over the speakers. 

The man slammed his now empty glass on the table and said ‘I need a manager. The teams going nowhere. We’ve got a good couple of individuals but no leaders. No charisma, no fire or passion. You’ll fix it. You’ve seen it all I’m sure, you play in Scotland for Christ’s sake I’m sure you’ve dealt with every level of crap there is’ 

I took a swig of my own dwindling beer and it was finally kicking in. Jonno winking at me told me without saying it that he’d put this guy up to this, telling him I am actually Scott Brown, current Celtic and Scotland captain, winner of a number of league titles, Scottish cups and Champions League appearances. Drunken me said to hell with it and to play along, but the other side of me was saying don’t do it, don’t play with the mans emotions. However drunken me then said that dealing with tomorrow was future Scotts problem. Current time Scott had a deal to make.

‘Aye mate, seen it all lemme tell ya’ I started, waving for another 2 drinks and carrying on ‘Saint Mirren at home, we’re down 1-0 right, the young lad Jonesy was sent off, 2 yellow cards, first was dubious at best’ I paused for effect. ‘I says to Ronny, he’s the manager at the time, I says ‘Ronny ya’ need to stick that young lad up front, I’ll find him and he’ll score you watch’ and Ronny says which young lad so I said ‘Smithy’ to which Ronny goes the defender? I says aye the fucking defender now stick him up top’

His eyes bulged and he said ‘what happened?’

‘Well Smithy gets ready and waits for the ball to go out. I’m looking round, 3 maybe 4 thousand away fans willing Saint Mirren on to beat us’ Another pause followed by a sip of my drink. I continued ’so he comes on and I give him a pep talk. I tell him he’s the best player Celtic have ever had and that he’s gonna be the one to win the game for us’ His eyes were wide like they knew what was coming. ‘So he’s on the pitch, up top with Griffiths playing off him, I’m sitting deep like an extra center half due to Jonesy being sent off. Anyway the ball comes to me, I pick it up, and….’ he cut me off

‘You played to Smithy and he scores the equaliser, right?’

‘Erm, not quite’

‘So what did happen?’

You know when a person tells a lie and then tells another lie to cover up the first lie and then another to cover the second and so on and so on, they call it digging a grave for yourself. Well that’s what I had done. I’d been drinking all day, not that that’s an excuse for it, and I’d started telling this story of some kid called Smithy just because I thought it was what this guy wanted to hear. And has there ever been a game where Saint Mirren, Saint fucking Mirren ever been leading at Parkhead against Celtic? Probably not, but then again this guy won’t ever know that or look into it. So now I had a choice, do I continue the lie and make myself look good or come clean and end the conversation right there?

I picked up the invisible shovel and kept on digging ‘Well I played it long towards Smithy who headed it down expertly, Leigh Griffiths then spooned the ball away..’ he cut me off again 

‘To score the equaliser right?’

‘Erm, not really’ I said thinking how best to avoid continuing on, so I lied again, of course I did ‘Saint Mirren caught us on the break, I managed to tackle the ball off their 2 forwards but I was left exposed at the back and they scored another to seal a win for them on the day’

‘But you made the right call, getting the young lad up front, he did his part it's the others that let you down’

I nodded, thinking and hoping that was the end of this conversation. It wasn’t.

‘I’m right about you, you know your tactics and you’re definitely the right man for the job’

I thought to hell with it and played along ‘Sure mate aye, what’s the plan?’

‘The plan?’ he said and followed it up with hearty laugh ‘YOU’RE the goddamn plan Scotty’

I gave a half arsed laugh back and said ‘aye corse I am’ and ordered another drink

‘The jobs yours. Sign the paper, show up, walk into the dressing room and give the boys hell. If you tell em’ to run through a brick wall for you then they have to do it, show ‘em how it’s done’ he said with a fire and passion only someone like the other Scott Brown would show in an Old Firm game.

I looked around for my friends again, half expecting this to be a part of an elaborate joke or a prank they’ve all pulled on me, but the guys face was dead serious, eyes swimming with misguided hope, as if he was offering me the keys to his house.

‘I’ll give you until tomorrow to let me know what you think’ he said as he stood up, then added ‘you’re a legend on the grass Scotty, you’ve got everything to become even more off of it. Take my team on and fulfil your destiny’

‘Wait’ I said and stood up. ‘What team do you own, and what job is it?’ I thought might as well ask and see what he says

‘Boca Juniors, and I need someone just like you to be the first team manager’

Well fuck. Boca Juniors. The owner of one of footballs biggest ever clubs was offering me the job as first team manager. I didn’t want to start giggling like a little girl or act like I was shocked, and thought I better get myself out of this predicament sharpish so I said ‘how do I get there? I can’t get to Argen…’ he cut off

‘Details Scotty, details. Come on, you know you want it. The weather is incredible, there’s women, night clubs better than this, glory all waiting for you, I just need the right man’

He stood there arms out like he was about to embrace the future, completely oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t the more well known Scott Brown, that I’d never played a game for Celtic, or against Saint Mirren for that matter and certainly not for Scotland. Or that as far as multiple league titles go the only thing similar to that would be a run of 3 SPL’s in a row on Football Manager 2013 when I turned Dundee United into an unstoppable force. 

But football, and life, is full of moments, and in this moment all of that didn’t matter. The booze had spoken, the universe had answered and Scott Brown of Dundee said ‘alright pal you’re on. Let’s do it, the next Boca Juniors manager will be Scott Brown’

‘I knew it’ he said laughing again ‘you’re gonna turn us into something good, something worthwhile’ I thought this was the booze talking again so dismissed it. 

But the deal was done that night in a back room of a night club on the Costa del Sol, 2 strangers sealing the deal in a beer soaked hand shake and another round of shots.

Dawn would come far too soon, with the consequences of that booze fuelled deal I wasn’t ready for.

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

Part 1 - My charade is the event of the season

The rain had been ongoing most of the day, as if the sky had just given up which matched the melancholy of the dimly lit room I sat in. I’ll tell you my name now, as it’s the reason I’m here. I’m Scott Brown, a footballer from Scotland. And in case you’re wondering, no, not that Scott Brown. But that Scott Brown is also the reason why I’m here today.

I’d been what you’d call a bang average Sunday League player, bouncing around teams in and around Dundee as well as over in Perth and other places you’d struggle to find even with a map. No glory, no glamour just the constant grind of driving from run down ground to run down ground on a weekend and most Wednesdays. But now I found myself sitting across from the chairman of football club Boca Juniors. This was going to be the real deal, a big gutsy move by the chairman taking on a manager with little (see: none) experience.

This was much bigger than a big break, this was colossal. Argentina. La Bombonera. Maradona. Riquelme. Samuel. Gago. Tevez, the list is endless. I was already picturing myself strutting the sidelines in front of a full house of chaotic fans bathed in the wall of noise. The history, the passion, even the kits are impeccable.

The offer was good. Not good in terms of money, but good in the sense that it’s Boca Juniors and just that name alone on my CV may have been too good to be true. But I’m not someone that looks a gift horse in the mouth. 

I’d gone back home after accepting the job, packed a suitcase with the bare essentials and left for Glasgow airport without looking at what time the flight to Buenos Aires even left. Not that it mattered, I’d have slept on the concourse floor for a week waiting for the flight. This opportunity is that good.

He stared at me, fingers drumming impatiently on the polished oak desk, the sound blending with the hum of a flickering neon light. His office was as dreary as Dundee Uniteds hopes of success this season. Sure they’re in the Championship and only really have Hibs to compete with in winning the thing, but after that? Getting dicked by the soap dodgers in Glasgow, and the likes of Motherwell and Saint fucking Mirren, not to mention the snot gobblers form the other side of the road. Where was I? Oh yeah, the office with my new boss.

The air smelled of cheap tobacco and desperation. The desperation part being him hiring me to lead his team this season. ‘I don’t think I said this to you when we first spoke, but I know someone who says he highly recommends you Scott’ he said to me, breaking the awkward silence

I asked him who, not really knowing what answer I would be getting. ‘Well I know a few agents, and one who works mainly in Asia. He says he spoke to someone there when I said I’d been speaking to Scott Brown, he said his contact had said something along the lines of ‘Broony is the right man for the job, although he wasn’t sure why you’d be giving up playing for Celtic and taking up managing at such a young age’ was what I got back ’

The awkwardness crept back in. I asked who the agents contact was, but he just said it was someone I knew and that was that. He then went on to tell me I’m not going to be judged on a week to week basis, but overall at seasons end, basically telling me without telling me my job was secure for the season.

I could only nod and say I’d do my best as I leaned back in the chair trying to give off a sense of confidence. I did have some experience of playing for teams at the bottom of the footballing ladder, but would that help me out here? Possibly. He spoke again ‘I am not expecting you to win multiple league titles with my team like you did at Celtic, but your pedigree as a player will surely benefit you as a manager’

Now I bet you’re thinking ‘hang on Scott, Boca Juniors are expected to win, at least challenge for the title every year, aren’t they?’ and you’d be right in thinking that. What I failed to mention was the fact that at the airport, there were no flights going to Buenos Aires that day, but the flight I was booked on was going to Gibraltar. 

Now, with me never having been to Argentina, I thought that this would be a stop over flight, you know go to Gibraltar, chill there for a day while the plane refuels and then off we go to Argentina. But oh no, I was greeted at the airport by Andy Montegriffo with a cheery smile on his face. My heart sank as the realisation was kicking in. I kept walking towards him trying to wrap my head around the mistake I’d made.

He greeted me with a hand shake and a hug saying ‘I’m very glad you accepted the job Scotty. I hope the flight was okay’

‘Aye, it was’ is all I could muster up in reply, still trying to process what was happening, or what would be happening very soon. We got in his car and drove a short way through the busy day time streets of Gibraltar, hitting every red light possible.

Andy talked about the legacy of his club, the potential to go far, the dealings he’s had with agents and players recently. None of this mattered to me, I’d been caught up in everything Argentina and Boca Juniors related, I barely heard a word coming out of his mouth. But a job was a job and management opportunities like this, especially in football don’t just turn up do they. You’ve gotta grab on to things when you can, so I did.

The thing is, as a player, not the Scott Brown of Celtic fame, but me, the Scott Brown of Sunday League infamy, I'd never been near a league title even down in the regionals. I was going to say this to him but I kept forgetting he thinks I’m someone else, someone who had actually won the league, won the cup and played for our country’s national team. Someone whose name will go down as one of the absolute greats in Celtic folklore, not the complete embarrassment of a player I looked at in the mirror on a morning. This man was desperate, and desperate men do stupid things, much like me going along with him pretending to be Scott Brown, the good one.

Back to sitting in the office, if I was a smoker I’d probably light a cig about now, but as a Sunday League player that instead of drinking isotonic energy drinks or half time oranges, I’d rail a fat line of powder and drink 2 or 3 McEwans Lager special brews and shout in the dressing room, and I could’ve murdered a pint around this time too. So I did what any sane person would do, and that was carry on the charade. ‘Aye, that’s right. A long season ahead for us, but after looking at the players you’ve got here already (a lie) I think we’ve got a good chance of progressing (an optimistic thought) if the players all put enough effort in (the first truth I’ve said to him all day)’

His eyes sparkled for a brief moment, the same way a punter at a poker table in the casino does when he sees a card he’s been wishing for turn over. ‘Good, very good’ he said and was more at ease with the way the conversation was going. ‘I’m sure there were times at Celtic where you had struggled but you prevailed, and there’s not much money here at the minute, and we get a handful of fans but they’re loyal and will give you time I’m sure’

Reassuring to an extent. But would I be here to see progression come or not? Or would the club crash and burn before then? I told myself it’s a lie, all of this. I’m playing with this mans emotions, but the truth tasted bitter and left a sour taste. 

I’ve played enough football, not as much competitive football as the other Scott Brown, but I’ve had enough time on the pitch to know when to take my chances and when to let chance take me. And to be fair, it’s the only real lie I’ve ever told in my life. Despite it being a big one and one that’s got my foot in the door of football management.

As I stood up and shook his hand, the rain outside started hitting the window and it sounded like an applause. An applause from the crowd who have just witnessed me telling a blatant lie, mocking me almost.

But the hand shake was done, and with it I sealed my fate, for this season at least, and gave a promise of progression I wasn’t sure I could keep.

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

Well this is a nice surprise. Welcome back bro 

The Journeyman Jock - The turn

I realised the heat I was feeling was from the fluorescent lights above me, probably placed right there to make the defendants more uneasy. It mattered not, but I was sat in silence and could tell my face was glum. I looked over at the Doctor and his face was the same as mine, long drawn out eyes and no reaction as his solicitor was talking to the judge. I wasn’t paying much attention to the words coming out of his mouth though. Outside the rain picked up, tapping against the window like it had a bone to pick with 1 of us in the room
 

The Doctor, Robert Robson, my best friend in the whole world is no stranger to the darker side of life, he wore it like a badge of honour that may be frayed at the edges and in need of some TLC, but he kept it around him nonetheless. People could see his charm, his quick wit and the wide eyed wonder of the way he approached life but I knew. I knew it was all part of his disguise. He’d been to places most people would shudder just thinking about, he’d walked through shadows and places lost to ruin. I always thought he knew the weight of his actions, the skeletons in his closet, the regrets, the bad choices all left behind in a smoldering wreckage of a life lived on the edge.

I know his past like the back of my own hand, as well as his present. His decisions haunted not just him but me as well. He’s not the kind of guy many people would call a friend except me, but he knew his way around, knew the taste of a cheap drink, a cheaper deal and a bitter grudge. He was the man people back home called when things went sideways, the one who’d clean up the mess as a favour, no questions asked.

He’d moved to Motherwell as a kid and we’d both walked those dirty streets more times than I cared to remember, haunted by a world that never seemed to change no matter how many times he’d try to outrun it, no matter what I’d done in my career to try and give myself or him a better chance of a clean life. He’d seen too much to change, the faces of the desperate junkies and the broken, the people the system had chewed up and spat out. A lot of people actually looked up to him in a way. He always had money and never seemed to want for anything. The people he helped and spent time with looked a lot like him in many ways, but he never lingered in front of mirrors long enough to see it

His hands were physically clean, but metaphorically they were calloused from years of bad work and even worse choices, the deals he’d made when he shouldn’t have and other things he’d done to make a quick buck, the people he hurt and going down this long and winding path that had brought us both to this courtroom

I doubt he’ll ever make his peace with the shadowy figures of years gone. We both know some things can’t be fixed and some stains just can’t be scrubbed out. Life on the darkest side runs by it’s own rules and Bob knew this better than most.

But now I’d been dragged into the darker side of football, the so-called beautiful game as everyone calls it. For years Bob had made a living in the shadows, fixing deals with dealers and other no hopers and everything ran smoothly, like a Swiss watch made of dirty gears. Until now.

I’d come to think of his solicitor as a real fire breather with a hint of desperation whenever he spoke. He’d said earlier that in cases like this someone could walk if they spilled their guts. It was a classic ‘who’s gonna sing first’ scenario, and I knew neither me or Bob would be doing that, admitting to something we’d not done? Never. We’re best friends, brothers in arms and we’d made a pact, neither admits to something we’d not done.

Bob was sat staring at his solicitor now and it dawned on me at the sight of him sat there, not shaking, not moving, no emotion at all. He was the picture of grim acceptance. The room was empty and now I realised why. No murmurs for what was about to come, no jury to deliberate, no reporters to lean forward and post how this would go down. I looked at Wilson, then the judge and then Amberson and I felt like I was skydiving and had just been told the parachute won’t be opening.

The judge cleared his throat and looked at Bob and said ‘Mister Robson, do you understand the terms of this plea deal?’ and that was when my whole world fell apart. That was when the last 20 plus years of my life went away like a whisper in the wind.

The Doctor just nodded, barely moving and his expression unreadable, but I knew. He’s not the type to open up on a good day, let alone now in front of a judge and Amberson, who by the way was smiling like a Cheshire cat on acid. But he’d made his choice when he left us earlier in the day, and now I realised that was when he’d discussed it with his solicitor. He’d made his choice and now he was going to stick to it. He glanced sideways to me, the faintest shadow of regret in his eyes, but he looked away as quick as he looked at me before it could turn into something he’d have to explain.

I was reeling, my mouth open but no words came out. What could I say? This wasn’t the plan, we were supposed to stay defiant to the end, stick to the truth, walk out clean together and beating the charges like we’d beaten the odds, like my teams had won when the odds were against us. I’d spent the whole trial sticking to the story, the truth, adamant I’d done no wrong, so had Bob, holding the line and proclaiming our innocence to anyone who’d listen. But now with him admitting to it, I felt like I wanted the ground to vanish from beneath me and swallow me whole.

The solicitor then started talking with the judge, his voice low and steady as if he was ordering a drink at a bar, now admitting to a laundry list of charges that could put us both behind bars for a good amount of time. Money laundering, conspiracy to fix football matches, fraud, narcotics distribution, entering and exiting a number of countries illegally, the list seemed to go on and on, but it was all on the table now for the world to see. ‘Guilty as charged your honor’ was the next thing out of Bob’s mouth.

I felt betrayed and a rush of anger and fear that tangled up like a fist in my stomach. I looked at my oldest friend in the world wanting to rip his throat out, but he didn’t return my gaze. Instead he kept his eyes firmly locked forward on the judge, shoulders squared and sat up straight as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along. I guessed for him this was just another step down the path he’d walked his whole fucking worthless miserable going nowhere life. For me though, this felt like the first time I’d ever been truly alone.

The judge spoke again ‘before we get into the terms of this plea deal, you do know you’re going to be back on the stand, within the hour, to confirm the charges and your role in these don’t you’ it was a statement, not a question.

Bob just nodded and said ‘aye, I do’ and kept his head down.

Wilson was frantically pulling papers from his briefcase, sweat pouring from his forehead and speaking to me but I said ‘stop, just stop man. There’s no point, he’s bottled it and sold out’

My whole world had shrunk down to this single realisation, Bob had turned on me. He was taking a deal, a deal that I hadn't been offered because they knew they could break him but not me, and now everything was falling apart. My claims of innocence felt like empty words in my mouth dissolving into nothing as Bob and his solicitor were still talking with the judge.

As the door to the room opened the guards moved to escort Bob and his solicitor out, he cast 1 last glance my way, an unreadable look aimed right at me. Was it pity? Was it guilt? The fucking idiot probably didn’t even know himself. But whatever it was it was clear as he was leaving me to face the music alone. This whole mess was probably his fault anyway. 

I was shell shocked and betrayed and now I was going down. I knew it. My life as it is now, my blossoming career, all going down quicker than a Glaswegian lady of the night on a Friday.

This is it, this is the end.

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - The weight of guilt

A couple of hours had passed since I last spoke to the Doctor. He’d gone to the canteen and I’d gone for some air and food myself with Wilson. I walked back into the courtroom behind Wilson and it had a stillness that felt heavier than it had so far throughout the full case. The windows inside were clean but outside I could see the thin streaks from the rain as if the windows themselves were crying over the mess that had been this case. Or was it the mess that was about to unfold?

The Judge was already in his seat, which I found unusual as all the way through the trial he was the last to make his grand entrance, and we all had to rise for him and wait to be seated. But there he was, hunched over a stack of papers, his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, and a cup next to him. He was the type of man that looked like he hadn’t smiled in the last 40 years at least, his face was creased with lines that looked as permanent as the tattoos on my leg. Motherwell badge and a Scotland flag, if you’re wondering,

He had a gaze on him that could cut through steel, 1 of no nonsense and certainly no sympathy yet alone empathy. Just a constant cold unforgiving look on his coupon, 1 that fit his role well and the role he was playing to perfection. The only thing that would please this man was the weight of that poxy little gavel to his left, ready to drop like a hammer to anvil.

As I sat down I noticed that prick Amberson pacing near his table with a precise, almost theatrical grace, like he was trying to show off or get a girls attention. He’s a man that never wasted a moment or a syllable, as evidenced with his constant use of big words. He’d gotten changed from his suit this morning, he was now wearing a charcoal blazer, white shirt and light grey trousers. I don’t know why I noticed this, but I did. His tie was knotted just right, tight, neat and looking at it made me think it was strangling him, much like the way he’s strangled the lies out of Alexa. 

His reputation preceded him, he was known to bring down big operations and send the best talkers, the biggest dealers and killers squirming while on the stand. I read in the paper that he could charm the pants off the Queen, and even charm the Pope into sinning. Wilson said I’d stood up to him fairly well, better than he was expecting. The Doctor just seemed as if he didn’t care, much to Ambersons dismay.

He slid his briefcase onto the table, opening it with a click that seemed to snap the judge out of his concentration. Amberson didn’t look up when he did this, didn’t notice the judge glaring down at him. He probably didn’t need any of his notes or evidence. I was sure he’d memorised it all anyway. Any solicitor worth his salt knows every move they’re going to make, every question they’re going to ask before they ask it. The courtroom is just a stage and he is the lead actor, everyone else dancing to his tune. He nodded to his colleague, then to the judge and said he’s ready to proceed.

Wilson made a point of shuffling his own papers dramatically as well, his eyes darting between the judge and Amberson. I was sat as stone faced as I could be, hands under the  table so no one could see my fingers twitching or the fact I wasn't holding myself together much. The shadows of dread flickered above my head as the door opened and the Doctor followed his solicitor and barrister into the room.

The judge looked at Amberson and nodded, then to Wilson and nodded, then finally to the Doctors solicitor and said ‘this case gets more unusual by the hour it seems’

I paid this no attention, I just assumed Alexa had made up some more lies or Amberson had said something else to the judge that didn't make sense. The judge then looked up to the clock above his head, 16:20 it read and I watched as the second hand clicked forward, as if stretching out the inevitable or that it didn’t want time itself to move forward. The judge looked across to the security guard and said ‘court is now in session’ to which the guard closed the doors and moved to the end of the row of seats.

Amberson nodded in acknowledgement, a faint smile curling at the edges of his mouth, like he could already taste the win. The smug tw*t.

I could feel the tension in the air. The expression on Wilsons face said he felt it too. There was an air of guilt, like it had settled in the courtroom. It had twisted and turned making itself at home here, despite our protests of innocence

As I noticed what was different, I had  a constant reminder of Alexas lies, of every word that has been said by everyone so far, every step, every choice I’d made as a manager up until this point, up until today and why I’m here. I’d reminded myself I’ve done everything by the book, legally, as a manager and done the right thing.

I locked eyes with the Doctor who looked resigned to his fate and just shook his head, then I locked eyes with his solicitor who looked away. I saw Wilsons own gaze and followed it, feeling a shudder go down my back as I scanned the room. No jury in the box, no witness waiting to take the stand. Empty chairs. Silent walls, shadows in every corner of the room and not 1 of them friendly. Why wasn’t anyone else here? Why had the door been closed and no one else going through it. Anyone at all? Even another liar, a corrupt referee, any stranger or enemy. I’d take Runner Up bursting through telling everyone he’d finally won a fight even if it was a lie right now. The judge seem to know how I was feeling and let the silence stew in the air for a while.

I’ll admit, I’ve never felt the weight of my own choices as heavy as this before, like bricks stacked 1 by 1 until they bury me alive. I wasn’t alone really, Wilson was with me and my best friend was on the other table, but there was no one to speak to here, no one to even look at me accusingly in this dead silent and dead empty room.

Eventually the judge looked to Amberson and said ‘please proceed as discussed George’

As discussed? As fucking discsused?!? Amberson had been speaking to the judge? When did this happen and what was discussed I wonder? But Amberson just said ‘thank you, your honor. James, if you please’ and looked to the Doctors table as his solicitor stood up, he also thanked the judge and looked at me, then at the Doctor and started speaking.

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - A shadow of doubt

The judge called for a break in the proceedings roughly 3 hours after Alexa took the stand and we filed out into the dimly lit hallway. Amberson had dismissed Alexa before we left and we had been told by the judge in no uncertain terms that we’re not allowed to speak to her unless she's on the stand.

The smoky light in the smallest room right at the end of the corridor kept grabbing my attention, as if mocking me. The Doctor was sat slouched in the wooden chair to my left, his suit rumpled, tie on the floor and his face pulled tight with worry. His solicitor and barrister sat opposite him discussing things. Wilson was sat next to me and said ‘that Amberson, he knows every dirty trick in the book’

I just nodded, Wilson carried on ‘he knew fine well that Alexa was ready and able to testify I’m sure of it’ Not that it mattered, she could’ve been the first person in the stand a few days ago nothing would have changed. 

‘She’s a fucking politician, she knows how to lie expertly well’ I said to no one in particular

Wilson nodded and glanced down at his notes muttering something under his breath. He looked up first at me, then to the Doctor and his solicitor, let a short sigh and said ‘okay, here’s where we are. We’re calling what they have circumstantial, and it is. Forget the money bags and the shopping trips they’ve brought up so far. 

All they really have is 1 womans word saying she helped you rig matches’

‘Aye that’s what the fuck it is that fucking whore…’ the Doctor started but Wilson just raised a hand and told him to be quiet

‘I get it, okay, I do. But circumstantial evidence still sticks if the jury thinks you look guilty’

I sat up straight rubbing my head wishing that would rub away all these problems and the weight of Wilsons words ‘you’re telling me that I could go away over some fucking politician’s words and rumors? It’s all just smoke and mirrors, cloak and dagger stuff. None of this, none of anything they’ve shown proves we did a damn thing!’

‘Yes I know that, but smoke fills a room pretty fast Jock’ Wilson replied looking dead into my eyes. ‘As she’s pointed out, you’ve been with her enough times, once is nothing, twice is coincidence but three times is a pattern. The money trail concerns me though. I am only looking out for you, but the money in Mister Robsons account is a problem for you both’

I shook my head and said ‘so what, they see a guy like me doing well in a job I’m actually good at and they assume the worst? They’ve got nothing concrete, nothing that ties either of us to anything’

Wilson sighed again, he’s been doing that a lot today and said ‘concrete, no you’re quite right. But plausible, coincidental even, that’s what they’ve got. Look I’m sorry to say this, to you both, but you’re up against it here. They’ve painted a picture of you and it’s 1 hell of a masterpiece. To the jury, the judge even, you’re not a football manager that’s doing well, you’re a major player in a conspiracy to make dirty money from the games you’ve been in charge of’

I had to laugh then said ‘a major player in a conspiracy, the only con fucking spiracy is the 1 to get me and him jailed for some shit we’ve not even done! They think I’ve got some decent number going on here, if I was this major player surely to fuck we’d have won the play offs instead of getting dicked, or better yet we’d have won the fucking league and wouldn’t have finished in the play offs in the first place!’

‘I understand, Jock, I do’ Wilson said, though he eyes held something more than sympathy ‘but I don’t think it’s about the truth here, it’s about what the jury believe, and they believe, I’m sure, that you’ve been making deals with players to rig the games’ he waited a moment then said ‘I know what you’ll say, but I think the best thing we can do is a plea deal’

‘Absolutely fucking not lad!’ The Doctor said as he jumped out of his chair ‘we’ve done fuck all so we’re admitting to fuck all’ as he said this his chair tipped over on the floor.

I slammed my fist on the table, the anger flaring out of me as I yelled ‘so that cow sells me out and we go down for something we didn’t even fucking do, is that how it is?!’ kicking my own chair across the floor.

‘It’s how it could be, I’m afraid’ Wilson said in reply, his voice now as soft as a whisper. ‘Look, best case is we punch holes in her testimony. We get her back on the stand and get her to prove she did receive messages from you and then get the players to do what you wanted, the yellow cards, free kicks whatever else she said. We paint her as unreliable, a woman scorn perhaps, or try and get it out there for what it really is, and that is a smear job. But even then…’ he paused, the silence hung heavy in the room.

The silence was broken as the Doctor, his solicitor and barrister left the small room and said they were headed for the canteen without another word. I finished what Wilson was going to say ‘even then I could still go to prison’

Wilson’s face painted a picture, that of a face with the weight of a hundred trials etched into the lines on it ‘if they’re convinced, then yes. You’re not looking at serious time, less than 10 years I think. But as I said we might be able to get you a deal, get the sentence down but it’s not going to be a walk in the park’

I felt my face tighten at this as I looked down at my hands, they were trembling. ‘All this time I’ve done what I thought was the right thing, kept it steady, not once have I took a bribe or asked anyone else to. Kept my nose clean when it mattered, said the right things at the right time, and it all comes down to this? Some professional liar’s word over mine?’

Wilson nodded, his voice firm but understanding ‘it’s dirty business Jock, you know that. But right now it’s the only hand we’ve got. I go in tough on her, cast doubt and make the jury and the judge think twice. That’s my advice on how we play this’

‘Well I guess we play it that way then. Give the bitch hell Wilson’

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - The shady lawyer

He kept his questions short, sweet and to the point with Alexa ‘You helped Ostman rig football matches?’

‘No’ She was experienced in talking and questioning so only gave the necessary answers. Nothing more nothing less, every bit the seasoned pro

‘So how did you and Ostman interact with Mister McGhee?’ he said pointing my way

‘It was an introduction at first. Then as the days and weeks went by I was the middle person’

‘Explain your role as the middle person for the court please’

‘Ostman would send me a text, something along the lines of 2 yellow cards, a red card,a certain number of throw ins that kind of thing’

‘And’

‘And then I’d send the message to Jock’

As she said this I looked over at the Doctor, and we both just sat open mouthed not able to believe these lies were coming out of her

‘There you have it your honour’ Amberson began ‘these messages, these were the things that were fixed in the games by Mister McGhee. I’ve got a list of all stats from every game in which Mister McGhee managed in Turkey, plus a list of all bets and markets made on these matches’ He took a moment then said ‘but that’s for later. Miss Rosario, why get involved in this at all? You’re a leading member of the Democratic party in New Hampshire, you’ve got multiple business interests and I’m sure you’re not strapped for cash. Why endanger all of that plus bring the integrity of the sport into doubt?’

She looked up meeting Ambersons gaze, something broken in her eyes ‘I thought I could control it. I thought I could get some money in my account, get it back home to fund our election campaign. I thought all I had to do was forward the message across and play along no questions asked, and then it would stop. But it never stops does it’

I noticed the Judge frowning and making notes. He looked across to Amberson whose own eyes seemed riveted, animated almost, and wide with anticipation. His voice was unrelenting however

‘No Senator, it doesn't. It never does’

As she sat there, shoulders slumped, it seemed to me that this confession was rehearsed, just like her speech to me at the New Years party we were at in Ankara. 

This confession was bogus, I knew that but from what was being said, would the judge and jury believe it?

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - The Witness
 

Amberson locked eyes on me and said ‘thank you, your honour. Let the prosecution call it’s next, and final I might add, witness to the stand, Miss Alexa Rosario’

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Alexa. Fucking Alexa, the politician. My guiding light, the person that got me out of Turkey, into Italy and got me the jobs in San Marino and Ibiza. She’s the fucking witness?!?

The door opened and she strolled in looking like a movie star, with a grace and confidence in her walk I’ve never seen. I was watching wide eyed as she passed our desk and into the witness box. I looked to my left and locked eyes with the Doctor who mouthed silently ‘the fuck is she doing here’. I shook my head and mouthed back ‘fuck knows’. We both sat in silence not knowing what was going to happen next.

I could hear people behind me whispering and heard a few gasps as she walked in. Even the judge looked to be on edge as she sat down. She didn’t look at me, or the Doctor but she seemed cool, calm and collected, every bit the practiced politician that she is. Wilson was making notes as she was getting ready to be questioned.

Amberson wasted no time striding next to her like a shark scenting blood in the water. He let the silence stretch out, the shock of her showing up, the air thick with the weight of her presence in the courtroom.

‘State your name, occupation and place of said occupation for the record’ Amberson said, his voice steady, eyes locked on me as he said it, his tone as sharp as a blade.

She cleared her throat and said ‘Alexa Rosario. Politician in the United States of America, based in New Hampshire’

‘And what is your connection to Turkey, Miss Rosario?’

‘It’s missus, although we’re separated. And it’s due to my career. I was seconded to a term in Ankara’

There it was, plain as day, but it still landed like a punch to the gut. She’s been in on it the full time, she had to be. The people in the courtroom had shifted and a murmur continued to ripple behind me. Amberson waited for it to die down, his eyes never leaving mine.

‘Senator Rosario’ he began, voice echoing through the room laced with a dangerous calm and a wry smile on his lips ‘you’re here to testify regarding the allegations of football match fixing involving a person employed in Ankara at the time of the allegations, is that correct’

‘It is’

‘And you’re aware of other match fixing taking place between people connected to other football teams in France, Spain and Russia, although we’re only interested in Mister McGhee today. Has this all been explained to you in full detail before today?’

‘It has’

‘Were you under any duress or forced against your will to appear here today, or to speak to us before today?’

She just shook her head

‘I’ll accept that as a no’ Amberson said, took his suit jacket off and said ‘I’ll cut right to the chase. Explain how you became involved in these….activities’

She swallowed, eyes up glancing around the room but never once locking on me she said ‘it started innocently, as these things do. A fundraiser, a meet and greet. Some business people from Ankara. Eventually one of them approached me and asked me about placing bets on football games. He said he knew people who would throw games, dives, mis place passes that sort of thing, also said he had a few connections’

Ambersons eyes lit up ‘connections Senator? Is that what you’re calling it?’

She winced but nodded and said ‘he said he wanted me to make the connection between the games and him, to make sure there was dialogue between all parties’

‘And did you?’

She closed her eyes, her face creasing with the weight of something, a confession? Or was it something else? She opened her eyes and said blankly ‘yes’

The courtroom came alive with voices and commotion. The judge slammed his gavel down, it sounded like a gunshot and the silence came almost instantly, the air suddenly brittle.

Amberson, revelling in all of this asked ‘who was the man asking you to make the connection Miss Rosario?’

‘Ostman Sekhir’. A name I’d never heard before. I wanted to jump up and say that to her and the judge but remained seated

‘And for the benefit of the people in attendance here today, can you confirm who that is and more importantly, who the connection was with?’

‘He’s the Turkish Foreign Minister, and the connections, or dialogue as it turned out to be, was made with Jock McGhee, sat right there’ This was the first time she laid eyes on. I clenched my hands and my knuckles started burning with rage and it felt like I was holding back a storm. The accusation hit me like gut punch from Mike Tyson in his prime and the rage inside was rising

The Doctor didn’t hold back though and was up on his feet ‘that’s the biggest load of bullshit ever that is’

‘Order’ the Judge yelled smacking the hammer down ‘I will have order Mister Robson’

‘Fuck your order fuck all of yous that slut there is fuckin’ lyin’ ah’m tellin’ yous she’s a fuckin’ coward and a liar’.

The security guards had grabbed him and sat him down as the Judge said ‘I told you already you’re on your last warning and I will have you thrown out and charged with contempt of court if I have any more outbursts from you Mister Robson’

He waited a moment until the room was silent then said ‘as this is an unusual event, in that the prosecution seemingly hadn’t had this witness ready for this trial, I am willing to let you remain here Mister Robson, but as I said any more words from you unless you are on the witness stand and I will charge you with contempt. Now, Mister Amberson, please continue’

As Amberson was embracing all eyes being on him I could feel my own face red raw with rage from what Alexa had said. My pulse was drumming way up in my temples and each beat kept fueling the fire in my chest. I’ve never felt so angry, so betrayed in all my life.

I looked right at her, right at this woman who was supposed to be a friend, this woman that had thrown this cheap shot, this accusation at me. My eyes narrowed on hers and I saw a blazing cold coming from them. Words actually escaped me at this point as Wilson was speaking quietly in my right ear, there was so much I wanted to say, too many vile and horrible things that needed to be spat out. How could anyone believe this woman’s bullshit? How could anyone think I was capable of this?

Amberson and Alexa were deep in conversation on the stand, but it was all a blur to me, I didn’t register any of it. When Amberson turned to me, he was stood like he was waiting for something from me. He said ‘Well Joseph, is there anything to add?’

I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t even know what he had asked. The words came out of my mouth though, low, trembling barely audible even to me ‘you don’t know a fucking thing about me’ I was shaking now, I heard the Judge say something, order probably, my fists were itching for a release on Ambersons stupid face, but I couldn’t allow that, not yet at least. 

But my voice was like gravel scraping against steel, left no doubt in the Judge I’m sure, no doubt that the tiny scared voice that spoke was one of guilt.

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - Day 4

Day 4 of the trial and all Amberson had shown the court was that we might’ve fixed matches and might’ve made bets on those matches and might have profited handsomely from those matches, circumstantial at best. 

Mark Jaulk, my assistant manager had been called up and cross examined, although he was up there just under 2 hours, nothing compared to the 6 and half I was there and the 5 the Doctor was grilled for. I wasn’t resentful, Amberson said enough times during the questioning there was barely any evidence against Mark and that he was up there more or less to confirm his statements made to the police and to testify under oath that he never saw me or the Doctor do anything untoward or have any dealings with anyone in fixing any games. He smiled at me as he stepped down and I nodded back to him.

We’d made our way back in and sat back down. This was the next big break in the case against us. The strongest evidence against us had been put into disclosure earlier in the day, actually during Mark’s cross examination, and Wilson had said he’s not even reviewed it yet. His office hadn’t been able to go over it in time for this session now. The prosecution's star witness was here and ready to take the stand.

Everyone was back in and waiting for the judge to appear. The air as has been the last 4 days was stale, filled with the scent of Ambersons cheap cologne, my nerves and a tension I’ve never felt. The dim light into and out of the room had finally been fixed, although it was still shimmering casting the same shadows from the hallway into the room. The Judge came in and told us to be seated. Amberson rose and waited for the judge to address him

‘You have your next witness ready Mister Amberson?’

‘Yes your honour, I do’

‘And may I ask why it has taken you so long to get the witness here and ready to testify?’

‘Politics your honour, you know how it is’

‘Actually, I do not. This case you have been building has taken you roughly 2 years to be brought in front of me, and all the way through you have claimed you have some exceptional piece of evidence, which I assume is this witness today, yet you’ve not been able to get this entered into disclosure until now. I will say this and will not repeat it’ he took a moment, moved some papers in front of him and said ‘this witness has to be the best evidence you’ve ever produced in your entire career George, and it has to be the piece that proves Misters McGhee and Robsons guilt, otherwise it will be thrown out of evidence and dismissed in this trial. I’m sure you understand?’

‘Yes your honour, I completely understand and thank you for allowing the evidence into the case’

‘I haven’t allowed it, yet. I will wait to see how things go from here and then decide whether to allow the upcoming witness to be a part of the case’

The judge then asked Amberson to call his next witness to the stand, and he turned and faced everyone in the room, ready to bring in the witness.

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - Big shipment, big pay off
 

I could see the sweat starting to bead on the Doctors temple, the way his fingers tightened around the bannister to the side of the chair in the dock, his knuckles now white against the dark railing.

‘So Mister Robson, what do you wanna talk about?’ Amberson said, probably trying to be funny and gain favour with the jury. ‘Just like Mister McGhee before you, you can keep denying it but the evidence is there Mister Robson’ he stopped to take a sip of his water ‘I’ve seen them all come and go through the system. Gamblers, killers, petty thieves and fraudsters, they all have 1 thing in common, and that is they all get caught eventually’

The Doctor didn’t budge, he just sat and stared at Amberson without saying a word, unusual for him really. He’s the quick witted one of us, always with an answer for everything and usually the one screaming out at the worst possible time.

The room was full of tension, you can feel it in the air. The light above the door, the 1 I noticed when I was in the dock still hadn't been sorted and was flickering, casting shadows up that side of the room, the side where the jury were sat, as if the room itself was alive, waiting for the verdict like a predator. The verdict I’m sure is a long way away, they have to prove the allegations beyond a reasonable doubt against us yet. The tension turned to a thick air as the room was stuck in an awkward silence, waiting for Amberson to continue his questions.

‘You’re a sneaky person aren’t you’ it was a statement not a question ‘constantly evading the authorities,navigating the underbelly of the cities you’re corrupting with your schemes. The look on your face is an expression I’ve seen time and time again, it’s more like practiced indifference than genuine calm isn’t it’ Again a statement not a question. The Doctor just sat there with sharp and calm eyes on his face like a poker player reading the table. He carried on staring waiting for Amberson to continue.

‘So lets talk about the one hundred and thirty thousand Euro that happened to show up in your bank account in Luxembourg, shall we?’

Without missing a beat the Doctor replied ‘what can I say, I’m a professional gambler and sometimes a forty six thousand to one acca comes in’

Amberson twitched his lips and a small rueful smile appeared, only for a second, but it was there. He flipped through some pages of his folder, more for dramatic effect I thought than actually looking for information. He’s probably memorised every page already. Eventually he said ‘a pro gambler you say. A job title that conveniently isn’t ever audited or has to declare earnings and pay taxes. The sort of career that is rife for irregular financial activity. Is that the sort of pro gambler you are?’

I could see the cogs turning in his head, thinking what to say, or more probably like him what joke to crack at this. He didn’t, luckily, and Amberson leaned in, his voice lowering now as though he was sharing a secret with the rest of us in the court room ‘and what about the deal at the Catania docks that went down, the one with the opioid painkillers and sedatives while Mister McGhee over there was employed at San Marino? Big shipment, big payoff is what the local press announced it as. Big pay off, just like the one hundred and thirty thousand big ones in your account, coincidence?’

‘Aye alreet, I’l bite’

‘Tell us about the deal then’

His Geordie accent on full show now as he leaned into the microphone in the dock ‘If ah remember correctly some doss cunt down Boro’...’

‘Mister Robson let me remind you’ the Judge cut him off ‘that there will be no foul language in my courtroom

‘Eh? Oh aye, sorry your majesty, it’s just them Boro cunts are like…..’

‘As I just said Mister Robson, no more foul language’

‘Well ah nah Boro’s a dump like your majesty it’s just….’

‘Mister Robson, you can’t use the C word to describe people from any area or walk of life’ This time it was his solicitor talking ‘just explain to Mister Amberson what you were saying but without the colourful language please. Also it’s not your majesty, it’s not the Queen you’re addressing today’ a small chuckle came form behind me, I didn't turn to see who.

‘Ahh reet then, my liege I’m sorry, where was I?’ 

His barrister shook his head and said ‘the deal Robert, you were explaining about the deal at the docks’

‘Oh aye that I was, them doss Boro….erm, lads had given us a ring about the shipment’

‘And you went and met up with them at the docks?’

‘Nah, oh ah mean yeah aye although it weren’t a group it was just 1 ah’ them, ah’d met him with Double O 7, he’s 1 of wor pals from back in the day. Anyways I’d met this gadgy doon the docks like ya’ had said, he’s given me the goods and I’ve gone back to this divvy lasses hoose down Billingham Road like’

‘Hang on, lets rewind just a second. You said Billingham Road?’

‘Aye ah’ did like, I remember the lass was tied up and when she got free I….’

‘A female was held captive against her will?’

‘Ah shit no, oops I mean oh sugar nah man nout like that. The shipment of product I got me hands on, me and the lass were tryin’ em oot on each other, she let us tie her up and after we finished, erm, ya’ nah, shagging like, I went and sni…I mean drank the rest of me ale and made me ways back home to Gateshead’

‘Gateshead in England?’

‘Aye’

‘I think you’re getting your wires crossed, Mister Robson. The deal I am referring to is the one that took place in the Catania docks, where you were present with a number of other people. The raid that the FBI had broken up, sure you haven't forgotten about this?’

‘Oh aye, nah, I’ve not forgot. It’s just I weren't there like. Jock, the other defendant owa there (he pointed towards me, I rolled my eyes but had to chuckle) he was on the blower to us when it wa’ gannin’ doon cos it wa’ on the telly like’

Amberson was rifling through his notes at this point frantically looking for something. In the end he seemingly gave up and said ‘so the arrest, from the FBI, when did that take place?’

‘Nevah’

‘What do you mean, never?’

‘I’ve never been arrested by the FBI. It’s the police here in Ibiza what arrested me but nevah tha’ feds’

He let out a sigh and said ‘okay. Forgetting that for now then, you do realise that the bets you’ve been placing, and winning, have been done based on the matches in question being fixed. At some point during this trial you’re going to hear just who had been fixing the matches you’ve been betting on but I suspect you already know who that is. And despite your protests there is no way you can convince me, the jury or anyone else that you didn’t have prior knowledge of the games being fixed’

This is what worried me. The FBI and Amberson had consistently said they’ve got proof from someone that games were fixed. It hadn’t been put into disclosure before the trial, apparently it wasn’t ready yet. I didn’t know what that means but I was worried regardless.

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - Courtroom questions

‘As I was saying before the interruption, who exactly approached you regarding the money for the game against Aydinspor in June of 2018?’

I thought about my answer before speaking. As I did I looked around the courtroom and not for the first time today either. I noticed the dim light above the only door in or out of the room was filtering other lights from outside, like thick clouds wanting to come and join in. 

The questions being asked all seemed like they were filled with heavy secrets, and me sitting in the dock was the man that knew each and every one of them.

I adjusted my tie again, rehearsed my answer in my head, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. The barrister for the prosecution, a guy by the name of George Amberson, looked like a slick operator. Hair coated in grease combed to the left and a suit far too snazzy for a legal counsel to be wearing. I’d seen his type before, men with too much ambition and too little care for how they got it.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ came out of my mouth. Amberson was quick to respond ‘oh but if you check exhibit 4C2 you’ll see you’re sat at a table with 3 other gentleman, I don’t need to name them again as it’s on the record multiple times, but quite clearly on the floor beside you is a paper bag loaded with Euros’

‘Objection!’ Wilson screamed out and stood up ‘whatever is in that bag is subjective, he has no proof that money is in there or that my client ever touched that’

‘Get in Wilson lad’ the Doctor yelled in response

‘ORDER! Mister Robson you are on your very final warning now’ he said then turned to Wislon ‘sustained’ then to Amberson ‘unless you can prove that money is in that bag in the picture and that Mister McGhee touched it I want it removed from this line of questioning’

After writing a few notes on his pad, adjusting his own tie and taking a very lengthy sip of water Amberson said ‘Thank you, and noted your honor. But as you can clearly see in exhibit 4C3 and 4C4 Mister McGhee is holding the paper bag and….’

‘Objection!’ Wilson again not letting Amberson carry on ‘the bag in those 2 images is clearly a different bag than the first one. Mister Amberson hasn’t proven my client has held that bag in the first image so how can he be sure the bags in the other images have been handled by Mister McGhee?’

The Doctor stood up at this and as he did the Judge shouted 'Mister Robson if I have to tell you again' 'Aye no bother' he said immediatley and sat back down.

Turning to Amberson the Judge then said ‘sustained. Same again Mister Amberson, prove Mister McGhee handled the bags in any image put into evidence and prove there was money in them or it is removed from this line of questioning’

Defeated but not deterred Amberson said something under his breath, and without acknowledging the judge he then said ‘explain to the court how you managed to fund your accommodation during your year in Turkey’

Easy, I didn’t need to think this one out ‘Mister Yildiz, the chairman of Etimesgut owns a block of flats in Ankara and let me stay there for free’

‘As well as paying you your salary?’

‘Correct’ Easy again no need to think.

‘Of which you were paid roughly 400 Euro a week?’

‘Yes’

‘So explain to the court how on January 23rd 2018 you were spotted walking out of a shopping complex carrying 2 bags that appeared to be from Armani’

I knew exactly what he was getting at so I said ‘with my wages’

‘But surely a football manager on 400 Euro a week can’t afford to buy clothes from Armani?’

‘Why not?’

Not responding to my answer or even seeming like he heard me he carried ‘A third tier football team in Turkey, a club I would say not exactly brimming with finances surely don’t pay enough money to it’s first team manager to be able to afford regular new threads from Armani’

I was going to speak but Wilson jumped in on my behalf ‘Objection’ The judge nodded as if to say go on so he did ‘whether my client was paid ten Euro a week or 10 million a week by Etimesgut, he has been employed previous to this in which he earned money to buy clothes. Not to mention the fact that before he was employed in Turkey he was able to buy clothes which you haven’t brought into your questioning. Therefore I think it’s irrelevant to this line of inquiry why my client was seen shopping at Armani, and whether it has anything to do with charge number one, and I quote ‘’fixing of football matches by ways of bribes’’. 

In my mind I thought he was right, me going out buying clothes had nothing to do with fixing matches, although I and Wilson were quickly shut down when Amberson said ‘maybe not fixing the matches themselves, you're quite right on that score my learned friend. However the proceeds from those fixed matches, sums of money large enough to regularly buy outfits from places such as Armani on 1 of Ankara's many high streets certainly does pertain to the match fixing charge Mister McGhee is here for’

I didn’t have time to contemplate what he said as he continued ‘anyway moving on from the source of the money you used to buy these extravagant outfits, but going back to your overall career if I may’ Like I had a choice.

He continued on ‘you’ve been in football management 4 years now, you’ve won 2 lower league cups, kept a relegation certainty in the league in San Marino and achieved a mid table finish with your current team, taking over when they were third bottom. You’re what people call a rising star' a rare compliment I thought, as he sipped his drink again before carrying on 'but the thing with stars is they tend to burn out when they get too close to the sun’

My jaw tightened but I kept my eye firmly on him trying not to flinch or give him anything to pounce on. The words continued from him ‘rumors are rampant in football, especially in the media. Things start as whispers in the locker room, then to the terraces, then online forums and the such. The whispers gain more traction, a missed goal here, an easy tackle there, a yellow card for no reason or even a stupid red. Easy to brush off if you’re clean, but you’re not, are you Joseph?’

Now I locked eyes with him. Only the old girl calls me Joseph. My eyes narrowed on his own steely glare and I said ‘as I’ve told you today, the police enough times, that dicks at the FBI, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never fixed any matches and have no intention on doing so’

‘Of course you don’t, it’s all a big misunderstanding, right. An unfortunate coincidence that your teams, all 4 by my research, have all been teams you expect to see at the lower end of the division, relegation fodder, an easy 3 points for most of the other teams in the league. Except your teams, favourites to lose most games have managed to win more than lose, even matching teams overall. A coincidence, no, more like outside interference’

I wouldn’t give in, I’m guilty of a lot of things but I am most certainly innocent of match fixing and money laundering. I just shook my head, thought about my next words and said ‘you can’t prove that, any of it. I’d like to think I’ve turned into a good manager, someone that can get the best out of the players under my watch’ I was expecting something from him but nothing came so I carried on ‘I put an arm around Fatih Aktay and told him he was the best striker in the league and he thrived on that confidence. At San Marino I told the players just believe in the plan and we’ll do well. I gave opportunities to players that were under appreciated at their current teams, or weren’t given a chance to shine, I also let…’ he cut me off

‘You see Joseph’ he said as he leant on the witness stand ‘it’s not just the wins against the odds that have people talking, or that you were friendly with some prominent politicians in Turkey, or that you used contacts within organised crime to get you from Turkey into Italy, it’s the money. It always comes down to money. People's finances aren't readily available but taking into account the fact you started in Northern Ireland, on the bare minimum wage, then went to a semi-professional team in Turkey on peanuts again, then to a team in a country not even bigger than the island you currently reside, people are asking how can you afford to live and move around all these places. People like Jose Mourinho or Carlo Ancelotti, people who have made fortunes and command high fees don’t have this issue. But little unknown Jock McGhee continues to be able to fund moving from country to country, taking jobs at small teams going nowhere yet never seems to be struggling financially’

Before I had chance to think about what I was going to say he carried on, more venom in his voice this time ‘Not to mention that layabout over there Mister Robson, who has been your shadow every step of the way. Or Simon Ewing sat over in the seats there, the Runner Up I believe you call him, who came over to join you 2 years ago, a man who is a boxer that has won exactly zero fights but is able to fund a move abroad to San Marino and a subsequent move to Ibiza, despite not fighting in either country’

I thought about it and said ‘people make assumptions when you win. They also make even more assumptions when you lose. I’ve just been a victim of my own success’

‘Or successful because of your friends’

I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him on this so I just shook my head and waited for the next question.

‘Maybe you thought no one would notice. Maybe you thought you could keep juggling the lies, taking the bribes, asking the same players to do your dirty work. The issue you now have Jock, is that when the lights dim, the truth has this little knack of crawling out of the shadows’

Another shake of my head, he continued ‘There’s no smoke without fire the old saying goes. The evidence is strong. The games where a big influx of bets for your team are placed you win, handsomely I might add. In a moment I am going to show you exactly how I know you’ve been dealing in match fixing and having your friends influence certain betting markets which you will not be able to deny’

As he said this my heart sank. But before he could continue on the judge called to adjourn for the time being. I was thankful for this as it’ll give me time to speak to Wilson without anyone else around.

== == == == ==

Legend! Cheers mate.

Can I get kits for the team I've jsut taken over in my save please lads

Team Name: Al-Ahli (Jordan)

Kit Maker: Nike

Sponsor: Jordan exports
 

Badge:

Home - White with black trim like this please:

Away - Any style but in a dark green

Third - Any style but in a blue

Thank you!!

The Journeyman Jock - The plea

I was sat on the third of the four benches. The first taken up by the schmucks at the FBI. Next to them the Doctor and his legal team, then me and Wilson and his assistant, then finally Baz and his suits at the end. We all shared glancing looks at each other, no words were spoken. However I clocked Baz and he gave me a smirk and I nearly burst out laughing. No, I don’t know why either. Possibly nervous laughter, luckily I looked away before the giggles came out.

The air in the room was tense but with the heavy scent of whatever cleaning agent they used to disinfect it prior to the hearing. I’d not slept much the last couple of months, who could in the circumstances? Too many thoughts and worries crowding my mind, too many mistakes replaying over and over in the dead of the night. I’d almost certainly not recover from this regardless of the outcome.

When called to the stand I stood up slowly. Not out of respect or nerves, but my back was playing up even more recently and my knees, well they were shot. I need surgery on the right one which has been put off for now. 

I surveyed the room and only saw accusing eyes. Normally in this situation in the dressing room, all eyes on me were waiting for the plan of attack, the set up in which we’re going with, who’s marking who and so on. Many times in the dressing room I’d talk of miracles and gotten my teams to believe in themselves, believe in the impossible at times, until the miracle of my own victory has turned into nothing more than a fantasy. Instead of a motivational speech or a battle cry of tactics all I was asked at this time was to confirm the plea I’d made a few weeks ago. I leant into the microphone and said ‘as I already told you, not guilty’

‘I only asked you to confirm it, not anything else Mister McGhee’ the guy sat on the pew to my left with the wig on said to me so I just nodded back. Prick.

I thought I was ready for the onslaught of words from the prosecution. I’d had enough journalists, fans, board members and even Ciro Ferrara talking to me in such a way you’d think they want to kill me. Except this time it wasn’t about loud voices and idle threats, this time the guy asking the questions actually wanted to tear me apart.

As the words were coming thick and fast, my mind raced from that first day in the job in Bangor right up until the final kick of the ball here in Ibiza against Barcelona's B team. Thinking of Dale Patton and Trevor Bests daughter from my first season in the job, Fatih Aktay banging goals in for fun in Ankara, Emre and Sanogo working so well as a big man little man combo in San Marino, Pavel and Anibal getting international call ups since playing for me and Grande scoring a worldie at Can Misses. The players all trusted me, they listened to every word I said and appreciated me. I now wonder who exactly was behind some of the wins that weren’t earned with hard work and talent, but behind the back payments and dodgy phone calls.

The barrister shouted my name as I snapped out of the daze I was in. ‘As I have said, Mister McGhee, what you have done is not only betray your morals, or the players under your command, even the people paying money to watch your teams, but you’ve betrayed the very essence that is professional football, the sport the majority of people love’ he paused for a reaction from me that didn’t come ‘and that brings me to the conclusion that here we have a man that will sell the integrity of the sport for a quick buck’

This was when the Doctor stood up and yelled ‘that’s a fuckin’ lie that is yous are all fuckin’ wrong this is bullshit’ as the judge smashed that little hammer down and screamed for order. The solicitor managed to calm him down and speak to him, probably telling him to shut the fuck up. 

Before the questions began again Wilson asked the judge if he could speak to me, which he agreed. Wilson walked up and said ‘let me remind you again, no swearing, think about everything before you speak. Even if you take 5 minutes to think about what has been asked before you do speak, do it. And lastly they might have evidence, but evidence doesn’t always seal the deal. It’s them that need to prove you did something, not you proving you didn’t. Stick to the plan, and stay composed’

The plan. I always had a plan. Away or at home, against top of the league or the bottom, in the league or a cup I always had a plan, and they were always good. Long ball when needed, all back on defence or all out attack, game winning or game management plans, I had a plan for everything. But here, in this court room in this world of laws and loopholes, my notes on the plan were blank. I was playing defence, something I’ve never done.

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - Dirty tactics

As we made our way out of the car and into the building, one of the biggest public buildings on the island, the rain was relentless. Summer in Ibiza wasn’t meant to see rain, not like this at least. You can hear it pounding the windows like a seasoned prize fighter pummeling Runner Ups stupid face over and over. The light in the reception was flickering and then I noticed the light on top of the security guards post was flickering with a sticky glow.
 

‘Empty your pockets please’ the jumped up pen pushing rent a cop said in perfect English as he put a tray in front of me ‘any metal work inside your person?’ I shook my head as I undid my belt and lay my phone, wallet, watch, strip of Tramadol tablets, and my rented flat keys into the tray. ‘Step through here please’ as he motioned me to his colleague to give me the once over with that little beeping rod they use.

After getting the all clear from the second rent a cop I could still hear the storm outside. ‘Tropical storm’ someone had said on the way over. I’ve seen storms like this before, metaphorically I mean. On the pitch, in boardrooms, police stations and now as the sign opposite me reads Juzgado de Audiencia Nacional de Ibiza, the Spanish National Court of Ibiza. This storm was going to be different, and it was headed straight for me.

As we sat in the waiting area for our case to be called I saw a bit of commotion near the rear doors opposite the way we had come in. ‘Press probably’ my solicitor, Wilson Barnes said ‘it’s quite high profile all of this’ I could only nod.

As the doors flew open 2 armed guards came storming through, dragging a form kicking and screaming who stumbled to the floor, at least it looked more like a theatrical Neymar-esque dive more than a stumble.

‘Steady on ya’ fuckin’ radge cunt’ the form said in the most recognisable Geordie I’d ever heard ‘an’ ya’s can fuck reet off think ah'm pleadin’ guilty an a’hl like’ he said as he was dragged up to his feet. As he stood up I went to go speak to my oldest friend in the world, the Doctor we all call him now. His real name is Robert Robson, of Newcastle Upon Tyne. But as I did Wilson grabbed my arm ‘I wouldn’t, it’ll look bad for both of you’

But before I could say anything the Doctor yelled ‘Jock lad, my guy howay man come owa an’ see us before these fuckin’ Mackem shagging dog botherers giv’ us anover' kickin’ like’

Before I could say anything they dragged him down the hall towards another area I’d not been into waiting for the hearing to begin. As I sat back down I pulled out the envelope from my inside pocket. It felt like a loaded gun as I pulled it out. I’d not touched this thing since it had been given to me some weeks ago by a DPD guy on the island who didn’t stick around once I’d signed for it, as if he knew what was inside.

I opened it slowly again, much like when I got the bastard thing, and slid out the paper inside. The words ‘Federal Bureau of Investigation’ adorned the top, as did ‘Financial Crimes Unit’ in letters staring back at me again, in a bold and unapologetic way. I could almost hear the handcuffs snapping shut when the case was over.

Match fixing and money laundering are the official charges and the reason I’m here today. Below those I’m being brought in to be cross examined in the Doctors own trial. His charges are drug and person trafficking, conspiracy to commit fraud and bribery to go with the 2 crimes I am being charged with.

Baz, David Barron on the official documents, is also going to be involved in this trail. His charges are match fixing from our time in San Marino and bribery. We’ve not spoken since the final game of the season a few months ago on the advice of both our legal teams. 

Mark Jaulk, the most professional person I’ve ever met, a guy that keeps himself to himself has been given a court order to appear as a witness for both the prosecution and the defence. I’m not sure firstly how that will work, surely it’s a conflict of interest? Or secondly how he will do up on the stand, he’s always been a calm sort of guy so I don’t know if he’ll buckle or not. He’s not being charged with any crime either, which I found odd. Much like Baz I’ve not spoken to Mark for ages.

I wasn’t going to admit it, but I was worried. This is a high profile case with far reaching complexities. Once our trial is out the way, the next phase is the trial of a number of staff at higher profile teams such as Anderlecht, Besiktas, Spartak Moscow and Lyon. With us being on the lower end of the reputational ladder, we were getting seen to first. Wilson told me it’s so the other teams can see how it’s getting handled, how the media are going to be and play it, and how we as the accused deal with things. 

Dirty tactics is what Wilson had called it. But in football is there anything on the pitch but dirty tactics? You set up to win, and when you’re in front you set up not to concede, dirty tactics right. You’re losing by a goal with 5 to play so you change to Sam Allardyce anti-football long ball and route one it into the opponents box, hoping for a lucky bounce, more dirty tactics.

The line between the right tactics and the wrong tactics is as blurred as the goal line in heavy fog. Sometimes you don’t know if you’re overstepping that line until you are so far over the line you’d done a full 360 and were back on the other side of the line ready to cross it again. And now, I was so far over the line I’d doubled up and was knee deep in something even more filthy than dirty tactics.

The letter detailed it in cold, brutal and clinical language: allegations of large sums of money coming my way, flowing through bank accounts held in Turkey, Bulgaria and Italy. Subsequent suspicious movements out of said accounts into accounts held in Mexico and Honduras. For the record I’d never been to either of those countries. And the worse line on the page read - results on the pitch that were looking too convenient to be coincidence and rife for certain betting markets, such as number of shots at goal, number of corners, yellow cards and passes made, to name a few. A pattern, the FBI called it, but the only pattern I saw was the unravelling of my life in front of my eyes.

I’d hit the drink daily from receiving the letter I now held in my hand. The sauce being the only thing that hadn’t betrayed me, yet. The chest stinging of the whiskey bruning all the way down the only thing, legal anyway, that I could get my hands on that would take the mental edge away. The other illegal things I was partial to these last few months were kept to myself.

There had been a number of phone calls to the club once I’d been given the official notice and court date over the last few weeks. Faceless voices offering to help me and clear my name, others wanting official statements. I remember 1 person earlier in my time in Turkey actually saying ‘win by 2 goals and that wage budget dilemma you’ve got will disappear’, I can’t remember if we did win or not but I do remember come that January we signed Ugur on loan from 1860 Munich, when in December the chairman had mentioned not being able to afford his wages. I never mentioned this to Wilson though. The phone calls eventually died down as I kept hanging up as soon as I knew it was people trying their luck at a scoop. I didn’t bite.

As the date drew nearer and nearer I remember just sitting in the flat in Ibiza, a flat I’d been paying for out of my wages earned up until I landed in Ibiza, money earned through nefarious means, so the press releases kept printing. It wasn’t home, never would be even if this court thing wasn’t happening. I knew I’d be on the move again eventually anyway but home, to me, is Motherwell. I’d had dreams of managing the Well, those dreams never going to come to fruition now regardless of what happens over the next couple of weeks.

I glanced at my watch. The time ticked louder than it had any right to, every second the little hand moved forward pulling me closer to the start of proceedings. The pressure was coming, but you’d think being a football manager I’d be used to pressure, making big decisions like who to play, who to bench, who to sub, who will shut out the opponents attack or whos’ going to come on and change a game in the dying seconds of extra time. Except now there are no substitutions, no extra time, no late comeback from a super sub. 
 

This was different. This was career life or death, and in the court room nobody gets a second chance.

== == == == ==

It's a long shot but has anyone got the cut out faces pack for FM17? The megapcak on the site doesn't work for FM17 as the pics are all too big.

The Journeyman Jock - The final whistle

I was stood in the dim lights of the home dressing rooms at Can Misses, Ibiza’s stadium and my home for the last 6 and a bit months. The lights were eery and casting long shadows on the walls, as if trying to say something, final, I don’t know. I was sat alone with a can of Red Bull, the sound of dripping water somewhere down the corridor my only companion. 

Baz and Mark, my trusted staff, had long gone for the day. Baz to get ready for yet another night on the town, it would be his 14th night out in a row he proudly exclaimed earlier in the day. Guinness and Runner Up no doubt joining him again, the Doctor conspicuous by his absence still being remanded by the Ibiza police. I hadn’t got the heart to tell Baz, Runner Up and Guinness what I needed to. 

Mark Jaul, probably my most reliable staff member, I also hadn’t told him either, he was busy getting sorted to go spend part of the summer in his home country of Austria with family and friends, he’s more than earned a few weeks rest, although I had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting it.

The season for FC Ibiza had ended and we comfortably finished mid-table, and bringing in the lower league trophy the COPA Federacion, much a mirror of my season in San Marino this time last year too. The scent of sweat, defeat, victory, hard work and a season of ups and downs swirled around me in the dressing room. 

I could see Mario Barcos shirt from the cup final, he’d signed it to sell to raise money for a charity he’s a part of, on the door of his locker. My own football boots that have been with me since the first training session I took in Bangor 4 short years ago were also by my own bench in the middle of the room. I could see a little clear bag behind the bin, clearly left by Guinness, Runner Up or Baz by mistake. I wouldn’t be cleaning it up, not yet anyway. The damage has already been done.

The team had given their all in the time I’d been here and we’d finished in good spirits, winning more than we lost as well as the cup. A lot of effort from them all is all I asked for, that’s what I got and more. Thing is, in this life the world doesn’t care about effort and good spirits, it certainly waits for no man. Time, in of itself, moves on as does football.

I replayed many of the moments from this season in my minds eye. The cup final first and second legs a big part of it, a second half hat trick from Juanje away at Eldense in a 4-3 win, we were 3-0 down at 1 point too, in that game towards the end of the season. There were bad points too, defeats here and there, open goals missed and chances scuffed. But overall a good season for us, and we could be happy. 10th place is something to build on, whether I would be the one building it remains to be seen.

I was certain this team would be built to last. I’d made contact with some players we’d been scouting and deals offered just waiting to be signed. Barco and Grande the players that sparked hope, over 40 goals between them this season. Killer came in and sorted the defence out and instilled fear in opposition strikers, into me as well at times. He’d be our captain next season without a doubt.The young kid Aragao on loan from Real Madrid had extended his stay for another 12 months as well. Things are, were, looking up.

They call it the beautiful game, but it’s not always beautiful. ‘Not for men like me’ I said to myself. I wished I could come back, hoped beyond anything I’d get the chance to come back and carry on in a job many men want but never get the chance to do.

As the door to the dressing room creaked open the dark corridor behind it beckoned. The shadow went from being stretched to a form standing in the doorway and said ‘hello Jock, it’s been a little while’ and motioned me to join him.

I stood up, back aching from a fall many years ago that still gives me trouble, both knees stiff from training regularly with the boys, and all I could say was ‘aye, it has’. I flicked the light switch, the room went dark and the door slammed shut behind me.

== == == == ==

The Journeyman Jock - The second leg, again

News broke of the takeover and was all across the local media in Andorra, seemingly more important than the second leg of the cup final. I wasn’t concerned this would affect the team, quite the opposite actually. We’d all discussed the takeover and what it means for the future of the club, all we had to do was hang on to our 3 goal lead from the first leg and then we'd be able to prepare for the upcoming months.

As for the team I picked, the only player that would miss out in the second leg would be Miguel Guirao, who had been a steady hand all season for us. We’d be giving the starting nod at right midfield to Calvillo who has played back up for Guirao all season anyway

GK - Ualoloca

RB - Hernandez

LB - Candelas

CB - Killer

CB - Garrido

RM - Calvillo

LM - Herrera

CM - Molina

CM - Marreh

FW - Barco

FW - Grande

As with the first leg it started pretty evenly, Andorra didn’t want to commit man forward and as we’d discussed before the game we were content to sit back and soak up the pressure early on. That lasted until the 14th minute, when Calvillo filling in for Guirao on the right burst forward and crossed low and hard across the box where Barco had the simplest finish of the season as he tapped into the net. 1-0 on the day, 0-4 on aggregate

The goal woke Andorra up and it was obvious they felt like the tie was done as the shackles were off as they put us under pressure for the first time in the game. Both their wide men in a 4-2-3-1 set up were linking well with the pivot in the middle, giving our back 4 a tough time, Killer at right center half especially was being given the run around.

Eventually the breakthrough for them did come in the 31st minute. As with our goal their winger found space out wide on the right and drilled it in low, Killer did clear it but either the ball bobbled or he sliced it, but it fell nicely to Ibarbia, the onrushing right full back who hit it sweet as you like into the bottom corner. Ualoloca was rooted to the spot. 1 each, game on.

Anyone with half an interest in football knows the best time to score is right after you’ve already scored, and that rang true in this game. Right from the kick off we played it back towards our defence where the usually composed Candelas would’ve taken a touch and played it out wide as we’d worked on, however the advanced playmaker Deco was on him in a flash and his clearance fell to Ibarbia who must’ve felt like scoring again, but instead he lifted the ball high over Candelas as he closed the ball down and Deco was unmarked and headed it just past Ualoloca in the net. 2-1 Andorra.

Baz was animated on the sideline and not trying to be politically correct with his encouragement either. ‘Ya’ wee Spanish jambalaya eating fucks’ and ‘Killer ya’ a fuckin’ donkey sort it oot lad’ were 2 of the most repeated things he was saying. It worked though as we then put Andorra under some pressure and managed to equalise right before half time. Calvilla on the right and Herrera in the middle combining well with a 1-2 to release Cavilla on the inside left channel and he floated the ball in to just where Barco was bombing forward, he hit it as it bounced in front of him on his left foot, it wrong footed the keeper, clipped the near post and went over the line. 2-2 at the half, a very even game although still 6-3 to us on aggregate.

My team talk was short and to the point. 'Don’t do anything stupid and keep it simple. We’ve conceded twice already but cancelled them out luckily, we do not want to concede first’ were my words. Inside I thought do Andorra have enough to score 3 more unanswered goals? Probably not was what I kept telling myself.

I was slightly wrong in my assessment however. Andorra came out all guns blazing looking for the first goal of the half, and we weren’t expecting it. Our 2 banks of 4 were pinned into our half for what seemed an eternity and Ualoloca in net made a number of saves, some routine and 1 where the ball was hit from outside the area, Killer was trying to block it but missed it, while Ualoloca luckily saw it late but got down just in time to palm it out for a corner.

The corner came from nothing as we cleared the ball, Grande having to drop very deep to control it and look for a way out of our half. It didn’t come however as Deco came from Grande's blind side, nicked the ball off him and drove through the middle. Baz was up and screaming at the players but I was trying to see what Calvilla was doing, as he wasn't tracking back. The rest of our midfield were out of position as they were still getting back from the corner Calvilla Grande being left up from the corner. Deco looked up and rifled the ball with the outside of his boot, a real daisy cutter to Sanchez on their left flank. He hit it first time and it gained just enough air to be missed by Killer who has doing his best to stay upright and Vujnovic, a half time sub for Andorra pounced on it and helped it into our net. 3-2 to them and the advantage in the game, 5-3 to us but advantage us in the tie.

That was in the 69th minute, plenty of time for them to get another 2 unanswered goals. We held firm for a few minute though, neither team doing much but when Calvillo was released on the right, he found Grande in the box just off center of the penalty spot, he went up for a header and as he did the center half came to put him off and as Grande headed the ball he came down hard on his ankle and I could tell the way he crumpled to the floor he would be coming off.

Injuries are never good no matter how you plan for them. His replacement Juanje was on and the idea was to try and run into the gaps behind the defence, Juanje being quicker than Grande and Barco. As the game carried on Juanje was linking up with Barco looking to get involved. Andorra hadn’t really threatened us since their third goal but we managed to get an equaliser.

Not long after Juanje came on he was played into the box by Barco and Tomas at center half had pushed him in the back, so the linesman told Baz. I didn’t see the push, neither did the ref as when Juanje hit the deck the ref didn’t wave, only when the flag was up did he stop, look at the linesmen who signaled for a push. Penalty to us.

Only 1 man on the pitch would be stepping up to take it and that was Barco. He'd got 2 already in the game and he made it 3 with a thumping penalty right down the middle wrong footing the keeper. 3-3 on the day, 6-3 to us on aggregate, less than 10 to play. The cup is nearly ours.

As the players lined up for the left 8 plus stoppage time, I saw Baz, Runner Up and Guinness all rush from the bench and down the tunnel. I also noticed 1 of the stands for home fans that was open started emptying, they knew. I could tell the Andorra players heads had dropped as well, no way were they scoring 3 in 8 minutes. The game petered itself out and before the full time whistle went, the trio of Baz, Runner Up and Guinness all came back from the tunnel with 2 bottles of champagne each, some streamers and a Scotland flag.

The ref whistled for full time. The 700 or so fans that made the trip from Ibiza to Andorra were cheering, I was being covered in champagne and the players were jumping for joy

Much like last season in San Marino, where I’d won the lower league cup with them, I was celebrating another unlikely cup win with another unfancied side. It’s another moment in a short 4 year career of moments. To see the players, my players celebrating a cup win, to think of myself hopping through countries being hounded by the FBI and relentless media is just incredible to me. My whole 4 year career so far has been a rollercoaster full of twists and turns, it’s cliché I know, but it’s true. I’ve never once given up despite the pressure form authorities, probably some players, definitely some fans and even the league wanting me gone and I’d like to think that has pressed onto the players after this cup win.

I shook hands with the ref and linesmen, thanking the 1 that flagged for the penalty and admitting I didn’t see the push. I shook hands with many of the Andorra players, and finally before heading into our dressing shaking hands with Isma Pinera and him congratulating us all. I walked into the dressing room to cheers and more bubbly being sprayed, and all I could think of saying was ‘well done lads, we’ve fucking done it!

== == == == ==

Consider me intrigued.

Triumph

I walked in and the locker room was silent, except for the slow drip of water from a leaky pipe in the corner. I’ve told the chairman about that fucking pipe a million times! Anyway the steam still clung to the air, mixing with the scent of sweat, adrenaline and something else, something electric. The kind of tension that only comes after a war fought and won. I stood there in the middle of the dressing room, sweat dripping from my own forehead as my eyes scanned the room.

The players all sat i their allocated spaces, mud and sweat on their persons, faces flushed from the match we’d just had and the from the effort they all put in. Some were taking it in, some cooling down, some still buzzing from the adrenaline, young Diallo especially was sat looking he was vibrating in his seat. A few of the older heads, Kodjo Ehon and his center half partner Ramlee Pascal, our captain and fearless leader looking a bit worse for wear having come off with 10 minutes to go with a twisted ankle, both had their faces down trying to process what we’d just done. Reaching the cup final, it wasn’t something that came easy, especially a club like ours.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooling box by the door, just as the door closed and Koffi was fashionably late back from the pitch. ‘Not bad boys. Not bad at all’ I said as I took a sip of the water. A couple of the players glanced up, smiles creeping across their faces. I glanced back towards Pascal and Ehon, our 2 towering center halves both looked up as well, waiting for me to say more before they spoke, as they always did. But tonight was different.

‘Getting to any final in any competition doesn't’ happen by chance’ I said and continued with ‘You all fought hard for every inch, every tackle and every loose ball. No one has given us a damn thin, you took it, you earned it’

I let my comments hang for a moment, then said ‘But do not get comfortable or content with just getting to the final boys. You all know how football works, the minute you think you’ve made it, that’s when it all slips away. I hate using cliches, but this is all part of a process, and you’re all playing your part’ Another pause, letting the words sink in ‘We’re just about safe from relegation, and the cup final is the last hurdle for this season. Is the final going to be the hardest hurdle? I don’t know, but it’s coming for us. By the time you’ve prepared for it, it’s going to be upon us'

I didn’t see it at first but I could’ve sworn I saw a flicker of doubt, just a small hint, across some faces. Nothing too concerning, yet, but the weight of what I’d said sinking in now making waves through the changing room.

‘But tonight’ I added purposely softening my voice ‘tonight you’ve done some special. So take a moment now, enjoy it, savor it and celebrate tonight. I don’t want to see you for 3 days so make the most of it. But remember, this isn’t the end yet. We’ve got 3 league games left, plus the final. The real fight’s around the corner in 3 games time, the next time we walk out in this competition it’s for the cup’

I threw the now empty water bottle towards the metal bin near the door, it dropped in silently as a couple of the players got up and started dancing and their celebrations began. I looked at Koffi who winked back at me. I turned back towards them all, most now joining in the celebrations and said ‘you’ve done well. Damn well, all of you’ and I headed out.

I heard the players making noise and enjoying a job well done. The next 3 days was theirs to enjoy, mine would be spent strategising with Koffi and the other staff, as we have 3 games to go in the league before the cup final, and 1 more win, depending on other results, should be enough to secure our league survival.

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The low-down offer

I’d been called into the new chairman's office, the smoke from his fat Cuban curling up in the dim light of his office, the biggest of the 3 at the stadium. I could see the dim lights of downtown Lomé in the window behind his desk, but his eyes were fixed on some sheets of paper in front of him laid on the desk.

He sat behind his new mahogany desk and then clutched both pieces of paper, his steely glare locked on to me as I sat down. The tension in the air was obvious, I didn’t know whether to stay quiet or say something

Kossi Azaleka, the boss, made the decision to speak first ‘care to explain these?’ he said, thrusting the papers toward me. Before I had chance see what was on them, he snatched them back and stood up before saying ‘loyalty in any walk of life is a rare commodity’ he began and turned to look at me ‘but in football it is even rarer, do you agree?’

I absolutely did, and I thought of Adnane Balouki who had joined a team in the second division not too long ago as a recent example, but thought better of mentioning that, as I didn’t know what the boss was getting at so I just nodded.

‘You’ve been speaking to other clubs I take it?’ that came across more of a statement than a question ‘even after we gave you a new deal when I bought the club’ again, a statement not a question, or at least one not requiring an answer as he continued ‘flashing their money at you sniffing around. There’s no smoke without fire as I’m sure you know’

I stood up, kept my hands in my pockets and went to the window, why, I don’t know it just felt like the right thing to do, show that I’m not concerned with this meeting. ‘I don’t know what you're talking about’ I said as I looked out towards the airport of Lomé

‘I get it, it’s just business. But I kept you on here when I’m sure a lot, if not all other chairmen, certainly in this God awful league, maybe even the world over would’ve dropped you like a bad habit and had a complete restart. I stood by you despite some rough form. If it wasn’t for Koffi I would’ve….’

‘What are you talking about? I’m not fucking leaving! If you’ve spoke to Koffi as you say then he would’ve told you about the list I’ve got and ……’ he cut me off

‘A list? Oh right a list of clubs that are coming in for you, offering you the chance to earn more money than I’m paying you’

‘Stop, just stop. Yes I do have a list, it’s a list of clubs I want to, actually have to manage’ he tried cutting me off but I put a hand up ‘let me finish. It started out as a list of 20, now 21 clubs that I’m on a mission to manage and complete’

‘Complete how?’

‘Look, all you need to know is, wait, who is it you think I’ve been speaking to?

He passed back the 2 sheets of paper. The first I saw had a letterhead of the Togo flag and underneath the words AC Semassi underneath. I looked at the second, and on the heading was Gomido FC

I had to laugh a little bit at this. Both teams were in the relegation zone and struggling, worse than us to be fair. Not only that, but we’d snatched a 4-3 victory away at Gomido, with an equaliser in the 87th before Ehon scored a thumping header from a corner in the 92nd to give us all 3 points in the second game back after the break. And drew 1-1 away at Semassi in a game we dominated but just couldn't score more than 1 of the many chances we had. 2 points dropped there certainly.

‘Look, I’ll level with you right now. You don’t need to worry. These 2 teams, no matter what they paid me I wouldn't leave here for. Not unless by some miracle they become eligible would I consider leaving and trust me, they’re not going to be put on the list for a long time, if ever’

He slammed his fist on the desk before saying ‘I don’t believe you. Why would they want permission to speak to you if they didn’t already have an idea you’d be willing to speak to them? Just like how we can speak to a players agent before we discuss a new deal huh?’

‘What do you want me to say? I’ve said I’m not leaving, not yet anyway, and if…’ he cut me off

‘Oh, not YET! So when are you thinking of leaving’

I sighed, a long drawn out sigh, the kind a child does when they’re not getting what they want. ‘Look, this is a complete waste of both our times and….’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘I didn’t want you to know this, but I will only leave this club if I get sacked, or I get offered a job at another eligible club or I…’ I waited, I really didn’t want him to get his hopes up to an unobtainable high

‘Say it’

‘Or I win the Champions League’ There, I said it. Your move mister chairman.

He leant back into his chair with a look of confusion on his face. ’How long?’

‘For what?’

‘You win the Champions League. You must have given yourself some sort of timescale?’

‘I haven’t as it happens’ I took a breath ‘I’m taking it as it comes. This time 3 months ago I had a different boss who was happy just to leave me to it and barely spoke to me. With you you’re more on hands on, and I like that. Plus you’ve loosened the purse strings so come the end of this season I can go out there and build a squad capable of winning something’

He nodded and said ‘okay then. I believe you’re not interested in speaking to those teams and I will respond accordingly. For now lets wrap this up, I believe in you Jean I really do, and if it takes you 2 years, 5 or 10, to win the Champions League, I’ll support you as best as I can’

After saying that he said he was happy with the progress we've made after the winter break. In the 8 games back, we’ve won 3, drawn 3 and lost 2. We’re still in the FA Cup too, in the semi final no less, against Binah FC. 

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