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Chapter 15

Scott Lańkowski was sat back in his office, fingers tapping the table, deep in concentration. A storm was brewing outside, fat drops of rain tapping against the window, but inside a real storm sat across from him, his assistant, and most trusted confidant Peter Bastista.

Peter leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression tight. ‘Scotty, we both know the player Manolov is, he’s a firecracker with a short fuse. Seven yellows, two reds, in eleven games. ELEVEN! How many more before he costs us something we can’t afford?’

Scott sighed rubbing his temple, he knew the numbers, he knew the risk was part of the job. You can’t just throw a diamond away because it’s cut your finger. ‘I know, I hear you Pete, I really do’ Scott said, voice even, unsure maybe ‘but the kids got something. He’s in the first team and does well at…’

Peter cut him off ‘when his head is in the game, yes he does, but he’s not…’ Scotts turn to cut Peter off

‘Don’t do that, you know I hate it. He’s got a lot of good things going for him, he’s quick, determined and he’s fearless and never gives up. All we need to do is channel that energy, we need to get him to channel that fire and passion instead of burning himself with it, he could become a top player’

‘Or a walking suspension’ Peter said

Scott just sighed and shook his head and looked down at the bid on the screen of his laptop. Henning Berg, Premier League winner and current Videoton FC manager and reigning Hungarian league winners. A real club, a big one, a real offer. They clearly saw what Scott saw, and they weren’t the only ones.

Marcin Lachowski, the director of football, had knocked on his door an hour ago, a smirk on his face and his phone in his hand. Jagiellonia Białystok and Cracovia Krakow had joined the race. All three clubs had tabled offers north of €42,000, all of it will be pure profit.

Peter broke the silence by saying ‘if we sell him now, we reinvest the money. Kamil has said all funds raised we keep and we get someone reliable, someone who won’t get sent off for trying to break an opponents ankles who looked at Manolov funny when we’re clinging onto a lead again’ he was referring to the red card Manolov had got against Olimpia Zambrow where Sleza had been leading 1-0 with twelve minutes to go. They hung on and won the game, just.

Scott clenched his jaw. Peter had a point, but something about it didn’t sit right. He’d given Manolov his start, like Jakub had given Scott his start. Scott had put a lot of faith in Manolov this season, and selling the youth player seemed easy, too easy.

‘You ever played alongside someone that you just knew was gonna be special Pete?’

Without batting an eyelid Peter replied ‘I know players who would get you sacked’

Scott smirked ‘yeah, so do I’ he leaned back and said ‘but I also know players who win you games. Ivan, he could go either way, and if we sell him now we’ll never find out which’

Peter shook his head, frustration flashing in his eyes ‘and if we keep him and he costs us points this season, what does he cost us next, promotion?’

Scott didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the rain streaking the glass, thinking. Was he holding on too tight? Was he seeing something that wasn’t even there to be seen? Was Peter playing it too safe? The Hungarian champs obviously see something, as do the two top division Polish teams. The tension sat heavy between them, with neither wanting to be the first to budge.

But finally, it was Scott who buckled and said ‘we’ve got three bids and one decision to make. It’s not about the money is it, we’re getting a decent chunk of pure profit, it’s what the best move for him is’

‘Irrelevant. We accept all three, and it’s upto him and his agent’ Peter said before adding ‘it’s the right call Scott’

Scott just thought, was it? Manolov is raw, reckless, but he had something. Something that can’t be coached, only tamed. Scott could see the fire in Manolovs eye every time he laced his boots up even just in training. You don’t find that in every player. But fire burns and Manolov had already left some scars in the form of seven yellows and two reds.
 

Marcin Lachowski came into the room, calm and composed as always ‘Jagiellonia, Cracovia, Videoton. All offering over fortytwo thousand. That’s good business for a kid we didn’t pay a penny for’

Scott frowned ‘and then what? We cash out and pray we find another one like him?’

‘We don’t need another like him, we need another left back that’s isn’t a liability’ Peter said

Marcin nodded ‘we take the money and find someone solid. I’ll get the scouts out looking before Manolov has even said his goodbyes’

Scott sighed, his gut told him to keep hold of the kid, to gamble on the potential. But his gut wasn’t what kept a team together. His gut wasn’t what stopped a reckless lunger from turning three points into zero. After a long moment he said ‘fine, accept all three bids. I don’t think he’s ready for top division football yet, but that’s not our concern is it’

Marcin nodded and said ‘I’ll make the calls’

Scott just hoped he’d made the right decision to accept the bids.

The next day as he arrived at the training ground, Marcin approached Scott and said ‘it’s done. The kids agreed the deal with Henning Berg in Hungary. Forty two thousand in full, no clauses all up front’

Scott didn’t say anything at first, just let the words settle. Forty two thousand. On paper it was a good deal, a great deal even for a team in the third division. Selling an unpolished kid for that kind of money in this league most teams would bite your hand off for it. 

Scott said to Marcin ‘did he seem, I don’t know, nervous, hesitant in any way?

‘Hard to tell’ Marcin started ‘it was the agent that did most of the talking. Didn’t seem too upset that he was leaving us’

Scott just laughed. Agents, as always.

Ivan Manolov didn’t seem the sentimental type. He played the game the same way he trained, reckless, full throttle and no brakes. Maybe Hungary was the right move for him, maybe it wans’t, but it wasn’t Scotts problem anymore.

Marcin borke the silence by saying he’d got the scouts out looking for a replacement. Scott nodded, but it felt hollow. This kid has potential, real unfiltered raw potential. He coudld’ve been something here. But ‘could’ve’ doesn’t win games. ‘Could’ve’ gets you sacked.

He carried on walking towards the training ground and had remembered chewing Manolov out for a reckless challenge only two days ago. He shook his head and carried on walking

The kid was gone, time to move on.

-- -- -- -- --

Football News Round-Up – January 2018

The Premier League witnessed it’s first two managerial casualties of the 17/18 season, both coming in January. Mauricio Pochettino was sacked by Tottenham Hotspur after the club dropped to tenth in the league following some poor results, most notably losing away at Ipswich Town in the FA Cup. His replacement? Newcastle manager Rafa Benitez, who had guided them back to the Premier League and currently sat seventh. Rifts between Benitez and Newcastle owner Mike Ashley have resulted in Benitez heading to London. Benitez confirming to the press of Ashley's interference in first team affairs, plus the ongoing takeover talk being too much of a distraction for the Spaniard.

Rafa’s first match at Tottenham let him know the state of his new squad, as they lined up against the the team he left. Expecting to exploit known weaknesses in the Newcastle ranks proved unsuccessful as Newcastle put Spurs to the sword in a 4-1 drubbing where the away team didn’t break much of a sweat. 2 goals and 2 assists for Monaco’s on loan wonderkid Kylian Mbappe doing the damage for Newcastle against the lacklustre Spurs. In the stands watching was none other than Gus Hiddink, who has agreed a deal as interim manager of Newcastle for the remainder of the season. Ongoing talks regarding Mike Ashley’s sale of the club are apparently on again, after being off again and on again multiple times within the last six months.

The other manager to be relieved of his duties was Liverpool manager Jürgen Klopp, who was given his P45 after a disappointing run, culminating in a 3-0 home loss to Manchester United. The club had already eyed up Klopps replacement as Marcelino, the former Valencia manager had been installed two days later. The tactician swiftly started sorting his squad out as he sold winger Coutinho, a paltry two assists and zero goals in the league this season, to Barcelona for €33 million, a surprisingly high amount for a player that hadn’t performed at all this term. Marcelino then sent 22 million of that fee to Stoke for the services of Marko Arnautovic. 

Some would argue he’s a downgrade on Coutinho, but in the Stoke side that was sitting in sixth at the time of the transfer, Arnautovic had scored 10 Premier League goals and laid on a further 11 for his team mates.

Arsenal also made a pricey transfer, sealing the deal for Sporting Lisbon’s Adrien Silva for €35 million. Silva, capped plenty of times by Portugal is hoping to continue Arsenal’s push for the Premeir League title they came within 1 point of winning last season.

Paris Saint-Germain made headlines themselves, with the €40 million signing of Polish midfielder Karol Linetty from Sampdoria. With the transfer Linetty becomes the most expensive Polish footballer in history and the price tag has divided opinions. In general the football media suggest that PSG have overpaid for the 22 year old midfielder. Whereas pundits in Poland are all in agreement that PSG have underpaid for the player and the Parisian team have got themselves a bargain for one of Polands brightest talents.

A year after leaving Roma, Danielle De Rossi has become a cult hero at Boca Juniors. Having narrowly missed out on the Primera División by just 1 point last season, the Italian cemented his legacy by scoring in the COPA Argentina final and assisting what turned out to be the winner from Darío Benedetto’s goal to secure the trophy

Now club captain, De Rossi has played every available competitive minute for Boca since joining a year ago. Boca are currently on an eight game unbeaten run and sit top of the league on 29 points. Boca also confirmed the signing of young defender Arturo Calabresi for €2 million, another shrewd transfer from AS Roma.

It wouldn’t be a transfer window without some big money madness from Asia, and this January was no exception.

Angelo Ogbonna left West Ham to sign for Jiangsu Guoxin Sainty FC for €30M.

Aymen Abdennour left sixth place in La Liga Valencia to play for Poalo Cannavaro at Quanjian for €28M.

Lisandro López left Portuguese league leaders Benfica for €26M to play for Huaxia.

Rafinha left Bundesliga leaders and current champions Bayern Munich to join Luis Felipe Scolari at Guangzhou Evergrande for €20M.

Saudia Arabia seem intent on getting in on the act and throwing money around like it’s going out of fashion. Hulk was tempted to leave China to sign for Al-Hilal for the sum of €22M. Emerson Santos made the move from Brazillian Serie A side Botafogo to go to Al-Ahli for €20M. Pablo Zabaleta wasn’t playing much for Premier League champions Manchester City so will see out his remaining years as a player at Al-Shabab, who paid €10M for the aging full back. Jonathan dos Santos swaps the yellow shirts of Villarreal for the yellow shirts of Al-Nassr for €19M.

The influence of these leagues in the transfer market is growing, and it remains to be seen whether these investments will pay off.

The groups for the 2018 FIFA World Cup have been drawn, with one notable shock name making it through. Honduras have qualified for the tournament finals and will compete in Group B alongside DR Congo, Ukraine, and Uruguay.

A quick look at some of the toughest and easiest groups:

Group A: England, USA, Russia (hosts), Ghana – A tough draw for Ghana, who will need to produce some big performances to progress.
Group C: Belgium, Mexico, Spain, Senegal – Senegal face a difficult challenge against three strong teams.
Group F: Argentina, Austria, Japan, Switzerland – The easiest group on paper, with Argentina, the tournament favourites, expected to cruise through.

-- -- -- -- --

Scott Lańkowski leaned against a railing at the Ślęza Wrocław training ground as his players were going through some drills laid on by his assistant mt Peter Bastista. Six months in charge, twenty league games played. Nine wins, six draws and five losses. 

Not bad. Respectable even. Third place in the league!

Nobody had expected this. Not the fans, the local media or the board. Maybe not even Scott himself had expected it. Ślęza weren’t supposed to be in the promotion mix with over half the season gone, they were supposed to be down at the bottom of the league, scraping by and fighting to stay afloat. Yet here they were, defying the odds, standing toe to toe with the other teams with bigger budgets, bigger stadiums and bigger ambitions.

And leading the charge was Mikołaj Kotfas. The youngster on loan from Śląsk Wrocław, the team Scott supports nut hadn’t actually spoke to them, the deal was done befre Scott arrived. But that’s possibly why Scott trusted the kid so much. Maybe it’s why Koftas had repaid that trust with 10 league goals, running defences ragged and making every minute on the pitch count. He wasn’t just a loanee filling a gap, he was a big part of the teams success so far this season.

The job wasn’t done yet, not even close. The league was still tight and the fight far from over. Would they still be third come the end of the season? Probably not, but they’d set themselves up well enough that they weren’t looking over their shoulder at the relegation zone, like Scott and Bytom were last season. 

And as well as Scott and Ślęza  were doing, Polonia Bytom, the club that let him walk, the club that thought they could do better, were sinking like a stone

Ryszard Klusek, the man tasked with continuing to build on Scotts relegation success had found it harder, despite not having an eight point deduction to being the season with.

Under Klusek they’d won five games all season. 15th in the league and four points from safety, drowning and a club in freefall. The same club Scott dragged out of a black hole was staring relegation in the face, a relegation that is more likely than it was last season, without a points deduction. As for Klusek, he’s been chewed up and spat out, like he was never there at all.

Scott had been around football long enough to know how this game worked. There was no sympathy, no second chances. You either survived or you were left behind. Jakub had made Bytoms choice, now they were paying the price.

Scott jogged down to the pitch to join in with training. Six months into life in his dads city of birth, Wroclaw, and it was starting to feel like home. There was still a long way to go yet, but as far as he was concerned, he and Ślęza weren’t done surprising people yet.

– – – – --

Love the Mastercard gag, always a classic. Good showing there against Portstewart too.

Chapter 14

The first half would be best described as a slugfest. No finesse, no poetry, nothing technical, just bodies colliding, heads thumping, studs raking up the turf at every turn and the refs whistle ringing out regularly like a judges gavel. Bytom came in hard, reckless as if they were trying to make Scott pay for ever walking out on them. Like he had a choice. Wozniak, Trabka, Ryłukowski, Skrzypiński hammering that point home. One by one each of their names went into the referees book after either careless fouls or angry points being made, whichever way you looked at it. Ślęza weren’t innocent either. Former Bytom man and unsung hero of last season Mroz was the first to be booked in the game and Molski had picked up a yellow too, being dragged into the chaos whether he wanted to be or not.

The stats at the half told one story; four shots on goal for each team, but reality told another story; that Bytom were only ones testing Sobczak in goal and Ślęza hadn’t found any rhythm in the game, other than to keep ten men in play.

Scott closed the locker room behind behind, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. He paced in front of his player, eyes darting from face to face. He could see the tension in their shoulders, and the fire in their eyes. They were happy to fight for the boss, for the team, but there is a difference in fighting smart and fighting stupid.

‘The ref is handing out yellows like they’re free samples’ Scott growled ‘you so much as blink aggressively near one of their guys and he’ll book you for it. We don’t want to play scared, let’s play smart. They wanna drag us back into a war? Fine, but do not lose your heads. We hit em’ where it hurts when we bomb forward, throw everything you have in the attack, but only if the option is there. Keep your heads, and wait for the right moment’

Scott’s speech had the desired effect, the players nodded, some gritted teeth and rolled their necks. Mroz was the first to stand and declared ‘this war is far from over!’ and marched back on to the pitch

Ślęza came out sharper, quicker and more determined, but then disaster struck.

Manolov, the hot prospect, was given his chance at left full back due to Latka being out. What the hell was he thinking? The ball was there to be won, sure,but not like that. He flew in, both studs high, reckless, wild and the ref wasted no time. Even before Manolov got back up the ref’s hand was in the air. Straight red.

Scott snapped, throwing his water bottle to the ground before he even knew he’d thrown it. He stormed down the touchline to where Manolov was walking off the pitch ‘You stupid son….’ he cut himself off, seething. He could see the forlorn look on the young full backs face, distraught, upset and anger mixed into one. Ten men, in a game already on a knife edge? That could’ve, and should’ve been the end of them.

But football is a funny game isn’t it.

Bytom lined up the free kick deep in the Sleza half, two men standing over it, area packed with bodies. The ball came inswinging towards the mass of bodies. The ball hit the head of a Bytom player towards the goal, but Radler, the Ślęza captain rose highest and headed it away to Niewiadomski who found Mankowski out on the Ślęza right, and suddenly the counter attack was on.

Mankowski played the ball over the top to Jakobczyk who had space and darted down the right to the byline. By the time he’d got to the edge of the box two Bytom players had recovered, closed him down but the Sleza forward knew what to do.

His pass into the box was perfect. The keeper stood helplessly as he was wide open when Kluzek came rushing in, unmarked to tap in the far corner. A goal out of nothing. Bytoms fans fell silent. Scott allowed himself a smirk.

Bytom weren’t finished after conceding the opening goal, and they threw everything and everyone forward looking for the equalizer against the ten men. But the more they pushed the more they left themselves exposed at the back, a tale as old as time itself. But Ślęza? They were content to wait, and they smelled blood

Another counter attack from another long looping ball into the box, a blur of white and red surging forward as Bytom recovered with ease due to the extra man, but the extra man cost them on this occasion. Trabka brought the advancing Kluzek down just outside the box and was lucky not to see another yellow.

As the protests by the Bytom players continued the experienced Ngamayama stepped up to the ball, cool, calm and ruthless, he wasn’t waiting for anything.

A quick glance and his decision was made in a heartbeat. The defence, still complaining to the ref and the keeper trying in vain to sort his wall out, was caught with his pants around his ankles. Ngamayama hit the ball as sweet as he’s ever hit a dead ball in his whole career and both teams watched as it sailed toward goal, all watched as the Bytom keeper tried and failed to stop it flying into the net.

Two nil to Sleza against the odds.

Scott had to laugh, not a loud one but just enough to be heard by anyone standing near him, and bitter enough that he felt bad about it. Bytom thought they had the game under control, the equaliser was sure to come before long, the script was written for them. But the new Ślęza signing had just burned that script to ash.

Then Bytom’s frustration boiled over. Jonkisz, their own hot prospect, lunged in like a madman. His challenge was worse by far than Manolovs so the ref had no hesitation in showing him the red card. Ten v ten, five plus added time to go

Scott just shook his head. Two young players let themselves down in the game, and surely Bytom were done. There wasn’t enough fight in them when they had a man advantage and even less now the sides were equal. And Ślęza weren’t done punishing Scotts old team. One last attack two minutes after the red, one last nail in the coffin.

A corner came in from the right, swinging perfectly which found Kluzek, he controlled the ball and then found Ngamayama free in the box, his low shot just with enough power to creep over the line. Three nil, game, set and match to Ślęza 

As the final whistle went Scott stood with his hands in his pockets watching as the players shook hands and made their way off the pitch. The Bytom fans who had applauded him before kick off were quiet now. Their club and the team had been humiliated by the man their chairman let walk away.

He turned and caught Jakubs eye in the stands. The Bytom chairman's face was pale, his lips tight. Scott just nodded, and walked down the tunnel. No words were needed, the scoreboard spoke volumes.

– – – – --

Chapter 13

The bus ride from Wroclaw to Bytom was quiet. Scott Lańkowski sat at the front on his own, watching out the window the grey sky and landscape roll past, his Red Bull can now empty. He’d been to plenty of stadiums in his time, both in Poland and his native Canada, but returning to this one was different. This was Bytom. The place where he’d fought for survival, where he’d kept a sinking ship afloat against all the odds. And the place that had let him walk away without more than a handshake and a thank you when the impossible job was done.

Ślęza Wrocław were in fifth after fifteen games, better than most had expected. Seven wins in there to go with three draws and five defeats, an impressive start for the promoted team, but nothing was guaranteed in this or any league. Polonia Bytom were sitting in eleventh, struggling for form, the weight of financial trouble pressing down on them like a debt collector at the front door. A big chunk of the team Scott had at Bytom had gone, a few jumping ship to join him in Wroclaw would be there with him for this game. But the league positions would mean nothing in the game, this would be more than just three points.

The bus rolled up outside the stadium, the old steel skeleton of Bytoms ground looming over them, weathered by time and neglect. Scott was the first to step off, the air thick with coal dust and memories. Then something he hadn’t expected, the applause. ‘Dzięki Scott’ - ‘Thanks Scott’ one of them said ‘ you saved this club when no one else would’

Scott smiled and shook more hands as he made his way into the stadium. He wasn’t expecting a warm welcome back, but something about this had caught him off guard. He gave another few small waves and handshakes as he entered the doorway.

Inside the lounge on the way to the locker rooms he ran into a familiar face, Jakub, the Polonia Bytom chairman, that said he wouldn’t be renewing Scotts contract despite achieving the impossible. The man that had decided Scott wasn’t worth keeping around. He still wore the same ill fitting suit and same wary expression.

‘Scott’ Jakub said offering a hand. Scott took it but didn’t squeeze any harder than he had to ‘Jakub’ he said with a nod

‘Good to see you back’ Jakub replied, his voice a little too smooth, the words a little too rehearsed ‘you did well for us, and you’re doing well now as I expected’

‘Yeah?’ Scott said ‘funny, it didn’t seem like that when you let me walk’

Jakub laughed awkwardly shifting on his feet ‘you know how it is Scott. Money is tight, I offered you a deal that I honoured. We have to make difficult choices’

‘Hows that working out for you?’ Scott said

‘We’re getting by’ Jakub said quickly

Scott smirked as he opened the door ‘sure you are’ he said and walked on. There was northing left to say.

In the away locker room Scott stood in front of this players, trying to push the nerves down and keep his head clear. He didn’t know if it was the welcome from the fans, the sight of the Bytom badge in the tunnels, seeing Jakub or the memory of those cold nights scraping points together in the quest for survival, but something had him on edge. And he needed to make sure it didn’t spread to his players

He cleared his throat ‘this isn’t about me’ he said, voice steady ‘it’s not about the past, it’s about today and today only. It’s about getting three points against a team that needs them just as bad as we do. You stick to the plan, fight for every ball and play like we deserve to be in the top half, not scraping at the bottom of the table. That’s all I want from you today’

The players nodded, some more focussed than others. He could feel the tension in the room, the unspoke awareness that this game wasn’t like the others preceding it. He needed the players to forget that. He just hoped he could forget it himself.

As the referee knocked on both doors and told them it was time to head out to the pitch, the voice echoed down the corridor through the cold Bytom air, Scott took a last look at his team sheet, nodded to Peter Bastista and was the first to leave the dressing room and first out to the touchline.

The home fans clapped as he made his way to the away dugout, the first time he’d done that in this stadium. No more thinking. No more remembering, just this game.

-- -- -- -- --

Unlucky getting knocked out the cup there mate.

Once you get those wingers in and add depth to the squad you'll be sailing!

I don't understand these people that do saves like this on youtube and just holiday through, why buy the game if you're not going to play the game

Scott was ready and the first one out of the tunnel at kick off. His first game as manager of a team in Wroclaw, he stood on the touchline, hoodie on over the blue shirt he was wearing against the cold, a nearly empty bottle of water in his hand. 
 

The flood lights were flickering at Karpaty Krosno's ground Legionow, threatening to stay on or off, who knew. The air was thick with tension, two teams staring each other down in the tunnel, both wondering who would be the first to blink.

Staring line up 4-4-2:

GK: Sobczak (making Sleza debut)

RB: Siodowy (making Sleza debut)

LB: Kucharcyz

CD: Radler (captain)

CD: Niewiadomski

RM: Molski

LM: Kluzek

CDM: Mroz (making Sleza debut)

CDM: Kwiek

CF: Jakobczyk

CF: Antkowiak (making Sleza debut)

Bench - Domzal (GK), Latka, Wdowiak, Manolov, Mankowski, Michalski, Koftas

The game started slow, the kind of sluggish affair you’d expect from a promoted team against a team happy to just be in the league. Scott went with the tried and tested 4-4-2 with two holding midfielders. Making use of his new signings, Antkowiak leading the line, Mroz one of the two holding players and Siodowy expected to shore up the defence at right full back. Young Sobcazk was making his professional debut between the stocks as well. But neither side seemed to be wanting to make the first move or first mistake, both content to wait for an opening that didn’t come in the first forty five minutes.

A few tense words in the dressing from Scott. He was pleased to not have conceded but frustrated at his teams effort to create anything. Antkowiak and Jakobczyk having a combined eleven touches in the first half. Not good enough. He told the players that opportunities don’t wait forever.

The second half started much like the first, tense, slow and laboured, but the dam finally broke. Seventythree minutes on the clock, Jakobczyk, the man with a strikers instinct, found a pocket of space just inside the area and lashed the ball into the net. One nil, deadlock broken and the relief was almost tangible. 

Then, like a fighter that smelled blood, he struck again right from the kick off. Karpaty barely had time to pick themselves up from the first goal before they were staring at a two goal deficit. Pressing right from the restart Jakobczyk caught the loose ball as it was cleared, hit it first time and it clipped the defenders heel, wrong footing the keeper and crossed the goal line. The scoreboard read Karpaty Krosno 0 - 2 Ślęza Wroclaw.

Just over five minutes later it was game over and Jakobczyk had sealed his hat trick from the penalty spot, hammering the final nail into Karpaty’s coffin. The home side was finished and any sense of fight had drained from them, leaving only tired legs and vacant stares.

The final twist of the knife came from Kluzez as Sleza’s fourth goal came with three minutes left in the game, a final exclamation point on a brutal final twenty minutes from the away team.

At the final whistle Scott shook hands with the Karpaty manager and coaching staff, not giving off any emotion and displaying professionalism throughout. His players however embraced the moment and celebrated the win on the pitch. First game and first win. A statement from the promoted team that they won’t go down without a fight, but Scott knew better than to get comfortable.

– – – – –

The second game for Scott came round fast, a home debut, a chance to make Ślęza Wroclaw believe. The rain earlier in the week had stopped but it made the pitch a sleak battlefield, but the Sleza boys came out swinging like they had unfinished business. Puszcza were the visitors in game two of the league.

Three minutes in and Jakobczyk picked up where he left off against Karpaty. A perfect ball to feet from Kwiek in the middle, Jakobczyk took a touch with his right, then in one quick motion turned one way, took the ball with him and lashed it with his left and the home crowd erupted as the ball thundered past the keeper

And just like the Karpaty game the message was simple, press and press hard, which Ślęza did.

Even before Puszcza had time to regroup from the opener, Jakobczyk found his strike partner and new signing Antkowiak in box with a lifted pass. Antkowiak headed the ball into the net despite the keepers effort. Forsr minutes on the clock and Ślęza were in the drivers seat

Puszcza tried to claw their way back, but frustration boiled over. Sowinksi let the frustration get the better of him as he lunged in with feet high in a reckless challenge that had no place in any level of football. A straight red and no one, least of all Sowinksi, could have any complaints

Scott barely reacted, just muttered something under his breath and carried on coaching the game, which was as good as done thirty minutes in.

Ślęza didn’t push for more, they didn’t need to. They let Puszcza  have a lot with the ball, daring the ten men to attack and leave themselves vulnerable, but they barely threatened the Ślęza goal. Two goals, three points, and a clean sheet. Job done.

As the final whistle blew, Scott allowed himself the smallest of smiles and a raised hand to the fans. Two games, six points, no goals conceded. It was a start. But seasons aren’t won in August.

There were still storms on the horizon.

– – – – --

The day after the Puszcza win Scott had sat in his office, jubilant after two wins to start the season. The door opened without a knock, Marcin Lachowski never knocked, and he walked in, shut the door behind him and sat down. The look on his face told Scott it wouldn’t be good news he was bringing

‘Górnik Łęczna put in a bid for Korytek’ Marcin said, straight to the point. ‘His agent’s demanding we accept’

Scott didn’t react to the news, he seemed to be expecting this ‘the kids got a lot to prove’ he said ‘we aren’t in a position to gamble on potential’  Marcin just nodded, waiting for the boss to advise what he should. Scott then said ‘funny, a bigger team comes knocking and suddenly he’s got itchy feet’

Marcin shrugged, he’d seen it enough times in his playing career ‘he’s young, stupid and the agent will be telling him that he’s bigger than this place. We both know he’s not ready for that move, but it’s not our problem now’

Scott considered it for a moment then said ‘you already accepted the offer?’

‘Yeah’ Marcin said ‘no point keeping a kid that doesn’t want to be here, and I doubt he’ll play any more games there than he would here this season anyway. Plus I’ve got his replacement lined up already’

‘Already?’ Scott said, dismissing the comment at Korytek’s playing time

‘Alain Ngamayama’ Marcin said and before he could continue Scott said ‘The Poznan captain?’

‘The very same. He’s left now, they didn’t renew his contract but he’d been training with them as a gesture of goodwill. He’s got the experience we could do with, leadership and built like a brick wall. Exactly what we need’

Scott thought it over, rolling the name in his head. Ngamayama wasn’t some kid with dreams bigger than his boots, he was a seasoned pro and a man who’d seen some real battles. Korytek might have potential, but potential didn't win relegation battles. Experience did. ‘Works for me, get it done’

Marcin gave him a knowing smile and said ‘I already did’

With a chuckle Scott said ‘you don’t waste any time do you’

‘Neither do you’ Marcin said, then got up and said ‘and that’s why we work well together’

As the door clicked shut behind him, Scott leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. One untried and untested kid out, a real soldier in. Maybe they were actually building something here. 

– – – – --

Chapter 12

The rain was hitting the office window as Scott was sat down, the type of drizzle that seemed to seep into the bones and linger there. A single desk lamp was casting long shadows across the room, highlighting the stacks of paperwork and the empty coffee cups that had accumulated during Scotts short time in the job.

Sat across from Scott was Marcin Lachowski, sat with sleeves rolled up, a notepad in front of him and a pencil that kept swirling between his fingers. The newly appointed director of football had the calm and methodical demeanour of a man who saw the bigger picture even when the details were still blurry.

Scott leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he exhaled a long sigh, the stress of the day coming out in that breath. ‘We’ve got some gaps Marcin, big ones. If we’re going to survive we need to secure some reinforcements, not just bodies but players who know how to fight and grind out results. I’m not interested in shiny projects or gambling on potential again, I want grit and experience’

Marcin nodded flipping open his notepad ‘I’ve been on with it. I’ve got some deals lined up, free transfers that won’t dip into the small budget we’ve got. I’ve found a forward, Hubert Antkowiak is available on a free. He might be young at 20 but he’s already got a good number of games and goals under hie belt. He won’t be 20 goals a season but he’ll work his socks off and link up with Jakobczyk and Koftas well I’m sure of it’

Scott took a moment and said ‘he’s not flashy but as long as he’s happy doing the dirty work and take some hits, I’m happy to go for him’

Marcin made a note then looked up ‘you might not like this but I’ve kept in touch with people in Bytom. You know the situation there, he’s paying wages late if at all, he’s got debts piling up to his eyeballs so he’s letting players go’

‘Who you thinking?’ Scott asked, already running the names through his mind he’d happily bring from Bytom to Sleza with him

‘Mróz and Słodowy’ Marcin started, and when Scott didn’t say anything he continued ‘they’re both available. Mroz we know will run himself into the ground if you asked him to, and Matty was one of the players that shone last season’

Scotts expression hardened, knowing he’d worked with both players last season, knew exactly what they’d bring to his new team ‘their loss is our gain’ he said, made a note on his own notepad and continued ‘I don’t like the idea of raiding the club again, I got you and Pete and Bytom were good to me’ Marcin didn’t say anything so Scott then said ‘but no one gave me any favours last season and I’m not in the business of charity ether. Make the call to them both and we’ll both speak to them’

Marcin nodded, making another note before flipping to a fresh page ‘last one now, Mateusz Michalski. Attacking midfielder, creative, can pick a pass, reminds me of me in a way. He’s had a couple of clubs and never really settled. But I think he could be the creativity we’ll need this season to stay up. Him and Kwiek in the middle with Mroz supporting might just create something’

Scott nodded and said ‘Mateusz Michalski, I am sure I’ve seen him play. He could be just the spark we need, yeah, let’s go in for him’

Marcin nodded and the faintest hint of a smile formed on his lips ‘that’s four players boss, I’m sure we can get all of them in. Maybe not game changers on their own, but they’ll make us tougher, stronger and harder to break down. Survival players’

Scott agreed, a new sense of determination setting over him ‘that’s exactly what we need, survival players. We’re not going to get any favours from anyone, the whole league will see us as three easy points. We’re gonna be fighting for every point and clawing our way towards survival. With the squad already plus these four, they’ll give us a fighting chance’

The squad was starting to take shape, the pieces coming together like a jigsaw puzzle in shades of gray. It wasn’t perfect, but perfection wasn’t the goal. Survival was. And with these new faces, Ślęza Wrocław had just a little more muscle, a little more grit, and maybe, just maybe, a chance to keep their heads above water.

– – – – --

Chapter 11

Scott Lańkowski had chosen the dive bar on the outskirts of Wroclaw for this meeting, the kind of place where no one asked questions and the jukebox sounded like it hadn’t been fed coins since the late 80’s. Sat across from him sat two men who’d been through war with him already; Peter Bastista and Marcin Lachowski. Two of his trusted comrades from their season in Bytom, two first team regulars he counted on all season, the first two names on the team sheet and now, possibly, the first two bricks in the foundation of his new backroom team at Ślęza Wrocław.

He took a sip of his drink, letting the silence hang like a low fog before speaking ‘I’m not gonna sugarcoat it boys, Bytom’s in trouble, big trouble. Money troubles. I know first hand from Jakub that he won’t be offering much financial incentive for this season, I figured you both knew that already though’

Batista nodded, his face a mask of quiet resignation. He’d spent enough time in the trenches of Polish football to know when a club was circling in the drain. 
 

Marcin Lachowski just leaned back, arms crossed but with narrowing eyes. The look that said he’d already thought this through but wasn’t going to give anything away just yet.

Scott leaned forward, voice low and steady and said ‘Ślęza’s no palace, but we’ve got a chance here. A chance to build something. I need people I can trust. People I know that have got what it takes to survive when the odds are stacked against you’ he then looked at Bastista and said ‘Pete, you need an opportunity and I need an assistant manager. You’ve got the brain for it, you were my vice captain last season and you know how I work. This team will need some more discipline, structure and someone that can read the game. What do you say?’

He didn’t hesitate, he’d been in the trenches with Scott already and he knew the man didn’t make any promises he couldn’t keep ‘I’m in, I've already told Jakub I won't be staying anyway’ he said, voice steady and professional ‘let’s do it’

Scott nodded knowing Bastista would be in, then he turned to Lachowski. This would be tricker. Marcin Lachowski wasn’t just a former player or the captain last season, he was a thinker, a strategist, the playmaker. Scott knew he needed more than a coach, he needed someone who could handle the other side of the backroom game, the scouting assignments, the contract negotiations, the chess moves that happened off the pitch

‘Marcin’ Scott began ‘I want you to offer you something different. Director of football. You’ll run recruitment for me, set the scouts up, work the deals, help me bring in the players that we need to stay in the league. You’ve got an eye for talent and you both know this league inside out. What do you think?’

Marcin didn’t answer right away. He reached for his glass, took a slip and let the silence stretch. Finally he spoke ‘Director of football? Sounds like you’re trusting me with a lot Scott, you sure about this?

Scott just smirked, the kind of smirk that came from knowing he’d already won the argument ‘I don’t need to be sure Marcin. I just need to know you’ll put the work in. We’ll sit down, all three of us and go through the squad, figure out where we're thin, find players who can make a difference. Us three, we’ll build this thing together’

Lachowski nodded slowly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth ‘alright, I’m in. But you’re buying the coffee for those transfer meetings’

Scott chuckled and said ‘deal. Welcome to Ślęza boys, let’s get to work’. They shook hands and sealed the deal. 
 

Outside the rain had started to fall again, another steady drizzle that soaked the city’s streets but for Scott it was just another night, another step in a journey that would be as much about survival as it was about ambition. But with Bastista and Lachowski at his side he had the beginnings of a team, not just on the pitch but behind the scenes. And in a relegation survival fight that was half the battle.

– – – – --

Ślęza Wrocław the key players

The team that Scott Lańkowski inherited wasn’t dripping with glamour, but in a league where survival was the name of the game, it was a lineup that promised grit, experience, and just enough spark to keep hopes alive. Each name was a character in a story of struggle, ambition, and the unyielding grind of lower league football.

Błażej Radler – The Captain.

At 34, Błażej Radler was a man built for war. A grizzled center half with the scars to prove it, he is the kind of player who doesn’t flinch in the face of a crunching tackle or a high ball into the box. Radler isn’t fast anymore, hell, he probably never was, but what he lacked in pace he made up for with a mind like a chess master and a presence that could make a striker think twice. He’d seen it all, done it all, and as captain he was the spine of the squad. If Ślęza Wrocław were to survive, they’d do it on the shoulders of this defensive general.

Kajetan Latka – The Loyal Lieutenant

At left-back, Kajetan Łatka is Radler’s most trusted soldier. As vice captain the 25 year old has the look of a man who’d spent his career cleaning up other people’s messes. He is no stranger to the dirty work, chasing wingers down alleys and sticking a foot in where others wouldn’t dare. Solid, reliable, and a leader in his own right, Latka brought balance and stability to a team that would need every ounce of both..

Dawid Molski – The Young Gun

At 22, Dawid Molski is the kind of right full back who could run all night and then some. He is the kind kid who doesn’t know when to quit with the kind of ability in the cross you’d kill for in a league where games came fast and hard and goals were probably going to be scarce. His is the kind of cross from the right that would hopefully carve through defenses like a hot knife through butter. Scott would be counting on him to provide the width and chaos, two things Ślęza desperately need.

Aleksander Kwiek – The Architect

Deep lying playmakers don’t usually last until 34, but Aleksander Kwiek isn’t your average midfielder. With the ball at his feet he is an artist, painting passes that could turn nothing into something. Kwiek can’t cover ground like he used to, but he desn’t need to, he made the ball do the hard work. If Ślęza are going to create anything resembling a chance, it would flow through the boots of this seasoned maestro.

Kamil Mańkowski – The young sentinel

Kamil Mańkowski is another right sided player. The 22 year old winger whose coaching reports give off the air of consistency and high decision making that is going to be key this season. He is the type of winger who could leave defenders grasping at shadows. Fearless and unpredictable, he is the kind of player who could win you a game, or lose you one, with a single touch. Scott knows Mańkowski’s type; raw, inconsistent, but capable of brilliance. If Ślęza need a moment of magic, Mańkowski is going the guy to provide it.

Jakub Jakobczyk – The sniper

Jakub Jakobczyk, the 26 year old forward, isn’t flashy, but he has a knack for being in the right place at the right time. He will be one of the players tasked with taking on the goalscoring burden of the team, a player expected to throw himself into battles with center backs twice his size and still come up fighting. If Ślęza’s survival came down to a scrappy finish in a crowded box, you could bet Jakobczyk would be the one throwing his body on the line to make it happen.

Mateusz Sobczak – The Future Between the Sticks

The first, a deal to bring in Mateusz Sobczak, a young goalkeeper on loan from Śląsk Wrocław.  At 20, Sobczak is raw, but he has reflexes like a cat and high enough decision making that he can be relied upon despite his young age. He’d have his work cut out for him in the chaos of ii Liga, but as a keeper who could pull off the spectacular he might just be the difference between staying up and going down.

Mikołaj Kotfas – The Wildcard

Another loan from Śląsk Wrocław, Mikołaj Kotfas is a young forward with fire in his boots and ambition in his veins. He hadn’t made a name for himself yet, but the potential was there. Quick enough in acceleration, instinctive and being able to make the right decisions, Kotfas could be the injection of youthful arrogance Ślęza needs, a player who didn’t know enough to fear failure.

Scott Lańkowski’s task was simple, if not easy; mold this motley crew into a team that could fight, scrap, and survive, just like last season in Bytom. The chairman had given him the tools, and the fans? Well, they were watching, waiting, and hoping. The season ahead would be a grind, but if anyone could make it work, it was Scott Lańkowski. After all, he’d built his small reputation out of doing the impossible.

– – – – --

Part 2 - The Homecoming

Chapter 10.

The rain was hammering down on the streets of Wrocław, glistening something like polished obsidian under the weak light of a flickering lamp post. Ślęza Wrocław, the city's other smaller team, wearing the gold and crimson jerseys had just clawed their way into ii Liga, the unforgiving third tier of Polish football. It was a promotion earned through hard work and grit, much like Polonia Bytoms survival was earned the same way, and no one was under any illusions. Staying in the third tier would be a completely different challenge than reaching it. A whole new battle was coming, a street fight where survival was the only prize.

Better to make history than study it.

Enter Scott Lańkowski, a man who knew a thing or two about survival. In Bytom, they said he was a miracle worker. Polonia Bytom had started their season with an eight point millstone tied around their necks. Relegation seemed inevitable, a slow march to oblivion. But Scott Lańkowski didn’t just keep them afloat, he made believers out of a team drowning in despair. It wasn’t pretty, but survival never is.

Ślęza’s chairman had seen enough. He didn’t need a showman or a visionary; he needed a fighter. Someone who could keep them punching above their weight in a league filled with bigger budgets and sharper teeth. They turned to Lańkowski, a man whose reputation was built not on glory, but on grit. On survival instincts.

The decision wasn’t just about football; it was about the identity of Ślęza Wrocław. They’d fought their way back to relevance, but the ii Liga wasn’t going to roll out the red carpet. They needed a manager who could navigate the tightrope of ambition and pragmatism. Scott fit the bill like a pair of well worn boots. 

For Scott Lańkowski, the job was clear. Survival wasn’t just the goal; it was the only game in town. Ślęza knew they’d be in the trenches this season, and they wanted a man who’d already proven he could handle the mud and the blood. Lańkowski was that man, a coach who could turn adversity into just another obstacle to overcome. It wouldn’t be mission impossible, merely mission quite difficult.

As the shadows lengthened over Wrocław’s ancient streets, a new chapter in Ślęza’s story was beginning. It wouldn’t be glamorous, and it wouldn’t be easy. But with Scott Lańkowski at the helm, they had a fighting chance. And in the lower leagues, sometimes that’s all you can ask for.

– – – – -- 

Kamil Aftyka, the chairman of Ślęza Wrocław, a man of sharp suits and sharper instincts, had been mulling over the hiring of Scott for a while. On paper, Lańkowski wasn’t a savior. He wasn’t a knight in shining armor. He was a scrapper, a man who thrived in chaos and could squeeze results out of a squad like a mechanic coaxing life out of a sputtering engine. 

The experience at Polonia Bytom spoke volumes. That was a team dead and buried before the season even started, an eight point deduction that all but confirmed relegation. But Lańkowski hadn’t just kept that team in the league, he dragged them out of the abyss, kicking, screaming, clawing and leaving the doubters choking on their own predictions.

To Kamil it wasn’t a hard sell. Ślęza weren’t looking for a maestro to conduct a symphony, they needed a fighter in the trenches, someone that knew how to, and 

already had weathered a storm and find a way to live another day. Scott Lańkowski was that man.

He wasn’t flashy, sure. He didn’t have a trophy filled career, yet, or even much experience in football management. But in the third tier of football, survival wasn’t about glittering resumes, it was about getting your hands dirty dirty and keeping your head above water.

The fans though? They were a mixed bag. The majority of people in Wroclaw support the much bigger Slask, but you would still get some Slask fans attending Ślęza games. The die hard Ślęza fans that only followed the yellow and red saw the hire for what it was, a calculated gamble on a man who’d stared down the reaper and won.

Scott wasn’t from Wroclaw, everyone knew that. He also didn’t hide his love and affection for the green and white side of the city, the Slask side either. But the people in the know knew one thing for certain; if Ślęza wanted to survive their first season back in the third division, they’d need someone who could navigate the murky waters. And Lańkowski, all things considered, was probably the guy to do it.

After he’d signed the papers to officially confirm Scott joining as the clubs manager for the season, Kamil leaned back in his chair, content at knowing they’d have at least a fighting chance of securing survival this season. He hadn’t been looking for miracles, he’d been looking for a fighter. And with Scott Lańkowski at the helm that was as close to hope as he could ask for. 

– – – – --

Shout out to @carlos6 for the kits

Incredible victory well done!

A Derek Dooley reference, wow! Love it mate.  Unlucky with the 2 injuries before the cup final though, hope you can pull through and win it!!

Scott Lańkowski sat on the edge of the bed in the spare room at a cousin's house in Wroclaw, staring out the window at the city skyline. He could make out the Wroclaw Stadium, home of Śląsk Wrocław in the distance.The city as always was alive with its usual hum, cars crawling along the cobblestones, the trams coming and going on time and the late night laughter from the bars. 

‘Dad’ Scott began, his voice low and cautious ‘I’ve been offered the job in Wroclaw’

The silence at the end entered awkward territory. ‘Dad, did you hear me?’ Scott asked, assuming his dad was overjoyed at him being offered Śląsk job

‘Ślęza’ Piotr finally said, his Polish accent thick and familiar. ‘Not Śląsk’

‘No dad, not Śląsk’ the silence then became more annoying than awkward.

Scott braced himself and said ‘look I know how it looks. Trust me when I say it feels weird. Wrong even. Like I’m betraying something, us, you, Śląsk I don’t know. You always told me stories about the great Śląsk teams, about the first time you ever saw them play, I still haven't seen them play and I’ve been in Poland for a year. You told me about how Śląsk was the team that gave you and your friends something to believe in and now I’m……

‘And you think I’ll be angry’ Piotr cut him off with his usual firm and low voice

‘Yeah, something like that’

He could hear Piotr exhale down the phone line, the faint sound being carried across the world. ‘Scott my boy, Śląsk will always be in my heart, our hearts, that will never change no matter what. But this call you got, this offer, this is an opportunity son. A job doesn’t just fall from the sky for no reason, as I’ve always said everything happens for a reason. You’ve worked too hard in Bytom, done too much in a short space of time to let loyalty to our team hold you back. Ślęza isn’t the enemy, not even close. They’re just another team trying to survive, like Bytom was’

‘But it’s in Wrocław, your city, our city. How do I walk in the locker room and talk to the Ślęza players, them knowing who I support and me knowing they’re not Śląsk’

As quick as a beat Piotr said ‘That’s easy. You walk in as their manager, the boss’ took a moment and then continued ‘and you do the job. Do it with respect, authority and pride. You don’t need to forget where you come from, where you’ve been to take a step forward. Śląsk, if they come calling will understand, and if they don’t, that’s their problem, not yours’

Scott leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. His fathers words were steady and grounding, like they always were. Piotr had weathered his own storms, leaving Poland and chasing the dream in Canada, and raising a family far away from all he’d known. If anyone understood the weight of tough decisions, it was him

‘I just, I don’t know, I don’t want to let you down’ Scott said, voice barely above a whisper

‘How could you let me down my boy? You’ve done exactly what I did, just in reverse. I left Poland for Canada to work in football, you left Canada to go work in football in Poland. You’ve already made me proud Scott. And this with Ślęza is just the next chapter’

Scott nodded even though his dad couldn't see it. The weight he was feeling before the call now felt a lot lighter and the path a little clearer, and Piotr spoke before Scott could say thank you

‘Just do me one favour son’

‘What’s that?’

‘When Śląsk play Ślęza and you win, don’t ring me giving me grief or celebrate too hard’

Scott laughed hard, harder than he laughed in the last year and said ‘okay, deal’

As he hung up, the city outside and the future in it seemed less daunting. The lights of Wrocław were a little brighter, as was the future for Scott. It wasn't an easy decision to make, but it felt right, and for now, that was enough.

– – – – --

Summer 2017 transfer news

This summer’s transfer window has seen massive moves across Europe, with record breaking fees and clubs reshaping their squads. 

Biggest Transfers of the Summer:

• Antoine Griezmann: The biggest transfer of the summer sees the French superstar leaving Atlético Madrid for Manchester United in a blockbuster €100 million deal. Griezmann will lead Jose Mourinho's attack alongside Marcus Rashford
• Marco Verratti: Manchester City splashed €65 million to bring the midfield maestro from PSG, further strengthening Pep Guardiola’s control heavy style
• Diego Costa: Despite scoring 20 Premier League goals for Chelsea last season, Costa has moved to rivals and league runners up Arsenal for €60 million, a shock move that bolsters the Gunners’ attacking options.
• Aymeric Laporte: The French defender swaps Athletic Bilbao for PSG for €65 million as the Parisian giants aim to fortify their backline.
• Gonçalo Guedes: After failing to fully settle at PSG, Guedes makes a high-profile €60 million switch to Liverpool, adding pace and flair to their attack.
• Alexandre Lacazette: Following a 33 goal season in Ligue 1, Lacazette leaves Lyon for a surprising €34 million move to Benfica, looking to maintain his prolific form.
• Federico Chiesa: The Italian winger joins Tottenham Hotspur from Fiorentina for €33 million as Spurs aim to add creativity to their front line.
• Christian Pulisic: The American wonderkid makes a high profile move to Bayern Munich from Dortmund for €45 million, linking up with Sadio Mané, who also joined Bayern from Liverpool for €37 million.
• Jamaal Lascelles: The commanding center-back and Newcastle captain joins United for €33 million.
• Paul Dummett: Manchester United secure another Newcastle player, the reliable left-back, for €20 million.
• Juan Mata: After several successful years at Old Trafford, Mata departs for Barcelona in a €39 million deal.
• Harry Maguire: The Gunners shore up their defense with the €22 million signing of the promising English center back from Hull City.
• Andrea Belotti: After scoring 20 goals in Serie A, the Torino striker heads to Madrid for €35 million, aiming to add firepower alongside Karim Benzema and Ronaldo.
   

Back in the top flight under Rafa Benítez, Newcastle had a productive window:

• Fabian Schär: €6 million – Adds depth to their defense.
• Sergio Rico: €17 million – A high-quality goalkeeper acquisition from Sevilla.
• Milan Skriniar: €15 million – A talented defender brought in to anchor the backline following the departures of Lascelles and Dummet
• Jonathan Cafu: €5 million – A low-cost attacking reinforcement. Will feed off playing alongside Alexander Mitrovic
• Panagiotis Retsos & Olivier Ntcham: Loan signings to improve squad depth.
• Kylian Mbappé: A surprsiing transfer, but very ambitious loan signing from Monaco of the young French sensation who could be a game-changer.
• Jonjo Shelvey: Sold to West Ham for €27 million

This transfer window saw record fees spent across Europe, with Manchester United and PSG leading the spending spree. New stars like Kylian Mbappé and Federico Chiesa could light up the Premier League, while Griezmann, Verratti, and Costa headline marquee moves that will reshape Europe’s footballing landscape.

A last minute deal was also confirmed as Simeone Zaza has left Juventus and former Chelsea manager Antonio Conte to join former Juve manager Massimo Allegri at Chelsea. The sum of 75 million was paid for the striker that has scored an impressive 29 Serie A goals last season.

– – – – --

The café was quiet, the hum of conversation low and unobtrusive. Scott Lańkowski was sitting next to the window, nursing a coffee that had long since gone cold. The cup felt heavy in his hand, much like the thoughts weighing on his mind.

The streets of Bytom stretched out before him damp in the morning rain, a city he had come to know intimately over the past year. Now, however, it was part of his past. 

Leaving Polonia Bytom felt like stepping off a carousel after it had spun wildly for far too long. The relief of stillness was accompanied by a sense of disorientation. The job he was tasked with, unlikely survival, had consumed him, every waking moment spent wrestling with the impossible of turning a relegation bound team with an eight point deduction into survivors. He’d done it, barely. And the victory had felt hollow in the aftermath, like a battle fought well and hard, only to limp away from the battlefield.

He replayed the final meeting with Jakub, the Bytom chairman, that ended with him leaving in his mind a hundred times. He had earned an extension to his deal, he’d done something no one ever thought was possible despite Jakubs assertion of the one year only deal. The season was long and hard and had drained him emotionally and physically. But as the days passed he couldn't help but feel the pull of the touchline again. The roar of a crowd wanting the win, the surge of adrenaline with every goal, every tackle and every near miss. It was addictive.

However doubt lingered. Was he cut out for this? Could he continue in the role? Management was a thankless grind and his time at Bytom had aged him in a way he didn’t appreciate or had anticipated. He wasn’t sure if he had the resilience to go through it all again.

He’d decided that while he was in Poland he’d spend some time with relatives from his dads side in Wrocław. He’d stood at the edge of a quiet park taking it all in. The sun was dipping low on the horizon casting the city in shades of amber and gold.

Ottowa felt like a distant memory in the year he’d been in Poland. Back home he’d found coaching opportunities just coming to him without having to put effort in to find them, the kind of jobs that didn’t come with the weight of history or points deductions pressing down on him and the team every game. But it wasn’t just about football, it was family, familiarity and the ache of a city he grew up in.

Yet Poland, his second nation and his dads nation of birth had a grip on him. The streets of Wrocław whispered stories of his dads upbringing, tales of resilience and pride. Coaching in Poland felt like carrying a torch, a connection to something larger than himself. The challenge, the chaos, the passion was all intoxicating, even as it drained him.

He exhaled as his phone rang, his breath visible in the evening chill of Wrocław. To go back to Canada now would mean another fresh start, probably a lighter load, but a step away from the heart of what drove him.

When the call came in Scott was caught off guard. Ślęza Wrocław, a club from his father’s city, had seen their manager leave for pastures new and were interested in making him their next manager. 

It was unexpected but flattering, and a sign that his work at Bytom hadn’t gone unnoticed. As he hung up the phone his stomach churned with a mixture of excitement and unease.

Wrocław. His dads home. The name alone sent shivers down his spine and conjured memories of his dads stories as a kid, tales of narrow streets leading up to the stadium of the other team in Wrocław, the team both he and dad support, Śląsk. 

His allegiance was to the green and white of Śląsk, not to the city’s other team that he’d just been on the phone to. Ślęza, though... they weren’t Śląsk. Not that they had a big city rivalry with each other. Ślęza were just the other team in the city, the underdogs in the shadow of the bigger club. Even talking to Ślęza felt like a betrayal to his dad and walking into unfamiliar territory. 

If he was to take the job it would feel like betraying a part of himself that had always been loyal to the green and white. And yet, wasn’t that what he’d done? Bytom had been a challenge no one wanted and he’d thrived in that role.

He leaned back in the chair and stared out of the window. Rain began to fall again, light and steady with the droplets racing each other down the glass. He thought of his dad, of the pride he’d felt and shown when Scott had taken the Bytom job. He imagined the look on his face if he told him he’d got the job in Wroclaw, just not for Śląsk.

Could he bring himself to do it? Could he stay here in the city he loves, and take the reins of a promoted team here that would always be second best in his and his dads heart? It wasn’t about loyalty he kept telling himself. It was the game, the job, the challenge and the chance to prove Bytom hadn’t been a fluke or beginners luck.

But it wasn’t just about football was it. This was personal. Wrocław is in his blood, a city he’d always dreamed about living in, and being connected to. The thought of leading a team here and leaving his mark on the city was intoxicating.

He finished his now cold coffee, the bitter dregs leaving a sharp taste in his mouth. He put the cup down with a quiet clink and noticed his reflection in the mirror. A man at a crossroads, with a decision to make, pulled between current loyalties and future ambitions.

The call from Ślęza had awakened something in him, a new sense of purpose, a hunger for the next challenge. But the decision wasn’t simple. It carried weight and emotions, the kind that pressed down on him as he left the café and stepped into the rain.

He pulled his coat tight and started walking, the rhythm of his steps matching the beat of his thoughts. Wrocław called to him, its streets and stories, its challenges and contradictions. Whether he answered that call remained to be seen. For now, he walked, the rain falling steadily, each drop a reminder that life, like football, was full of unexpected twists and turns.

– – – – --

Set piece coach??

Chapter 9

Football news June 2017

In Spain Barcelona reigned supreme, running away with La Liga winning thirty three games, drawing three and losing only two all season, both surprisingly to Real Oviedo. Real Madrid, Atletico Madrid, Valencia and Athletic Bilbao complete the top six

A familiar story in Germany as Bayern were crowned Bundesliga champions again. Dortmund tried and failed to stop the title going to Munich again but ultimately ended up nine points off top. Bayer Leverkusen, Schalke, RB Leipzig and Wolfsburg round out the top six in the Bundesliga.

In England there was excitement and tension aplenty on the final day. Arsenal had looked odds on to win the Premier League until a poor run of form towards the end of the season. Heading into the final game sitting top on 89 points they hosted already relegated Sunderland at the Emirates in a game most bookies had stopped taking bets on. A home win was more than certain and the trophy itself was sat at the Emirates at the start of the game. 

At the Etihad, Manchester City, on 88 points, were set to face West Ham United who had narrowly avoided relegation themselves. They needed not just a win, but for Sunderland to achieve the unthinkable - take points off Arsenal. It was a scenario so improbable that City fans had resigned themselves to finishing second. But football, as always, had other ideas.

The atmosphere at the Emirates was celebratory long before kick off. Flags with the word CHAMPIONS waved around the ground, fans sang and a sense of destiny hung in the air. Arsenal started brightly, dominating possession and pinning Sunderland back. But as the minutes ticked by, the Gunners' finishing let them down. Giroud, Arsenals top scorer with 19 Premier League goals missing three early chances you’d bet your house on him scoring. Sunderland sat deep and dug even deeper in defence.

Then, in the 32nd minute disaster struck for Arsenal. Sunderland defended a corner and broke on the counter, Darron Gibson cleared the ball, it fell to former Arsenal man Seb Larsson on the right who drove up field. Easily getting into the box he had the simple task of laying it across the area for Jermaine Defoe to tap the easiest goal he scored all season. The Emirates fell silent, save for the ecstatic cheers of the traveling Sunderland fans.

News from the Emirates made its way around the Etihad as the home fans started cheering, their title win might still be on. 

Manchester City had been ruthless. Sergio Agüero opened the scoring in the twelfth minute with a trademark finish, and from there it was a procession. By halftime, City were three goals to nil up, with Agüero adding a second and Riyad Mahrez all but closing the game out with a stunning strike from outside the area.

The second half at the Emirates began with Arsenal still trailing by one goal and throwing everything forward. Giroud finally broke through in the sixtieth minute, heading in a left wing cross from Alexis Sanchez to level the score at one each. The crowd erupted, the tension dissipating slightly. As it stood Arsenal were on 90 points now to City’s 91 with half an hour to play in both games.

But the Sunderland defence, that had been breached many times this season refused to buckle. The heroics from John O’Shea and Jason Denayer were a sight to behold. Nothing got past the experienced O’Shea, covering was Gibson and Cattermole, two players that had failed to impress all season now long looked like world beaters as Arsenal had all of the possession but nothing to show for it.

Ozil, Walcott, Sanchez and Giroud all came close but were not able to finish. Desperation was starting to creep in. Holding hit the bar from a header from a corner, Sanchez was one on one with Pickford but scuffed his attempt at lobbing the young goalkeeper. The clock ticked menacingly toward full time.

In Manchester the game was done and dusted. Aguero completed his hat trick before Jesus rounded out the five goal win. Attention was turned to the Arsenal game as the game in Manchester finished a few minutes before Arsenal’s game.

As the clock counted down Arsenal were camped in the Sunderland half, the ball raining towards the away goal. When the final whistle did go, the scoreboard read 1-1. Arsenal’s players slumped to the ground, they’d known City had been winning at the half, and the atmosphere in the Emirates, so confident at the start of the game, was deflated and eerily quiet.

At the Etihad the fans made it known Arsenal had drawn their game and this triggered wild celebrations. Manchester City in Pep Guardiola’s first season were Premier League champions. 5-0 at home to West Ham meant they ended on 91 points, Arsenal only behind by 1 point.

In the tunnel at the Emirates, the Premier League league trophy remained awkwardly unused. Officials scrambled to coordinate its transport to Manchester, but by the time it was dispatched City’s celebrations were well underway.

In the Championship Newcastle never really got out of second gear as they won the league on 112 points. Winning thirtyfive, drawing seven and losing only four. Nottingham Forest joined them in promotion after finishing runners up. Forest's fierce rivals Derby County won the playoffs to join them in the Premier League.

Adam Armstong, on loan from Newcastle to Barnsley ended the season as top scorer with 31 goals in a Barnsley side that narrowly avoided relegation form the second division.

In Italy it was Inter Milan that lifted the Serie A trophy. The other team from Milan, AC, were second. Napoli were third and surprisingly Juventus ended up way down in fourth. Due to this fourth place finish Massimo Allegri was sacked. Antonio Conte had declared he’d be leaving Chelsea toward the end of the season and he was appointed Juventus manager. Two days later Massimo Allegri was appointed Chelsea's manager.

There was a surprise in France as Monaco won Ligue 1, eight points clear of Bordeaux in second. PSG finished third. Unai Emery was sacked as PSG manager for failing to secure the league title and was replaced by Roberto Mancini.

The office was dimly lit and felt like the kind of place where decisions are made with whispers and handshakes. The blinds drawn, two glasses and a bottle of vodka on the table, the overhead light flickering faintly, as if trying to decide whether to light up or not, casting shadows across the desk. 

Scott Lańkowski sat opposite Jakub Snochowski, the chairman of Polonia Bytom, a man with a face carved by years of hard truths and impossible budgets. In front of them sat in between the empty glasses a single sheet of paper, the end of the road.

‘You’ve done the impossible Scott, I’ve got to say’ Jakubs voice a low rumble in the cool evening air. ‘I didn’t think we’d survive and hiring you was more based on that assumption than the thought of actually securing survival. Eight points those bastards at the league took off us, took off you before the season even began. I told you the squad was bare and you couldn’t improve it much. Yet somehow the team is united and still here, in the league. And that’s because of you’

Scott nodded slightly, saying nothing and pouring two shots of vodka. Compliments always felt like a prelude to bad news.

Jakub leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and said ‘but we agreed to a deal didn’t we. One year, regardless of how it goes, and here we are a year later in a much better position than I ever thought we’d be’

Scott took a deep breath, the weight of the season coming in that one breath, letting out a sigh tinged with fatigue. ‘Jakub’ he started, voice trying and failing to convey confidence ‘I came here expecting nothing, expecting you to sack me after a poor run of games, yet we’re still here. Not to sound big headed, but we pulled off a miracle, and if given the opportu….’ he didn’t get to finish the word before Jakub held a hand up and interrupted him

‘I know, Scott, trust me I do. But we agreed on a one year deal, nothing more, nothing less regardless of what happens. Now I know the players respect you, the fans haven’t stopped singing your name, but as a business man when I agree to a deal I honour it’

Scott didn’t have any words to try and convince Jakub to keep him on, but did he even want to stay on? It could possibly be harder next season, some of the older players are retiring, the back bone of the team will be gone. The young players on loan, would they sign on for another season? There’s no money to replace the players that won’t be back so maybe Jakub is doing him a favour.

‘I get it, you want to try and continue on with this team, but I’ve made commitments and can’t backtrack on those’ Scott didn’t ask what those commitments were and wouldn’t probe for an answer. Jakub continued ‘but instead of officially sacking you, I think you’ve earned the right to leave on your own terms, we can officially agree on a mutual termination’

As he left the office at Bytoms stadium the cool evening air of Bytom hit him like a wave, warm and heavy. The streets were unusually quiet for early evening, the hum of distant traffic the only sound Scott could hear. 

He stopped at a crossing and looked up to the sky and felt a strange mix of emotions. Mostly relief, relief that the impossible job was over and he’d completed the task. He felt pride too, a stubborn pride in having defied the odds, silenced the critics and doubters and given the fans of the club a reason to believe. But the next thing he felt was uncertainty.

Uncertainty in what came next. He’d been given his start in management on a gamble, a one year deal at a club on the brink of falling into obscurity. And as this was in his mind he walked away unsure another opportunity would come up. Football has a way of chewing you up and spitting you back out, he knew that as well as anything. But he’d also caught the bug, the addiction of the game. The adrenaline of matchdays, the feeling of togetherness in the locker room, the agony and ecstasy of living on the edge. All of this was in his blood now.

He didn’t know where he was going in his career, or if he even had one to carry on in. But he knew one thing for sure, he wasn't done. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

Somewhere another club needs a manager, a manager that will take on a challenge no one else wanted, or had the stones to take on. What he didn’t know yet was that such a club wasn’t too far away.

Chapter 8 - The ghosts we carry

Jim Duffy was sat in the away dressing room at Exploria Stadium, head in his hands and the smell of sweat and worry hanging in the air. The Open Cup final. Against all odds San Jose had made it here. Every game had been a grind, every win had been a theft. They were the worst team in the tournament and still standing, one hand on the trophy. A miracle or a joke, Jim wasn’t sure anymore.

The players were quiet around him, waiting for his words. Karl Austin, the teams first round draft pick laced his boots up with the nervous energy of a rookie on the edge of something monumental. Jensen Stones who had had a career resurgence, leaned back in the chair he wass at in, stoic as ever, emanating an air of confidence. Robbie Delvin towered in the corner, his face a mask of focus. Howe, Barton and Maillared were still getting ready, as was Lee Burns.

He was laid across the bench with that cocky smirk across his face while juggling a ball with his feet like this was just a kick about in a park somewhere. The rooms tension seemed to hover around, his team mates eyeing him with a mix of resentment and unease. Jim could feel it too. Lee Burns was a gamble. He was always a gamble.

== == ==

Jim had stayed awake most of the night running through every scenario in his head again and again. Bench Burns. Start him. Maybe on the bench the team would rally around a more selfless game plan, and when Burns comes on he could change the game. Play him and the players might win comfortably, or they might as easily implode. He thought about Frankie Rizzi, the player that made everything work. Even on his worse days Frankie had better games than a lot of players in the league. Frankie had a selfish streak in him, but the difference was Frankie backed it up, always. And Frankies selfish streak was always in the best way, he’d drag the team up and to wins. But Burns? Burns was selfish in the worst way possible. But like Frankie, Burns was dangerous on his day, and Jim was out of options.

== == ==

Jim decided Burns was starting. He had to start. Burns was told in no uncertain terms about the magnitude of the game. From the first whistle Orlando as expected dominated. Pressing with intensity they suffocated the San Jose midfield. Stones struggled to find space and barely touched the ball. Austin was isolated up top on his own with no support. Maillard, usually bombing up and down the wing was penned in helping McCLean and Delvin in defence, the whole San Jose team under siege throwing themselves in front of shots and crosses like men drowning in a sea of purple shirts.

Jim barked orders from the sideline but it felt like shouting into the wind. Orlando had already hit the post twice in the first ten minutes, Miller beaten both times and grateful for the post coming to his rescue. It probably looked like San Jose were content to sit in their own half and not venture forward, but that is being disrespectful to Orlando. They kept the San Jose players locked down expertly well, the ball being cleared to Austin on the half way line but was closed down quickly. The lack of space was a blessing to San Jose as they managed to get to half time still somehow in the game.

Jim didn’t have the words, so he went in on Burns instead ‘You need to pass the ball. Use the one two, get into space, Jensen will find you’

Burns just shrugged, unbothered and said ‘I’ll get the win, just get me the ball’

The other players were too spent to argue. Jim said nothing, he couldn’t afford the infighting now.

Orlando came out firing again but San Jose held firm. Delvin was his usual rock at the back, Maillard seeing more space now, closing down with the ferocity of a terrier. And Stones was digging deep by breaking up plays through the middle but couldn’t release the ball or find any team mates forward enough to advance.

Burns as usual was the enigma, he’d lost the ball in his own half after retrieving the loose ball from an Orlando attack and waved his arms like it was someone else's fault he lost it. He did get the ball out of the San Jose half but dribbled into the box and was hounded out by the defence.

After another set of saves from Miller, more blocks from Delvin, more tracking back by Maillard, the breakthrough came in the seventy second minute. Stones intercepted the cross field ball, chesting it down and hitting it first time into the run of Austin who had made his way in between the center halves. 

Austin took it down, saw Burns on the overlap and played it right into his feet. Burns took it well, he always did, and drove inside on to his left. Austin had made the outside run like had so many times against LA, and Burns carried on driving inside. As he was closed down by the covering defender he didn’t look up, but in one swift move he just side stepped to his left and threaded the ball with the outside of his right boot into the unmarked Austin.

Time stood still. Nobody in a San Jose shirt could believe it. Burns had sacrificed the glory for himself and played the most perfect through ball of his life. Even Austin who had wanted the ball and wasn’t expecting took a moment to react. He locked eyes with Burns who had tumbled down under the pressure, Austin then realised the keeper was onto him. Austin dropped a shoulder and moved to his right as the keeper advanced. With a neat touch with his right foot he lifted the ball just out of reach of the keeper and into the net.

One nil to San Jose. Against the run of play as always.

The bench erupted as the subs and coaching staff jumped up cheering. Jim stayed rooted to the spot, his heart pounding. This had been the case every game so far, take the lead, get put under immense pressure and worry they might crack.

Orlando pressed as hard as they had all game. With twenty players in the San Jose half the best chance Orlando had of an equaliser was long shots or set pieces. They rained the ball down as soon as they were near the box, Miller equal to every one.

Every time the ball went out for a throw Orlando went long. Delvin clearing it up only for it to be swung back in. Maillard, Stones, Howe, Barton, Austin and even Burns were tracking back to stop the Orlando attack.

When the ref finally blew the whistle for full time Jim stood up, arms raised in the arm and a rare smile across his face. They’d won, somehow, against all the odds they won the cup final. The players were a mix of exhaustion and raucous joy. Austin was mobbed first, his goal the difference. Stones and Delvin were next as everyone celebrated an unlikely victory. Burns strutted around with the players, arms wide basking in the glory, thinking it was him and him alone that won the cup.

In the locker room after the team were presented with the trophy and done a lap of honour, the trophy sat on the table in the middle, covered in sweat and champagne. The players had finally calmed down, sat still and taking it all in. They were drained from the celebrations, but their joy was tempered by the knowledge that they’d been lucky. Burns was in fine form, opening another bottle of champagne and spouting about ‘carrying the team’. Stones shot a look at Austin, part approval, part defiance.

Jim told Burns to quiet down, took the bottle of champagne and addressed the team’ You fought, you scraped, you bled and you won. Not wanting to be negative but we didn’t earn this. Not the way I wanted to anyway. But it’s ours, and no one can take that away’

He glanced at Burns, who just smirked back, oblivious to the message behind Jims words.

== == ==

On the way out Jim stood and gazed at the now empty seats in the stadium. The win felt hollow, like a counterfeit note passed off as real. Frankie’s ghost was still with him and with the team.

They’d won a trophy, done it without Frankie no less, but they were still broken. And Jim wasn’t sure he or the team would ever be whole again

Chapter 7 - The gamble

Jim sat in his office alone, a bottle of cheap whiskey sweating on the desk. The blinds were drawn and the room was lit only by a feint glow of the desk lamp. The walls were plastered with photos ranging from Frankie Rizzi, other San Jose players and pictures of local celebrities. The Open Cup final was a few days away, and Jim wondered would there be a picture of him holding the cup put in the office afterwards

His mind was a storm of doubt, regret and anger. Orlando City waited on the horizon, their opponents in the cup final. A well oiled machine, favourites on every betting sheet and from every pundit, and the kind of team that should tear San Jose apart without getting out of second gear. San Jose are the underdogs, and have been all season but the not he good kind of underdogs. They’d scraped by all season. Won games by the skin of their teeth, lost more games than they won. This is a team held together by duct tape, aging veterans and rookies with the odd fleeting moment of inspiration.

The semi final against LA Galaxy would forever be etched in his memory. They’d stolen the win, with a late goal line clearance all but sealing the game. Karl Austin had grown with each game and his confidence steadying like a flame sheltered from the wind. Stones was solidifying his role as the steady veteran that anchored the sinking ship. Delvin the defensive wall and Maillard coming out of his rookie shell.

Then they had the enigma, the problem that was Lee Burns.

His name alone made Jim fists clench. He had talent, that wasn’t in doubt. He had more talent thant a lot of players in the league, but he played the game like a man trying to outshine ghosts that only he could see. Greedy, unreliable and reckless were the words used to describe on a daily basis. He was a wildcard in every sense, but a wildcard in a team that couldn’t afford wildcards.

He’d nearly sunk them in the semi final with his selfishness. Austin was wide open and in form, he’d already scored in the game. The easiest pass Burns would ever have made was on, clear as day and no defender to block it. But Burns had gone for glory. If not for Delvins heroics seconds later they’d have conceded and probably gone on to lose the game.

Jim kept staring at the bottle, the liquid taunting him. Burns was a liability but was also a threat. He was a match winner on his day, the goals he had scored winning them games already. But the question on his mind was could he trust Burns in the final?

He thought of Frnakie Rizzi, the golden boy, the generational talent, the teams leader and talisman. Rizzi would’ve won the final on his own. He’d have dragged San Jose kicking and screaming to the finish line. But Frankie was gone, and Jim was left with a team of scrappers, rookies and a lot of question marks. Burns being the biggest question mark of all.

The next day Jim called a staff meeting, no players, this was strictly coaching staff only. He needed their input, though he knew what most of them would be saying anyway

‘We can’t bench him’ his assistant said. ‘He’s annoying as hell but he’s got moments of brilliance, and in the final he might just surprise us’

‘Moments’ Jim growled back, low and sharp ‘and what about the moment he nearly cost us the game? What about those moments where he thinks he’s the only player on the pitch?

They all fell silent. They knew the truth. Burns could win them the final, or cost them the game.

At training Jim watched Burns closely. He dazzled with his footwork as always. Stepovers, flicks, first touches with the outside of his boot, the twisting, shimmying and turning all done to perfection. But when it came to the movement drills, the same flaws surfaced. He hogged the ball, refusing to use Stones and Austin for support, trying to beat Delvin and McClean on his own when all he had to do was release the ball inside. 

Jims mind raced. He could bench Burns, send a message to the team that selfishness would no longer be tolerated. But he would be cutting his nose off to spite hs face.

That night, Duffy sat in the stands of PayPal Park, the empty stadium echoing with memories. Frankie Rizzi’s number twenty three on display in the rafters bringing more memories to him. The hat-trick against LA Galaxy. The sending off at Saint Louis. The look on his face when they got back to the locker room.  The roar of the crowd when they won the Western Conference. The crushing silence after Frankie’s overdose.

The weight of the final pressed down on him. San Jose had no business being there, not with the way they’d played all season. They were scrappy, inconsistent and more than just lucky. But they were there, not on merit but there by way of somehow winning the games to get them there. And now it was Jims job to figure out how to make the most of it.

Burns. The name circled in his mind like a vulture and he just shook his head everytime the name popped in his mind. Was it brilliance or disaster waiting to strike?

Duffy took a swig of the whiskey he had poured into a flask earlier.He’d sleep on it, if he could. But deep down, he knew he’d already made his decision. He just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

The final loomed large, and so did the decision.

Chapter 6 - Touching distance

Jim Duffy looked at his watch as his face was a weathered mask of tension. The watch had stopped earlier in the day at 13:22, not that it mattered. He looked up and the ref was still talking to both of the captains at the centre circle. He looked around and saw no empty seats in the stadium. He saw the big LA Galaxy badge adorning the main stand which hung like a specter from last season, a reminder of what they’d been, and that was finalists in the Western Conference. Not only finalists but San Jose had won the Western Conference at the expense of todays opponents. That final victory was a constant reminder of what Jim had wanted his team to be again.

Frankie’s ghost hung heavy over this match. It was against LA Galaxy less than a year ago that Rizzi had dominated the game and tore the Galaxy defence apart, putting them to the sword with a hat trick that propelled San Jose to the MLS Cup final. Now however, Jims patched together a team of cast offs and rookies stood opposite the same opponent with another final at stake. Although this team had none of the confidence of that team of less than a year ago. That team only needed half a chance with Frankie in the game. This team had winged their way into the semi final against the heavy favourites.

This wasn’t the Western Conference final, this was the Open Cup semi final. With a win they’d have a shot at unlikely silverware. Lose, as has been predicted by just about everyone including those in San Jose, and the seasons only bright spot would flicker out like a dying lightbulb.

The first whistle blew to signal the start of the semi final, and chaos ensued. Galaxy came out swinging, wanting to end the game early. Crisp passes between the midfield and attack and their movement fluid, San Jose couldn’t keep up. The Galaxy defence was rigid and strong, nothing from San Jose made it into the final third. San Jose tried to counter attack but everything they tried seemed desperate and ended with a loose ball or Galaxy closing down with efficiency. It was end to end in the season that San Jose were hanging on, attacking but getting caught and defending for their lives. The kind of game that leaves managers tearing their hair out; Galaxy’s manager not happy with the amount of chances they’re missing, Jim Duffy tearing his hair out wondering how his team are still in the game.

The young forward Karl Austin had been slowly but surely growing into his role as the leading striker in the San Jose team. He wasn’t Rizzi, nobody was, but Austin was learning. Twenty five minutes into the Galaxy onslaught, somehow Austin had got the ball in the Galaxy half, had no support save for Burns on the right but he was covered quickly, so Austin dribbled on and created space for himself to take a shot. The shot was low and hard, the Galaxy keeper making a diving save to put it out for a corner. Stones swung in the corner, Delvin at the far post heading narrowly over the bar. San Jose had woken up, finally.

Stones was also coming into the role of grizzled veteran of the team, the glue holding the midfield together. As the half wore on it was the San Jose midfield that was controlling the game, the passing between Stones, Howe and Rose opening up the lanes for Burns and Gonzalez to run into. Stones finding Burns cutting inside, he shot was saved easily.  Howe then had space for himself to dribble into, laid it back off to Stones who found Rose at the near post. Rose shot but it was wide, but Stones was controlling the game and playing like a man that knew this might be his last shot at winning something.

Lee Burns was in the game as well. With pace to burn and the arrogance that could, and should be winning games, but more often than not this season it was that arrogance that had lost his team games. In the fortieth minute, after a spell of dominance for San Jose, Burns received another perfect ball from Stones out on the right. He drove forward, the full back stepping back and giving Burns the space to run out wide. He did so and cut in on his left foot. Austin made a run toward goal taking the defender with him. Austin stopped his run, spun around and held his position at the far post. He was unmarked, wide open and onside, all Burns had to do was lay it across the box and it was an easy tap in. But Bruns, now covered by the defender that left Autin wide open and the full back, decided the best option would be to try and curl the ball outside them both. He did, and the keeper didn’t even move to hold on to it.

Austin was screaming at Burns, Stones, captain for the day, ran over and yelled in Burns face, to which Burns just pushed Stones away and waved off Austin's protests. Jim Duffy exploded on the sideline as Burns jogged back ‘pass the fucking ball, any more of this greedy sh*t and you’re done Lee, I mean it’ Burns just shrugged. Jim clenched his fists and looked to his assistant, who shook his head.

At half time Jim didn’t need to tell Burns his thoughts, as Stones, Delvin, Maillard and Austin all laid into the winger. By the time it calmed down it was time for the restart. The game restarted with Galaxy on the front foot again, but the back four of San Jose held firm.

The breakthrough came in the fifty first minute. Delvin, the rock at the heart of the defence intercepted a ball in from the Galaxy right, took a touch and found Stones free in the middle of the pitch. Stones turned and drove forward, looking for the pass. Nothing was on, but he wasn’t closed down, the Galaxy defence more concerned with the outside runs of Burns on the right and Rose on the left, Stones kept moving forward.

He made it to the edge of the box before Dos Santos recovered for Galaxy, but he was a step too late. Stones saw Austin make the exact same move he did  in the first half, run into the box, stop, turn and retreat back to the far post. Stones chipped it over the defender before he recovered, the ball falling into the path of Austin, the rookie keeping his composure despite the Galaxy full back clocking the run and closing him down. The touch from Austin was exquisite, the finish a simple tap in under the on rushing keeper. One nil to San Jose.

Austin sprinted to the corner flag pointing to Stones as he did, arms wide with a mixture of relief and joy on his face. The rest of the team mobbed him apart from Burns who jogged back to his half. Jim clocked this but didn‘t say anything. There was too much of the game to go.

LA Galaxy responded like a wounded animal. There was more bite from the midfield, more aggression from Javier Hernandes the lone striker who had to be warned by the referee. They threw everything they had at San Jose, but it wasn't’ enough.

Delvin was a machine, cutting out crosses and through balls. McCLean his center half partner not once but twice denying the equaliser with goal line clearances. Stones, Maillard, Howe, Austin and Barton all dropping deep, the defence like a battlefield.

Into the last ten minutes of the game and Burns nearly cost San Jose the game. Stones and Austin combining in the middle of the pitch on the counter  to release Austin through the Galaxy midfield and into the final third. Austin held it up and laid it back to Stones. Using his experience he saw Burns running into space on his right. Stones played it into the path of the onrushing winger, as Austin on his left also ran into space.

Burns took a touch, shimmied, causing the defender to lose his balance. Austin, as he has done all game long, found himself wide open at the far post again, but Burns didn't use him. Instead he tried taking it around the other center half, Zack Carver, who had already taken up a good position anticipating Burns' greediness. As Burns drove forward the keeper covered the space behind the defender, ignoring Burns, Carver pounced and drove forward himself. All Burns had to do was tap the ball with either foot forward and Austin would have had time and space to seal the game. Instead Burns committed to the drive forward, Carver already a step ahead of him, nicked the ball and launched it forward. Austin again screaming his displeasure at yet another selfish act from Burns.

Galaxy had space where Burns hadn’t tracked back, and Jones and Dos Santos combined on the left to advance forward. McClean had no choice but to close down Hernandes who was wide open himself, leaving a massive hole in the San Jose defence. Spencer, the sub found himself in that space as Dos Santo drilled it along the floor. Spencer braced himself for the ball, full of confidence and ready to bury it into the net. 

He hit the ball as Miller in the San Jose goal tried in vain to stop him. Time stood still as Spencer lifted the ball high and just out of reach of Millers arm. The ball was lopping down into the open net as every person in the stadium had their eyes all fixated on the ball. That didn’t include the reliable Delvin as he was the only player watching the pitch as he dove not toward the ball but to the goal line where the ball was heading. He threw his six foot six frame at the floor hooking his right leg up at the same time. As the ball came down it hit Delvins leg and flew out for a corner. The San Jose fans erupted as if they scored a goal, the enormity of the clearance evident

Jim screamed at Bruns ‘you selfish bastard, off now, get off this fucking pitch’ as his assistant told the fourth official they wanted to make a change. Nunez on for Burns who stormed down the tunnel

The corner came to nothing as every San Jose player swarmed the box, but the final few minutes were a blur of desperation. Every player but the Galaxy keeper, who stood pretty munich on the half way line, was in the San Jose half. But the space was so tight LA failed to get a shot off in the final few minutes as San Jose held firm with eleven men behind the ball. 

As the whistle went Jim Duffy showed some unusual emotion as he fell to his knees in exhaustion. He was helped up by the fourth official and shook hands with the Galaxy staff, restoring his usual professionalism.

One nil to San Jose, and they’d done it. They were in the Open Cup Final.

The atmosphere in the locker room was electric. Austin was bouncing about with the biggest smile on his face, his confidence growing by the day. Stones and Delvin were in heated conversation in the corner, but the joy was evident. Burns was his usual arrogant self basking in his own glory like a sore spot that wouldn’t go away.

Jim stood in the doorway, his face a hard mask. He didn’t speak, he let the players enjoy the moment in their own way. He was already thinking about the final, about the next mountain they had to climb

They’d won tonight, barely scraping through as they had all of the cup and the league so far this season. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough, Frankie was still gone and the Earthquakes were still haunted. But for now they had a chance, a shot at winning something. And a shot at something, even a long shot, was all they could ask for.

Chapter 5 - The longest night

Jim Duffy sat on the edge of the dugout at Heart Health Park, dying for a drink and staring into the abyss. Sacramento Republic, a USL Championship team, weren't supposed to be a problem, but here they were, eighty minutes into the game, giving Jim's San Jose team a scare that was turning his threadbare nerves into shredded fabric.

The Earthquakes had scraped their way into the round of 16 by the skin of their teeth, stealing a win against FC Dallas. Then they just got by Union Omaha on penalties to reach the quarter finals against Sacramento Republic.

But this wasn’t Dallas, or an average Omaha side. This was a lower division team with nothing to lose and everything to prove. Sacramento played with the ferocity of junkyard dogs, snapping at every loose ball, driving forward with reckless abandon, and seeing a career game for Ben Wallace who had done everything but score for the lower team

Jim threw a water bottle against the dugout wall and not for the first time today. He stood up and yelled at his players in general, at no one in particular ‘get you’re fucking heads out of each others arses!! They’re making you look like kids dammit!

The pitch was a war zone. Sacramento controlled the game right form the opening whistle, pressing high, crowding out San Jose’s midfield, keeping Austin quiet by doubling up on him any time San Jose threatened to find him and all the while forcing mistakes from the MLS Western Conference side. Jensen Stones, the playmaker was hounded relentlessly when trying to make something happen for his team. His usual composure cracking under the weight of the physicality of Sacramento. Delvin at the back showing himself to be a shrewd signing was fighting tooth and nail at the back single handedly keeping his team in the game cutting out the balls into the box, his towering frame a wall against the constant onslaught from Sacramento, but he was starting to looked rattled and fatigued.

And of course there was Lee Burns. He was being his usual self, dribbling to the byline and then losing it, cutting inside when the easy pass was on, shooting from impossible angles even Messi or Ronaldo would struggle to score from and refusing to pass to anyone wearing a San Jose shirt. Twice in the first half Karl Austin made runs into the penalty area that opened up perfect passing lanes for the ball to reach him, and twice Burns ignored him, opting firstly for a shot on his weaker right foot that didn’t make it passed the first defender. And then secondly opting to drive inside on his stronger left foot, only to take too many touches and getting closed down before releasing a shot.

Jims frustration boiled over. He turned to his assistant and with venom in his voice said ‘if Burnsy doesn't get his act together I’m pulling. I don’t care if we’re down a body’

The second half wasn’t much better. Sacramento smelled blood and the Earthquakes were hanging on by their fingernails. Jim paced the technical area like a caged animal, barking orders, rearranging players and trying to unlock this stubborn Sacramento team. The San Jose players looked out of synch, a patchwork blanket coming away at the seams.

Then in the eighty third minute, as quick as a flash from a disposable camera (kids, ask your parents) there was a breakthrough in the game which had Jims heart in his throat. Sacramento had bombed forward, releasing their left winger who drilled another low cross into the box. Maillard tried recovering but was beaten by the Sacramento winger as the ball came in. Delvin, usually composed, lunged his right leg out to hook the ball away but instead his body twisted unnaturally and the ball deflected off his right foot towards the net. As the ball mercifully hit the upright it ricocheted into Stones covering on the underlap. He spun on his left foot, steadied himself and punted the ball out of the box far upfield. It wasn’t pretty but it sure was effective.

Austin chased the loose ball down just inside the Sacramento half, bringing the full back and center half with him, took control of the ball and held it up waiting for support.

Burns rushed forward screaming for the ball but Austin, showing his immaturity refused to release it to Burns, who showed his frustration. What Austin did do however was release the ball perfectly across the field as the cavalry arrived. Stones, legs heavy from the clearance in his own box had burst upfield and surged into the final third with one arm raised. The ball was coming before Stones raised his arm and as it did Barton helped it on its way with a neat flick of his foot, as Stones adjusted his body to receive it in his stride, curling the low shot around the keeper.

One nil San Jose, and as against the run of play any game of football ever has been.

The final seven minutes felt like seven years. Sacramento weren’t dismayed by the goal and kept plugging away, as they had all game so far. Everything was thrown at San Jose, five corners in those seven minutes came to nothing, shots from distance blazed by the goal luckily for San Jose. Stones was spent but his experience shining through, cutting off the passing lanes, doing a lot off the ball.

When the final whistle blew Jim didn’t celebrate. He shook hands with the opposition manager and coaches and made his way to the away locker room. There the mood was subdued. The players looked more relieved than victorious, their exhaustion on full show. Stones, the match winner, sat in the corner sipping water and avoiding eye contact. Burns as usual sprawled out on the physio bench with the smug look on his face despite selfish play and doing next to nothing in the game. Jiim, much like most of the team wanted to throttle him

Jim did speak and said ‘hell of a goal on the counter Austin that showed good strength and awareness, I’m impressed’

‘Yeah but he didn’t release me down…’ Burns shot up to protest before Jensen Stones silenced him ‘shut it you. You nearly cost us the game’ and that started the heated bickering between the two

Jim yelled for calm and said ‘look we need to stop playing like that, it’s going to cost us before long’ and everyone knew he was right. San Jose had survived, just. They were through to the semi finals of the Open Cup but it felt more like a stay of execution than a triumph. They’d won tonight but the cracks were still there, widening with every game. Rizzi was still gone and San Jose were still chasing ghosts.

Chapter 4 - Burns and Bruises

Jim Duffy stalked the touchline like a man looking for a fight, or at the least someone to throttle. The San Jose stadium was a cauldron of muted frustration, a half full house that roared at the wrong moments and sighed at all the right ones. Twenty games into the season and the San Jose Earthquakes were sitting in a limbo of mediocrity. Five wins, six draws and the eight soon to be nine straight losses piling up like IOU’s on a gambling junkies desk. They weren’t awful, they were always in every game, just, but they weren’t good enough either.

The whistle blow signalling the end of the game and with it another defeat, this time two nil to FC Dallas. Jim shook hands with the opposition coach and stormed into the locker room, a human storm cloud brimming with acid and rain.

Karl Austin, the first round draft pick had been taken off in the second half, failing to produce anything from the few chances the team created for him, sweat dripping off his face and his eyes locked on the floor. This kid has got talent, it was there, raw, undefined and undeniable. He’d managed six goals so far but couldn’t shake the comparisons to Frankie Rizzi, who himself had scored seven goals against FC Dallas alone last season. It didn’t help that Austin was given the number twenty four shirt, as if he was one better than Rizzi and his now retired number twenty three shirt.

The other draft pick, full back Kevin Maillard leaned against his locker, his shirt clinging to his back, his expression of frustration, but his rookie status kept him from shouting or venting his feelings. He’d grown into the role of starting left full back better than anyone was expecting, his work rate unmatched. Jensen Stones, still the Canada national team captain, was playing as well as he could, his teammates more cautious than this pass first midfielder. Robbie Delvin was joined by Johnson Barton, Reg Howe and Carlos Fernandez getting ice for their knees as the rest of the team piled in.

Then there was Lee Burns.

Laid across a physio’s table like a spoiled prince in exile. Boots still on but laces undone as he had done during the game, and the smirk on his ever growing punch me face was as sharp as broken glass. His numbers weren’t anything to write home about, five goals and zero assists, but these didn’t tell the whole story. He hogged the ball, ignored the overlaps from O’Niell, teammates being wide open ignoring the easy pass and acted like every game was his own personal audition reel. He was the kind of player that wanted all the glory without the grind.

Jim Duffy was pissed, and he snapped.

‘You think this is your own fucking highight reel Burnsy?’ he growled his voice low and sharp enough to cut ‘Every damn time you get the ball it’s like watching a kid on a school field, you don’t pass, you don’t look up you run with your head down, you’re not even hoping for the best it’s annoying as hell!’

Burns just shrugged with a smirk saying ‘I’m scoring though aren’t I?’

‘Aye you’re scoring, but just think how many more you’d score if you used the other ten players on the pitch with you’ Duffy said as his voice was rising ‘but we’re not winning! You don’t win games playing like a one man circus. You’d rather lose six one and get the goal, or lose one nil than set up an equaliser. This isn’t about you, it’s about the team’

Burns just rolled his eyes like he’d heard it all before, which of course he had at Chicago. Jims fist clenched, he could feel the tension in the room, the silent glances between players. They could all feel the simmering resentment.

The truth gnawed at Jim like a rat in the wall. Frankie Rizzi wasn’t just a star, he was the full compass. He made players like Burns fall in line because he was a galaxy unto himself, and everyone on the team revolved around him. Burns wouldn’t even get in the team had Frankie still been there. Without Frankie the Earthquakes were a ship without a rudder, a band without a leader and so on.

Austin and Maillard were rookies playing with the fearlessness of youth, but they couldn’t carry the team on their own. Stones was a good playmaker sure, but he played like a man chasing ghosts. He’d have thrived with Frankie in front of him, but this season he has the  young rookies and greedy players like Burns to rely on. Delvin was solid, but he was let down by his teammates in defence. His knees were creaking and he knew the years were catching up to him. Burns thought he was Frankie resurrected. A star in his own mind, but really just a firework that fizzled as often as it exploded.

‘We’re not a damn team anymore’ Jim said with an air of frustration. ‘We’re just bunch of people wearing the same shirts. Until that changes we’re going absolutely nowhere, fast.

The players all left, the silence heavy in their wake. Jim as usual stayed behind sitting on a bench and staring at the empty lockers. Frankies death still loomed over them, it probably will for quite some time, a shadow that refused to live. He’d tried to fill the void with the rookie Austin but that was just duct tape over the problem.

The team wasn't bad, not really, but they weren’t good. The Earthquakes were still searching for an identity, still chasing the memory of a man who wasn’t coming back and no player that came along would be anywhere near Frankies level.

The season was slipping away and so was his patience. Something had to change, or the Earthquakes were going to sink into the mud, taking him with them.

Chapter 3 - A Spark in the Dark
 

The season opener had San Jose buzzing, but Jim Duffy felt no excitement, only the gnawing weight of expectation. The MLS Cup final still fresh in the minds, as was the death of Frankie Rizzi. The fans chanted his name and they were hungry for redemption, the noise echoing off the steel beams around the ground like a defiant heartbeat. The banner waved Frankies name and number twenty three loud and proud as kick off neared.

The San Jose team of last season were a one man team in every sense, but this season the Earthquakes were a patchwork team stitched together with hope and desperation. Today they faced the Houston Dynamo, a team not much better but still dangerous.

Jim leaned against the dugout, arms crossed as the players lined up ready for kick off. The new faces stood out like fresh ink on a well worn page. Karl Austin, the teams pick in the Superdraft, a stocky forward with a boyish grin, bouncing nervously on his heels. Kevin Maillard, a competent full back, if he stays fit. His injury at college last season still putting doubts in the minds of the San Jose coaching staff. Jensen Stones, the new playmaker, the creator, he’d have thrived in this time with Frankie last season, he surveyed the pitch with the calm of a man who’d seen it all, but was as volatile as they come. Robbie Delvin, the tallest player in the team at center half flexed his neck as if preparing for war. And then there was Lee Burns, the left footed right winger. With pace to burn, a trick up his sleeve but very often refusing to pass, was barking orders to teammates like he owned the place.

The game began in a blur of orange and blue, both teams trading tackles and possession like gamblers without a care in the world. Houston pressed hard from the back, winning the ball deep in their own half and letting the midfield cut through San Jose’s back line like a switchblade through silk. Delvin was calm and composed under pressure, directing things and leading by example, throwing his towering six foot six frame at everything and everyone. Maillard, with a point to prove was raw but fearless, chased down the winger every time he dared challenging him, crunching tackles like thunderclaps.

Despite the effort on defence San Jose were never in any sort of rhythm. Stones tried to dictate the tempo from the middle but he was closed down quickly and when he did find time on the ball his passes lacked the bite and his creativity was dulled by his overly cautious team mates. When he did pick a long range pass to Burns, true to form the winger tried doing everything himself, drawing a second defender out wide but never once looking up to Austin, Stones, Howe or Barton who were all free in and around the box screaming for the ball. Jim could feel the blood pressure rising with every touch Burns took.

Much like any time Frankie got on the ball last season and scored, in the sixty third minute a breakthrough came. Stones dropped deep, won the ball back with a challenge from the side which another referee might’ve called for a foul, turned and darted up the middle. Burns on the right, Martinez on the left with Maillard on the overlap for support, Jensen waited for the press and when it came threaded the ball to Burns on the right.

Jim shook his head, Martinez was the better option, but Burns, for once, lifted his head and curled the ball, inswinging and rising into the box. It wasn’t the best diagonal ball the league would see this season, but it didn’t need to be. Karl Austin, wide eyed and full of energy threw himself at the ball and connected with a scissor that sliced off his high right foot and spooned into the net. The Houston keeper motionless.

The stadium erupted. Austin sprinted to the corner flag, arms outstretched his face a mix of joy and disbelief. Team mates swarmed him as he raised a hand and pointed to the number twenty three etched on the wall of the newly named Rizzi end. Jim Duffy allowed himself a tight lipped smile but didn’t celebrate. The goal came against the run of play, he knew that. And there was still a long way to go yet. Twenty seven minutes to go and Houston won’t just roll over.

The final stretch was a defensive grind and a lesson in staying rigid and compact. Houston threw everything they had at San Jose, and it wasn't’ enough. Delvin was a human wall, Maillard covered more ground than any other player on the pitch, even Burns was tracking back and helping on defence, sacrificing flair for grit. McClean, Howe and Barton all making perfect tackles to stop an attack showing composure and steadying the team.

The final whistle eventually came after six long and excruciating minutes of added time. The scoreline read one nil to San Jose. A win on paper but Jim knew better. They got lucky. If Austin had connected properly with the scissor kick it’s an easy save for the keeper. They had been ugly going forward, but scrappy at staying back. The Earthquakes had survived, but not triumphed.

In the locker room the mood was cautiously optimistic. Austin the goal scorer sat in the corner, still grinning like a kid that’s found Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. Of the new players, Delvin and Maillard had struck up a friendship and worked well as the left center half and left full back. Stones and Burns were talking about the build up to the goal and would work on that kind of thing in training. Barton and Howe had worked their socks off as the other two in the midfield three and were out on their feet.

Jim leaned back against the doorframe observing. For the first time in over a year they’d won a game without Frankie, but he knew this win was only a bandage, not a cure. They’d scraped by today and the cracks were still there plain as day to anyone who looked closely enough. Without a true star to anchor them, they were walking a tightrope over a canyon, every game a gamble.

He pushed off the door frame, the murmur of the team behind him. Outside the early evening San Jose air was cool and the floodlights were on lighting up the empty pitch. He stared out at the field, muttering to himself that it’s going to be a long season, longer than he wanted to admit, also not sure he had it in him to ast the full season.

Chapter 2 - New Season, Old Shadows

The calendar told them pre season was well underway, and with it came the uneasy stirrings of the upcoming new season. Jim Duffy sat in his office at the stadium, his chair creaking under the weight of his restless shifting. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and had an anxious air about it. His desk was cluttered with scouting reports and free agent notes. His laptop screen filled with agent offers and unattached players reaching out. His mind was a battlefield of hope and cynicism.

Outside on the pitch the players jogged through early drills. It was an open training session at the stadium, free for fans to come and watch, with there being a ceremony after the session for the club to officially retire Frankie Rizzi’s number twentythree jersey and honor him by renaming the south stand as the Rizzi end. 

The player's breath was fogging in the crisp morning air, cold sweat running down their faces. To anyone watching it looked like progress, a team united, but to Jim he saw the cracks. The passes lacked crispness and urgency, the shouts of encouragement sounded hollow. Frankie’s absence hung over them like a rain cloud in the sky, thick, suffocating and impossible to ignore.

The past month had been a relentless carousel of second guessing. The media, fans, players, agents and the board, all of them wanted answers. Who would replace Frankie? Would San Jose recover? Is this a season of tanking to guarantee them a high first round draft pick next season? Jim didn’t have any answers, only more questions. But fate it seemed, wasn’t entirely cruel.

In a stroke of good fortune the Earthquakes had the third overall pick in the MLS draft. The pick originally belonged to Minnesota but was traded for left full back Jason Hodges, and from the trade mid season Minnesota went on a torrid run and finished third bottom of the supporters shield and regretting the decision to trade away the pick. They also held the nineteenth overall pick. The third pick gave them a lifeline in this sea of uncertainty.

Jim and the rest of the coaching staff had decided on two players with the third pick. If both were still available they had agreed who would take priority. Houston had already picked Danny Willson with their second overall pick, which meant San Jose would be getting their first choice with the third pick. They decided that Karl Austin, 22 goals in 29 games for Niagara Falls was worth the chance.

Nobody was expecting him to replace Frankie, and Austin wasn’t the player Frankie was, no one was. But the kid had something, pace that left defenders chasing shadows and a knack for finishing chances. Jim had seen the highlight reels and the post game reviews, but he wanted to believe it wasn’t just another compilation of goals with no substance.

The gamble didn’t end there. With the nineteenth pick they chose full back Kevin Maillard out of Washington. Capable on both sides, pace to burn, solid in the tackle but suffering a torn ACL mid season meant this pick would need to be managed properly. As with the picks there were a couple of free agent names that popped up, with resumes filled with promise and baggage to match.

Jensen Stones, the canadian playmaker with a chip on his shoulder had been released by New York Red Bulls after a very public falling out. He’d been forced to sit out the final five months of the season, not even allowed to play for the reserves. But he was the Canada national team captain and still worth a punt. Then there was Robbie Delvin, a towering centre half with a rough injury history but the reputation for commanding the backline like a general. Inside forward Lee Burns had been mentioned. Full of flair, can dribble by the best of them but greedy on the ball, too greedy and the league's most fouled player last season had seen Chicago get fed up with his inability to use his team mates and waive him.

The negotiations with the three weren’t easy. San Jose’s budget didn’t allow for bold moves or many bonuses, only calculated risks. Jim was playing his cards close to his chest, selling the dream of redemption and of comebacks to these men who had seen their share of disappointment. He knew they weren’t perfect, Burns being far from it, but they were an upgrade on the squad, and right now, that was enough.

Despite the winning feeling of signing five players to the team for this season, Jim couldn’t shake the unease that clung to him like a bad suit. He stood and watched the players train, Stones dictating the tempo of play, Burns running around the kind of energy only rookies have. Even Maillard was putting in a shift despite having a tight groin. But Jim was keeping an eye on Karl Austin, watching him struggle to adjust to the physicality of the professional players. He had talent, sure, but talent wasn’t enough. Not in the MLS, not anywhere.

He stepped forward to watch closer, as Austin and Burns linked up on an attack. Could Austin shoulder the burden? Could Burns reignite his career without reigniting his temper? And Stones, the only fully international in the team, could he be relied upon to not spit his dummy out when things aren’t going right? Could Maillard hold his body long enough to matter?

And then of course were the whispers. Frankies overdose wasn’t just a tragedy, it was a stain on the club, the city of San Jose. Sponsors were skittish, fans questioned the player culture at the club under Jims watch. Opposing managers smirked in press conferences calling San Jose a team ‘in transition’, which was just a polite and professional way of saying they’re the whipping boys of the league this season.

The season wouldn’t be waiting for Jim and the players to figure it out, the season was a few weeks away. When they finally take to the field for the first time this season, at home to Houston Dynamo, no one would care about Jim's fears or the ghost of Frankie Rizzi. The scoreboard and stats don’t tally grief or doubt.

San Joe Earthquakes would either find a way to rise without Frankie, or they’d crumble under the weight of their own shadows. For Jim Duffy, the line between the two had never felt thinner.

This is another of a number of short stories I’ve written. This is a follow up to Green field, white lines. Please read that before reading this one

== == == == ==

Jim Duffy sat alone in a corner booth in Mac’s Diner, a dimly lit place on the edge of a downtown street in San Jose. He’d been frequenting this diner over the last few years and Mac, the owner, made sure he was left undisturbed while there. Jim was nursing a coffee that had long since turned cold. The rain was drumming against the tin roof of the small eatery, mirroring the pounding in his skull. He leaned back in the chair and let out a sigh heavy enough to fog the glass. The words still echoed in his mind from a week ago;- Frankie Rizzi. Dead. Overdose. Gone.

Frankie was gone and with him San Jose’s small chance of an upset in the MLS Cup final, the final Frankie had dragged them to almost single handedly.

Rizzi had been more than just a striker, he was the beating heart of the San Jose Earthquakes. Fourtysix goals this year, at least one goal in each of the five play off games he was the sole reason San Jose had half a chance in the MLS Cup. He was a magician in the box, pulling defenders apart like a street hustler with a deck of cards. When Frankie was on the pitch San Jose had more than a chance of winning the game, without him? Well, Jim knew, as did the rest of the league that the writing was on the wall for San Jose. The MLS Final could’ve been their crowning moment, the culmination of a season being the underdogs, the little boat that could, the outsiders lifting the trophy. Instead it turned in a funeral match. 

Toronto didn’t just beat them, they didn’t even get out of second gear. San Jose wanted the game postponed but the league said no. There were international fixtures coming up which couldn’t, or wouldn’t be rearranged.

Toronto scored three first half and two second half goals, showing absolutely no mercy. They all wore black armbands showing respect for their fallen opponent, but everyone knew two things after the game. One, Toronto were happy Rizzi wasn’t playing, their defence had already conceded five goals to him that season. And two, San Jose shouldn’t have played the game a mere three days after Rizzi’s death was confirmed. His funeral date hasn’t even been set yet.

The silence in the locker room at full time was so thick you could choke on it. For the first time in all his years as a coach, Jim Duffy was lost for words. Was there any point stating the obvious, we lost because we didn’t have Frankie? Or the other obvious was we shouldn’t have played at all, but the result wouldn’t have been different whether the game was postponed or not. No Frankie, no chance.

He’d sat and stared at the floor in the locker room once everyone had left, the linoleum tiles spinning like a roulette wheel. He’d been able to recruit players and get the team built around getting the ball to Frankie, built the whole mindset of the team around Frankie and making sure Frnakie was in a position to win them the game. But now Frankie was gone, leaving a gaping hole they couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to fill.

The new season was looming, but instead of anticipation, instead of thinking they could go all the way again this season, it felt like a storm cloud was creeping closer. The media buzzed with speculation, could Jim Duffy, without Frankie Rizzi pull San Jose out of the wreckage? Could the Earthquakes survive without Frankie?

Inside Duffy wasn’t so sure. The board had handed him the budgets already, it might cover a promising forward, maybe even two, a couple of players on loan, maybe a washed up veteran looking for one last hurrah, but nothing close to another Frankie Rizzi. No team in the MLS could do that. Every scouting report he was given as well as the report for the upcoming Draft all seemed to mock him, all full of players with potential and promise, but none with presence.

Pre season training began under a veil of unease. The returning players all carried the weight of the previous season like bricks in their boots. The usual banter was muted, the laughter felt forced and the energy was half hearted at best. Jim watched from the sidelines, arms crossed and eyes scanning for a spark. Someone to step up and fill even just a quarter of the void left by Frankies untimely death. He knew the odds were stacked against them, the Western Conference teams would see San Jose now as three easy points.

But what haunted Jim the most was the fear that the Earthquakes were more than just underdogs now, they were a team with a shadow hanging over them. Frankies overdose had shaken the foundation, put a strain and a black mark on the club, and the whispers wouldn’t stop. Opponents would smell the weakness and fragility and the feeling was the Earthquakes would crumble before they even took to the field.

Still, he was a professional and he would go to work,. He clenched his jaw and ordered another coffee as Mac walked over. One thing was certain, no one was coming to save them. If San Jose were going to rise from the ashes, it would be on his shoulders and his alone. He didn’t have Frankie’s magic anymore, but maybe, just maybe he could summon enough grit to keep them afloat.

It's still SUSIE to me dammit

As a Geordie and Newcastle fan myself I like this!!!!!