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Chapter 8 - Kick off

The game kicked off 2 minutes late due to the delayed arrival and confirmation that Frankie Rizzi was fit and ready to play. The stadium was a fever pitch of anticipation. This wasn’t just the next big thing coming up, this kid was special and everyone knew it.

Both teams were filled with big players with big egos and both had a point to prove. LA Galaxy, the favourites for the Western Conference with players that would walk into any team in the league, whilst also boasting international players. Lead by their star player Jaime Hernandes, a striker that could score blindfolded. For San Jose, a team made up of free transfers and loanees, plus the addition of Frankie Rizzi, who’d been making headlines for the right reasons with his golden scoring touch had also seen his name in the media for all the wrong reasons, a talent that couldn’t be dropped, no matter the cost. The team just wanted to prove they could hang and had deserved to be in the Western Conference final.

The roar of the sell out crowd kept going on as the game commenced, every touch by any player cheered. It was a chaotic game right from the off. LA Galaxy as expected on the front foot, pressing with an intensity San Jose only wished they could match saw their main man score his 23rd of the season. Hernandes went on a mazy run from the AMC position, brought central defenders with him, laid it off to his strike partner in a neat 1-2 and slotted it under the keeper. 1-0 LA Galaxy, 12 minutes played. San Jose’s heads dropped as Hernandes celebrated

As the ball was in the center circle for kick off, the cameras caught Frankie and Johnson Buchanan talking, and then Frankie started waving his arms to the crowd to get them encouraged, and they obliged. Instantly the noise from the Galaxy fans was drowned out by the San Jose fans.

Despite the encouragement San Jose looked rattled. Rizzi was dropping deep to get on the ball as the midfield were struggling to string passes together, the pressure from LA was too strong. Frankie was electric, never stopping running, albeit out of position but the ball never made it to the final third. The coke coursing through his veins making him move like a man possessed, his eyes wild and bulging out of his head, his pace relentless, he alone covered more ground than his full team combined. And in the 29th minute his hard work paid off.

McClean in the center half position finally settled into the game, received the ball from the keeper, motioned to Gomez to make a run through the middle, which he did. As the ball came over Gomez stopped his run, the defender still going, he received the ball about 35 yards from goal, turned onto his left and didn’t look up, he knew exactly where Frankie would be running and played the ball into the pocket of space where Gomez’s marker would’ve been. Frankie outran the Galaxy defenders, took a touch to steady himself and thundered the ball into the net.

1-1, 29 minutes played. Pandemonium in the stands.

From the equaliser the game turned more into a boxing match than a football match, it was a slugfest of the highest order. Tackles flew in, players were aiming for the man and not the ball, tempers flared and the referee struggled to keep control. After stopping the game to address the struggle between Hernandes and McCLean with them both being given a final warning the game quickly resumed with McClean not getting back in time and Hernandes being wide open, picked up the loose ball in the middle and slotted the ball into the San Jose net. 2-1 LA Galaxy, 44 minutes played San Jose players all arguing among themselves.

Half time came and with it a bit of respite for San Jose. Jim Duffy didn’t go in with the tough guy approach, instead he said ‘we’re still in this game, one chance is all we need and we’ll rattle them. Let’s change it up slightly, you 4 at the back stay back, I don’t want to get caught on the break, we’re going with 5 across the middle, I want you rigid as fuck, attack together defend together, support Frankie and dart forward with him. Frankie lad, you know what to do out there, terrorise that defence’

Frankie was sweating buckets, everyone could see that. It was clearly the coke giving him the sweats, but he had done the most running, the most tracking back, the one trying to make things happen for his team.

He came out in the second half carrying on where he left off in the first. His heart pounding like a drum and his mind a blur of a mix of adrenaline and chemicals. He’d done another packet in during half time and it was kicking in now. 52 minutes on the clock he received the ball in an unfamiliar position on the right wing. Not to be deterred he told Buchanan to make the overlap, and he did, just as Crayze made an underlap confusing the Galaxy defence. All eyes should’ve been on Frankie but as the 2 players were going around him it opened up the space on the inside left channel and Frankie didn’t hesitate. He drove forward using his right to cut back outside towards the byline. Just on the edge of the box he stopped, let the defender commit then drove back on his left foot. As he steadied himself for a left foot shot the keeper sensed what was coming so took a step to his own left to cover the gap, big mistake. Frankie saw the gap now on his right hand side and hit the ball with the outside of his right foot. For any other player attempting this shot the ball would either fly over the bar, got out for a throw or roll harmlessly to the keeper. From Francis Rizzi with the Midas touch, it rifled into the goal at the near post. The net bulged ever so slightly as it went over the line. The crowd screamed, Jim Duffy jumped off the bench and Frankie stood there, arms out wide soaking in sweat and taking it all in.

2-2, 52 minutes played. Game on!

The second goal didn’t slow the game, quite the opposite, it opened it up. Hernandes kept probing, Frankie kept driving forward. The second goal was exactly what this game needed as now it was pedal to the floor stuff, and every player woke up. McCLean hit the bar with a header from a corner, Hernandes nearly completed his hat trick as he brought a double save out of Jones in the San Jose goal. Frankie also had a chance to get his hat trick as he forced the LA Galaxy keeper into tipping a long range shot on to the bar, but there was no follow up from Gomez or Brown. Buchanan, Crayze, Doyle, Gomez, Smith and Barton all had chances, real good chances to score for their team but as time ticked on it remained 2-2.

Then it happened, the knockout blow, the game ending goal, and there was only 1 man in the world that was going to score. From a corner, San Jose’s third of the game, Buchanan went short to Gomez who in turn played it towards the center midfield area where the sub Donovan was waiting. The Galaxy players all pushed out and as they did Donovan went back to Gomez who hit a first time cross right along the box. The Galaxy back line didn’t react in time and as the ball rose there was Frankie Rizzi, with the best diving header ever seen in the MLS at the far post. As he headed it he followed the ball into the net the crowd roared the loudest they had all day, the stadium was shaking. He was caught in the net and couldn’t get out before all the outfield players for San Jose jumped onto him.

The offside protests from the Galaxy players were waved away and as the San Jose players went out of the goal, Frankie was still cheering and screaming his head off, eyes still bulging, the passion and adrenaline all coming out of him. That goal killed off any chance of a Galaxy win. They’d used their subs and were spent. Frankie for the last 8 minutes was still running, still causing problems and the Galaxy players just couldn’t keep up. They kept hoofing it out, kept clearing it out for a throw in, too afraid to concede again. Hernandes didn’t get a sniff of the ball since the third goal went in.

The final whistle blew, and San Jose had done it. They were Western Conference winners, and booked their place in the MLS Cup, all thanks to Frankie.

The gamble paid off, Frankie scored yet again and the player who was both the teams saviour and their biggest risk sealed the win. In the locker room Frankie was the most lively player, spraying champagne and bouncing about like nothing anyone had seen before. Clearly under the influence of something, no one dared question it, the euphoria of the moment too good to disrupt. Everyone toasted Frankies brilliance, his persistence and the team's resilience to come back twice to win the game.

Next up would be Toronto FC in the MLS cup. They’d just beaten New York Red Bulls 4-0 in the Eastern Conference final. But San Jose didn’t care, they had Frankie Rizzi, the best player on planet Earth in their minds, Toronto didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter 7 - The big day

The biggest game so far for San Jose was here, the Western Conference final against LA Galaxy. For the Galaxy this was just another match, another routine win on the way to the MLS final. The kind of match for San Jose that turned men into legends. The news had filtered around the stadium and social media for the last 2 hours, Frankie Rizzi is unlikely to play in the game.

His goals had dragged San Jose here to this final and it was a foregone conclusion he’d at least score today, but with the rumours swirling the LA Galaxy boss said in his pre game interview with ESPN that he wasn’t concerned even if Frankie did play, he knew his team would be winning regardless. The arrogance was there, would he have said those words if Frankie was confirmed as playing? He knew as well as everyone else that Frankie Rizzi is the type of player who could turn a game on it’s head with a flick of his boot.

The rumours only came out within the last couple of hours. Frankie apparently hadn’t trained with the team since the last game, a win over Seattle. He’d been spotted in clubs and VIP sections all around LA each of the last three nights, the kind of places where last calls don’t exist and mornings are a distant memory. The rumor was about his condition to play, not of any actual injury. Too high, too low or too far gone, it’s hard to know.

Jim Duffy, San Jose’s experienced no nonsense Scottish boss had been playing it coy. The pre game presser he had just attended was a masterclass in deflection. ‘We’ll have to see how he feels, he’s been under the weather’ said with the most unreadable face ever seen on a football manager. But in the locker room to his left, it was chaos. Frankie had medics around him checking him over like a car mechanic inspecting a completely wrecked van and the referee and his assistants looking in. Frankie was playing his part to perfection, complaining of a bad head, upset stomach and vertigo. All these were true, but he’d played the last 5 games under worse conditions, and he knew fine well once he’d sniffed the powder in his bag he’d be raring to go.

Team mates questioned his commitment and focus out loud and within earshot of the referee, medics and the handful of media allowed in the dressing room. This was to keep up the charade, everyone knew Frankie was San Jose’s only chance of getting to the MLS cup final.

LA Galaxy were also playing their part and weren’t waiting around. They’d named their starting 11 and were all confident. Jaime Hernandes had even done his own pre game interview pitch side during the warm up saying he smelled blood and if Frankie didn't start the game wouldn’t even be close.

15 minutes to kick off and the referee asked for the fourth time for Duffy’s starting lineup. The stadium announcer had said they’re still waiting for confirmation but read out the Galaxy starters. The cameras caught the teams lining up in the tunnel with 10 minutes to go to kick off. No Frankie. Tension on the San Jose side of the stadium, noise from the LA side.

The TV crew was told to get a mic and take a cameraman and go into the tunnel and find Jim Duffy, which they did. 5 minutes to kick off and the teams were told to walk out, the referee demanding Jim confirmed the lineup there and then or forfeit the game, the cameraman caught this and it was broadcast to the stadium and the rest of the world watching live. Jim smiled and said ‘I was looking all over for you, here it is’ and he handed the sheet over to the ref, who handed it to a stadium official. As the players were walking out still no Frankie Rizzi, and the stadium erupted as the players made their way to the pitch. The stadium announcer read out the San Jose 11 as soon as he got word - ‘Jones in Goal, McClean, Brown, Smith and Hughes make up the back 4. Buchanan, Crayze, Murphy and Barton are the midfield 4 with Gomez and, hang on there’s a mistake here’ he said into his microphone before adding ‘I’m sorry folks the team sheet is a name short’ but his voice was drowned out the wave of noise coming from the San Jose fans.

The big screen caught it first and it didn’t take long for everyone to realise what was happening. Jim Duffy strolled out and following right behind him, in full playing kit, hair band tied tight and looking like he was ready for war was Frankie Rizzi. As he stepped on to the pitch the stadium came to life, screams, cheers and elation all mixed in with boos and jeers. The commentator quipped ‘I’ve never seen such a mix of anger and elation at the same time’

Jim took his seat in the dugout after shaking hands with the Galaxy manager. He muttered to his assistant ‘I hope this gamble pays off’  to which Raymond Love, his long time assistant replied ‘he’s a live wire Jim, all we have to do is defend for our lives and get him the ball’

The neutrals knew this meant it wouldn’t be a clean LA Galaxy win, they’ll at least have to work for the win. They were still the favourites that wasn’t in doubt, but with Rizzi on the pitch, a bit of good luck defensively, anything could happen for San Jose.

Chapter 6 - Off the Rails

The Earthquakes game against LA Galaxy was supposed to be a bloodbath, a battle for the ages. The Western Conference final was a mere 3 days after the semi final, with the overall final taking place 3 days after the conference finals. 

Frankie Rizzi is San Jose's golden boy gone grey around the edges. The striker with the killer instinct, averaging better than a goal a game, and a habit that was killing him slowly. The team now knew about it, how could they not? The bloodshot eyes at training, when he turned up, the jittery hands during video review sessions, the sudden disappearances after the clubs most important games. He didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore. The late night blowouts with his friends, you know the type, wannabe rock stars, washed never-has-been actors that have flocked to California to chase the Hollywood dream, the parade of hangers on and a different woman every night, were as much a fixture in the tabloids as his goals.

The worst thing about this though was the fact that his on field effort never diminished. Heading into the Western Conference finals, Frankie had scored a whopping 41 in 38 games in form never seen before. With all his off field issues there was now talk of him using performance enhancing drugs, much like Barry Bonds and the Major League Baseball scandal.

The final was days away, and the whole of San Jose was buzzing with anticipation for the clash against local rivals LA Galaxy. The battle for supremacy of the West. The team needed Frankie, he knew this, the team knew this, the fans, media and LA Galaxy all know this. The headline in the San Jose Reporter ran a front page story with ‘No Frankie, no hope!’ printed. His team mates whilst they knew they needed him had grown tired of his no shows and covering for his late night antics. His argument was he’d carried them on the pitch all year, the least they could do was help him off of it.

In the locker room the tension was thick. Frankie, as usual now, sat alone in the corner, airpods on and staring into space. His team mates stared and whispered, their voice low and sharp. They knew he wasn’t himself, wasn’t the bright, bubbly first team striker of even 6 short months ago. He’d been sluggish for weeks, despite being a 1 man play off winning machine, a shadow of his former self off the pitch. No one dared confront him outright, he was too important, untouchable really, that any hint of dissension from them would just about ruin any slim chance of winning the Western Conference.

Coach Jim Duffy was pacing the room like a caged animal. He knew what was at stake, and his years of coaching teams in North America and his native Scotland had taught him not to rely on 1 player. But Francis Rizzi was different. This kid was special, this kid has got it all, give this kid half a chance and you’ve got a goal. It’s just his demeanour, his personality, his off the pitch tendencies that were going to bring him and his team down.

LA Galaxy had a team this season that was incredible. The midfield 3 of Dos Santos, Jones and Howe had been slicing through defences like a surgeons scalpel to their own star forward, El Salvador’s Jaime Hernandes, who whilst not anywhere close to the form shown by Frankie, had been scoring important goals all season long. The 2 meetings between these teams already this season had ended in 2-1 victories for LA Galaxy, Frankie scoring for San Jose and Hernandes scoring both for Galaxy. Without Frankie even being on the pitch San Jose didn’t stand a chance.

But Frankie wasn’t thinking about the game, tactics or rivalries at all. As Home Sweet Home by Motley Crue played in his ears he was thinking about the night ahead, of where he would be starting the night off, the promise of sniffing himself into oblivion and the pull of the next hit. His phone vibrated in his hand and he smiled, just a little, as he read the message ‘Yo Champ, where we meeting?’ came from Randy. Frankies reply was short and sweet ‘Slims, 18:00’

The next days training session, the one before the big conference final, was a disaster to put it mildly. Frankie jogged through the warm up and barely moved through the first of the 3 rondo’s they do every session. His touch was poor and he got closed down every time. Jim Duffy screamed at him more than once and said after the fourth mis placed touch ‘Frankie for f*ck sake, I’ve had it up to here with you. You might be good but stop it with the prima donna bullsh*t. Get it together’ but Frankie hadn’t even registered his boss was losing his voice. His team mates all stood awkwardly as the session continued on without Frankie, who headed to the bench and grabbed a Red Bull on the way.

‘He’s gonna fuck it for all of us’ club captain Irishman Brain McClean said ‘if that waste of space doesn’t show up tomorrow I’ll personally smash his fucking head in’.

No one dared argue with the captain, the boss’s voice on the pitch, and they headed off home. Frankie meanwhile headed not for home, but to Randy’s house to meet the people he usually does, and spend more of his money on the drugs he and his friends were taking by the bucket load.

The day of the game arrived, San Jose was abuzz with anticipation. Could they do it, could little ol’ San Jose Earthquakes win the game and go all the way to the MLS final? The game was being played at LA Galaxy's stadium as they were the higher seed, but plenty of San Jose fans made the trip north to Los Angeles.

Frankie managed to get to the team bus on time, but on arrival at the stadium in the away teams dressing room he was silent, head down barely acknowledging Jim Duffy’s words.

‘Frankie you fucking look and listen to me right now!’ Frankie snapped to attention at this

‘Yes what?’

‘Are you fit to play?’

‘Yeah otherwise….’ Jim cut him off

‘Good, I’m doing something I’ve never done in my years of being a manager today’ he yelled and scanned the room. There was a discomfort in the air, the feeling was that he was going to do the unthinkable, he was dropping Frankie from the starting line up. 

McClean stood up to protest but Jim cut him off ‘don’t worry, Frankie’s starting. I’m just letting him warm up in here, and I won’t be giving in my official team sheet until right before we head out. I’m going to tell the officials Frankie is touch and go, I want Galaxy to think he won’t start or even play, I want the word out there Frankies injured, we’ve got a few hours to go anyway so you (he looked over to the clubs press man) tell the media out there Frankies done his ankle in, he’s unlikely to play. The rest of you get yourselves ready for the pre game brief, we warm up in exactly 90 minutes, that gives us 2 hours to get them complacent for kick off’

The rumours spread like wildfire. The press were hanging outside the away dressing room hoping for a word from Jim or even Frankie himself. The LA Galaxy players heard this too and Draft Kings, the online sportsbook had stopped taking bets on a Galaxy win once news of Frankie’s not playing made its way online and to social media.

Back in the locker room Frankie had all but checked out of the game. Usually the weight of expectation didn’t bother him, but the feeling of deceit was creeping in. He is injured afterall, his left ankle is fractured but no one knows, his hamstring aches every time he moves, it’s just the pills and gear that gets him through the day. He should declare he’s not fit to play, that way he can get back to taking copious amounts of drugs away from the lights and the scrutiny.

But as he stood up, the smell of sweat and adrenaline kicked in, then he remembered the whole of San Jose was relying on him to show up. As he stretched his back out something clicked at the bottom of his spine. He winced but turned round and took out one of his little black pouches with smaller bags inside. He realised once he sniffed the powder that he wouldn't be doing this for himself, he wasn’t doing it for fame or fortune, he wasn’t doing it for the fans or Jim Duffy. He was doing it because he had no other choice.

Chapter 5 - The Breaking Point

San Jose were in an unlikely semi final of the playoffs, going up against Seattle Sounders, who were heavy favourites to win despite San Jose having the leagues leading scorer in their team

San Jose were 90 minutes away from the western conference final and Seattle rolled into town with the leagues best defence. It didn’t help that Seattle were the one team Frankie Rizzi hadn’t scored against this season. The crowd in the stadium roared with play off fever, a sea of hands swaying to the beat of adrenaline. But the focus wasn’t on the fans, it was on Frankie Rizzi, a man unravelling before everyone's eyes.

Frankie lined up at the start of the game, his head pounding like a war drum. The roar of noise blended in with the static buzz in his skull and the stinging of his bloodshot eyes. His hands trembled, his vision swam but he forced himself into position on the pitch for kick off. The whistle blew, the fans screamed and the chaos started.

Seattle's defence were solid and rigid all season, and moved with clinical precision in this match exploiting every trick Frankie tried on them. It helped Seattle that Frankie was a step behind everyone in a San Jose shirt, through balls going straight to the center halves, crosses being cut out with ease, tackles being made on him with less effort than it takes to put on a sock, nothing was going right. By half time it was still 0-0, although San Jose had their goalkeeper to thank for keeping them in the game. By contrast the Seattle goalkeeper had made 1 save, a tame effort from a Jones header from a right wing cross , San Jose’s only shot on goal. The pressure, the hangover, the come down all weighed Franke down like lead.

The commentators ripped apart his performance mercilessly. ‘Frankie Rizzi looks like his season ended last night in Hollywood. His skin is jaundiced, his eyes are in a different zip code and San Jose looks lost. Something’s not right with him’

In the dressing room at the half Jim Duffy had seen enough. He pulled Frankie aside in the locker room and said ‘you’ve got 15 minutes, no more, to turn it around’

Frankie just nodded and said ‘I can fix this. Get me the ball I’ll do the rest’

‘Unlikely lad, you’ve been missing all game so far. Whatever it is I suggest you sort it out now and get your a*s back out there and keep us alive in this match’

As the players came out for the second half neither team made any changes. The crowd were still cheering and the pitch was a mire of rain, sweat, mud and broken promises. 

Frankie was the kingpin of San Jose but had moved like a man with ghosts in his boots. The commentators called him a shell of his former self of only 6 short weeks ago when he was awarded the player of the season trophy. His passes, all 7 in the first half fell short, his 2 shots on goal lacked the venom that kept keepers up at night.

Everyone now knew the whispers of his off pitch life, the late nights, the clubs, the drugs. The kind of lifestyle rockstars have succumbed to, the kind of life that eats you alive while you’re still breathing. Frankie was living fast and playing slow, until he got his second wind. Sniffing the full bag in the locker room at half time had done the trick, he was back.

Seattle smelled blood early on in the second half. They kept Frankie quiet by pressing high and making sure the ball never left the San Jose half. Frankie was meant to be the spark, the release valve, the saviour but it just wasn’t happening, yet. Jim Duffy didn’t realise it yet as he was pacing the touchline, screaming in his broad Scottish accent things his own players couldn’t even understand. He looked all of his 62 years and was ready to combust.

Seattle were knocking but no one answered. Seattle's left winger missed an open goal on 62 minutes, the rain played a part as he slipped when he shot, but that was the catalyst for the spark San Jose needed. 

As the Seattle defence fell to complacency, Frankie sprung into action, finally. Gasping for air, soaked in rain and sweat he suddenly came alive. The goal kick went short, the defence played it out wide to The Bull on the left. He drove forward and for the first time in the second half the ball was in Seattles half. Frankie pointed out wide where he wanted the ball and the Bull obliged. Frankie went left and the Bull went inside. Frankie took the 2 center halves with him and the Bull was wide open. Frankie didn’t hesitate, a quick shimmny to steady himself onto his right foot he drove inside as the first defender back pedalled to where the Bull was, giving Frankie the space he needed. He put his right foot through the ball trying to hit it with all the venom of frustration and anger that had built up so far in the game, but it skidded off the outside of his boot but as it did so did the Seattle keeper. The flight of the ball wrong footed him, he slipped to his left as the ball just glided into the far corner of the goal. The keeper tried to recover by diving back to his right both arms out wide but the slip had caused the damage. 1-0 to San Jose.

The stadium went quiet for a brief moment as the fans of Seattle, the home team due to a better record, didn’t know what hit them. Of course it had to be Frankie Rizzi, the first player to score over 40 in a season in MLS history. The same player that had done nothing up to that point, the same player whose personal life seems to be in disarray. The handful of San Jose fans made themselves known as Frankie and the Bull ran arms aloft over to them. ‘Cometh the man, cometh the hour as number 23 does it again for San Jose’ the ESPN commentator yelled out.

That goal, bang on 15 minutes into the second, had taken the life out of not only the Seattle fans but the team as well. Frankie looked over to Jim Duffy, tapped his wrist at an invisible watch and mouthed ‘told ya’ to which Jim just gave him the thumbs up. The game was dead from the restart. Frankie was running at the defence but they doubled and tripled up on him and none of the other San Jose players could capitalise on the space. Seattle made a couple of strong runs out wide but didn’t do anything to trouble the San Jose keeper for the rest of the game.

As the whistle blew and San Jose celebrated a stolen victory, Frankies eyes betrayed him. He was smiling, waving to the fans, celebrating with his teammate but behind them there was no joy, no relief, just a flicker of something darker. The fans and media saw a hero, his teammates saw a saviour. But Franics Rizzi? He just saw the abyss.

Back in the locker room as more champagne flowed, cameras flashed and Jim Duffy congratulated his players on reaching an unlikely Western Conference final, Frankie sat alone, looking like he was taking it all in, but in reality he had already text Slim and Randy about getting picked up in less than an hours time form the stadium in Seattle. He’d already replied to another message, another late night offer from some shady people in Seattle, another step closer to the edge. On the pitch he was a god, off it he was falling faster.

Chapter 4 - You’re a brand, and brands don’t crack

Off the field the signs were getting harder to hide.The wild celebration at Saint Louis had drawn comparisons to Maradonna in ‘94 and the rumors of Frankie taking drugs prior to games was intensifying.

Vince Marciano had spent years polishing footballers, and some musicians, images for the media and cameras. He’d dealt with the likes of Poison, Motley Crue and Guns and Rose at their peak. He’d looked after the likes of David Beckham at LA Galaxy, Thierry Henry in New York, Pirlo at expansion team New York City as well as most of the top 5 draft picks every season. But for Frankie Rizzi, the edges were starting to fray. Frankie had skipped a charity event for the San Jose chairmans foundation one evening, blaming a family emergency despite being seen at an exclusive club on Wilshire Boulevard with some of the other San Jose players. Vince covered for him on the night but he couldn’t ignore the headlines - ‘Rizzi MIA at big charity gala’ and ‘Superman? Super let down man more like’ with more than a few comments online adamant Frankie was hell bent on destroying himself.

‘You're slipping kid’ Vince said in the gym the day before the third game of three against Saint Louis ‘and don’t give me cr*p about it being muscle, I know when someones put fat on’

‘Nothing Vin, just tired. It’s hard work carrying a team on your back all fucking season I’m sure you’ll agree’

Vince held up his hands in a mock surrender, he’d seen this type of player time and time again over the years ‘Fine, but get your head on straight. You’re not just a player, you’re a brand. You’re this teams heart and soul, the whole of San Jose looks up to you right now. And trust me when I say brands don’t crack’

The night before the third and final game in the first round of the play offs against Saint Louis, Frankie and Randy were at Slim's bar, an off the grid place for people to go and get up to no good without anyone finding out. It’s the kind of place that pulsed with relentless basslines and bad decisions. Slim greeted them both like long lost brothers, but Frankie wasn’t there for small talk

‘I need more, Slim, a lot more’

‘You sure kid? You’be got a big game tomorrow’

Frankie just looked at Slim, then to Randy he said ‘did I fucking stutter? Did he not hear me?

‘Alright champ calm down. I’m just looking out for you ya’ know’

‘Just gimme it’ was Frankies reply. Slim leaned down and pulled a tin box out, opened that up and handed Frankie an envelope. Frankies fingers trembled as he stuffed the envelope into his pocket. The shame was there but it was buried under months of denial and desperation. He told himself it was just to get through the play offs, to alleviate the pressure of a city and to carry on being the hero the city expected.

The next morning Frnakie turned up to the stadium just as the first security guard was there opening up, in his warm up tracksuit, jaw clenched and eyes bloodshot. He was the first one there warming up, taking shots at goals on the pitch and was still working out in the gym as the rest of the team arrived for the game.

As the morning went on the stadium filled as the rest of the team made it to the pitch for the warm up. The crowd were roaring and chanting Frankies name. San Jose had managed to get the second yellow card from the previous game rescinded on the grounds that the Saint Louis goalkeeper had also used his elbow but the referee took no action on that. The league agreed, and number 23 was ready to go in the third and final game of the first round.

Vince was in the tunnel as the players made their way out for the game, pulled Frankie aside and said ‘whatever you’re hiding big lad, it’s gonna catch up to you soon’

Frankie just nodded and was the last player out of the tunnel. The home crowd roared their appreciation at the sight of the best player in North America making his way to the pitch. Frankie tied his headband tighter, blocked out the noise, the expectation, the doubt and the guilt. All he could do was play his part, the game was all that mattered. He noticed a little red mark on his arm that trickled ever so slightly with blood, but he wiped it away.

As for the game itself, it wasn’t even close. Frankie got 4 goals for the second time this season as San Jose battered Saint Louis 6-0 to advance to the semi finals of the Western Conference playoffs. Frankie did receive another yellow card for taking his shirt off as he scored his fourth goal, but it wouldn’t matter. All that mattered now was getting out of the stadium and back out celebrating yet another win.

Chapter 3 - The loss

Post-Match Report: Saint Louis FC 2-1 San Jose Earthquakes FC

Saint Louis snatched victory from the jaws of defeat Saturday afternoon as they clinched a dramatic 2-1 victory over San Jose in the first round of the Western Conference playoffs, tying the best of 3 series to 1-1. The match was marred with tension, missed opportunities and will be remembered not for the scoreline but for the controversy surrounding San Jose’s, and the leagues star player Frankie Rizzi

The game started with promise for San Jose as has been the case all season. They pressed high with the energetic Rizzi never stopping, even dropping deep to help out on defence, and the team carved out a number of chances for the in form and consistent Rizzi, the MLS player of the season.

Despite the strong start it was a day to forget for all those connected to San Jose Earthquakes as Rizzi, normally worth a bet to score any time missed not one, not even two but three gilt edged chances to put his team ahead, the most glaring being a wild shot on his left foot from just inside the area, when he had Johnson Buchanan wide open on his right and Salvador Gomez unmarked, onside and in acres of space in the box to pass to which would have resulted in an easy tap in. The away fans groaned as their talisman missed the chance, the home fans jeering.

Saint Louis capitalised on Rizzi’s wastefulness with an exceptional counter attack in first half stoppage time. Rizzi was as usual terrorising the defence but when he did finally look for Gomez, McNair in the center half position for Saint Louis telegraphed the ball inside, and in a stroke of good fortune the clearance found Thomas Nelson on the right hand side, he drove forward and brought an extra defender out of position, he hooked the ball inside to Dominic Johansen, his first start of the season, who in turn found Darrly Hughes making the inside run, and slotted past the onrushing San Jose keeper to make it 1-0. As soon as the game restarted the ref blew for half time.

From the kick off San Jose did respond well and as has been the case all season Rizzi broke the opposition line and fired a shot just inside the area past Saint Louis keeper Delgado to equalise. His celebrations, by taking off his shirt and running and jumping into the home fans, sparked chaos on the touchline from both benches and security had to get involved. It took 6 minutes from Rizzi’s jump in the crowd to the game restarting. He was carded for actions which set the stage for a feisty second half.

Rizzi’s frustration at himself and his team mates was evident as the game wore on. Every time San Jose tried to attack Rizzi wasn’t quick enough to the through ball, he was reluctant to use others in the team as he drove forward aimlessly over and over again to no avail. The game was stopped a second time as Rizzi and head coach Jim Duffy were caught in a heated exchange around the 70th minute mark, with Duffy clearly gesturing for more from Rizzi with Rizzi replying with words the commentators had to apologise for being picked up by the cameras.

The tension culminated in the 85th minute. By then 4 Saint Louis players were on yellows, their keeper Delgado being cautioned for dissent prior to the corner in the 85th, and 5 San Jose players, Rizzi being one of them also on a yellow. The corner was taken by Buchanan to the far post and as both Rizzi and Delgado jumped for it the referee blew for a foul on the keeper, showing Rizzi a second yellow. In his post game report he said Rizzi led with an elbow and on viewing the incident again it could be argued both Delgado and Rizzi had their arms too high, although in the moment Rizzi saw red, literally and figuratively, as he kicked the corner flag and a water carrier on his way down the tunnel.

With San Jose down to 10 men for the last 5 plus injury time, and the leagues best player nowhere to be seen, Saint Louis seized the initiative. Their advantage paid off in the 90th minute, just as the board for 7 extra minutes went up, as they scored what would be the winner. Declan Mitchell, the young full back came on as a sub and ran the length of the pitch on an attack that started from the keeper, he received the ball on the left touch line, clipped it to the far post where Kain Harris, another sub, tapped the ball in on his right foot to send the home fans into raptures. San Jose were deflated and defeated, and the final 7 minutes played out with nothing else happening for either side.

Post match Jim Duffy refused to comment on the altercation with Rizzi but admitted that the red card was the turning point and cost them the game. Saint Louis head coach Martin Rowe praised the teams resilience, calling the win a testament to ‘our character and behaviour’. This despite his team racking up another 2 yellows after the red to Rizzi.

For Frankie Rizzi the game capped a troubling week of rumors pertaining to his personal life off the pitch. The star forward faces a 1 game ban, the third game in the series of three in the playoffs, further scrutiny for his actions when scoring the equaliser and mounting pressure to continue carrying this San Jose team.

** Update ** Jim Duffy did comment later on in the day to ESPN confirming San Jose have appealed both yellow cards given to Rizzi. If successful and 1 if not both are overturned, the 1 game ban won’t apply and Rizzi will be available for the third game, which is at home, to Saint Louis in 5 days time.

Chapter 2 - Cracks in the Armour

The Earthquakes locker room was a symphony of chaos, camaraderie and testosterone. Jokes flew as fast towels, champagne popped open and the smell of sweat mixed with the tang of victory loomed in the air. Frankie had sat in the corner while the rest of the team left the pitch. He was subbed off with 5 minutes to go, his 2 goals enough for a 2-0 victory and passage into the next round of the playoffs. But as the rest came in his head was down covered in a towel, eyes clamped to the floor. His team mates noticed even if they didn’t say anything out loud.

‘Frankie get over here’ Johnson Buchanan, affectionately known as the Bull, called out to him. The Bull was Frankies on field equal, providing the balls from the wing for Frankie to run onto, usually resulting in a goal, or a shot on target at worst.

‘Yeah bare with me’ was Frankies reply, as he put his head down and under the towel, mimicking wiping his face, when in reality he was sniffing directly out of the bag

The Bull nodded but the others could see his concern. He’d seen Frankies hands shaking during the warm up and pre game talk earlier in the day. He’d seen him struggle in the warm up and warm down yesterday at the clubs training ground in northern California. He’d seen Frankie's eyes were glassy and unfocussed but he still put a shift in and did enough in training to not warrant any unwanted attention from the coaching staff, or Doc Sampson.

Johnson didn’t want to believe the whispers around the league and various clubs the athletes frequent in LA. But whispers have weight and they are starting to pile up. The next day in training Jim Duffy, San Jose’s first team manager noticed something too. During a movement drill, in which the Bull was to receive the ball on the inside right channel, wait for Frankie to make the move inside to hopefully open up the rest of the channel for The Bull to drive into, he noticed Frankie’s movement was off, his reaction was slower than usual

Blowing the whistle Jim said ‘Frankie, come here. You an’ all Buchanan’ and the 2 players jogged over. ‘What am I gonna say to you both?’

‘It’s me, I didn’t get the ball high enough, I should've…’ the Bull started but was cut off by Duffy

‘Shut it Buchanan, we both know you’re covering for him’ he pointed at Frankie ‘you, what’s the problem? Yesterday the Kansas defence doubled up on you doing this same routine and you found space every time. But today, it’s like you’re not even here. What’s eating you up son?’

‘Fatigue boss, I’m shattered. I ran my ass off yesterday’ was Frankies response. It did enough to appease Jim Duffy, afterall Frankie did score twice and had 5 other shots on target, so had done what was needed in the game.

Easily the teams best player and one of if not the absolute best player in North America he was the talk of the town all over, the golden boy of California and the MLS. While on the pitch during games his feet were golden, his nights off it were turning jet black. The pressure to stay on top wasn’t even in his mind, he knew he had the Midas touch, but he was answering the call to greatness with a devil may care swagger

Every night was a new club, a new place to stand out, a new wave of hangers on feeding his ego and his habit. The DJ’s all knew his name, bartenders had gotten the word Frankie was coming in so dropped everything when he did show up, they knew his drink, double whisky on the rocks and a shot of vodka, and Randy had gotten attached to his hip, bringing along his dealer friends knowing Frankie was throwing money around like it was going out of fashion. Lines of white powder and flutes of Dom Periogn became his warm up routines in the smaller clubs for the nights that never ended.

The off season was a few weeks away, it would be sooner if San Jose lost any game during the playoffs. A routine 2-0 win over Kansas in the wild card, in which Frankie scored both, sees them up against Saint Louis in Round one in a best of 3 series. But for Frankie his nights were as competitive as his matches for San Jose. Girls were hanging off him like trophies, the kind of women that didn’t care where the night ended up or who with as long as it burned bright and was filled with liquor and gear on the way there. Vince Marciano, the clubs PR man tried to keep up appearances for the clubs sponsors and various media, but Frankie was slipping. Getting a prima donna like reputation for lateness and no shows didn’t stop his late night attitude.

The first of the 3 games against Saint Louis did nothing to stop his off field lifestyle, as he scored 2 in the first half, both long range efforts that will easily end up on the goal of the season contenders list, and a tap in early in the second half to secure a 3-1 victory before he came off in the 78th minute, straight down the tunnel and railed a full gram in the empty changing room. By the time his team mates came back he was bouncing off the walls celebrating like San Jose had just won the World Cup, not a first round play off game. The Bull was worried, but the others weren’t. This was Frankie of 6 months ago, the all round nice guy, the main man on a team of journeymen and cast offs, the reason San Jose are going all the way this year!

Back to reality and the morning sessions at the club were replaced by excuses, runny noses and headaches. His once razor sharp focus on the game and improving himself and his team mates started to blur. He wasn’t out of it completely, engaging just enough not to cause too much suspicion, but under the neon haze of downtown Los Angeles and the pounding bass lines, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was paranoid, or running. Running from what, he didn’t know, probably the pressure, but the pressure never bothered him, this season he’s been good for averaging more than a goal a game. Maybe it was the whispers that he’s a one season wonder, that he’ll fade away by next season and won’t be on top. Every award, every goal, even the cheers from the San Jose fans felt more hollow than the last.

But Franics Rizzi of Queens, New York wasn’t raised as a quitter, but he wasn’t ready to face the harsh realities of the whispers he kept hearing. So he danced harder, drank deeper, partied more and prayed the nightlife would drown out the doubts.

This is the second of a series of short stories I've done.

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

Chapter 1 - A star is born

Francis ‘Frankie’ Rizzi was born in Queens, New York, and was born to score goals and terrorise defences, a freight train with Adidas Predators on both feet. Standing a solid 6 foot 2 and weighing 14 and a bit stone, most of that pure muscle and adrenaline, he was the wrecking ball every center half feared and had sleepless nights over. Off the pitch he was the king of the San Jose locker room, the life and soul of the party, a gladiator in every sense. But behind the post game stats, accolades and regular praise he was getting, his life was unravelling.

It started off small, as most things do. A tweaked ankle here, a bruised knee there. Pain management they called it. Doctor Peter Sampson, the teams main physician, after the game at home to Portland Timbers, had handed Frankie a small bottle of pills with the casual indifference of a bartender handing over a free shot ‘take 1 every 4 hours, you’ll be fine’ he said with a wink and a smile. Nothing to it.

And he was fine, for a while. The pills got rid of the pain and took the edge off, kept him alert and sharp and able to train. He could still run the pitch during the sessions, still bury the ball in the net from any distance and hit it like a sledgehammer. But then the 4 hours became 3 then 2, and 1 pill became 2 then 3. By the midway point of the season he was eating the pills like M and M’s.

San Jose Earthquakes were playing well, with a record of 29 played, 11 wins, 8 draws and 10 losses riding high on Frankie’s return of 22 goals and 10 assists in those games. The media hailed him as the second coming of Pele, albeit with a bit of hyperbole chucked in there. Frank Rizzi - The man of Steel’ one headline screamed after Frankie’s second hat trick of the season against Real Salt Lake. Frankie ate it up, posing for pictures with reporters from ESPN on the regular and even going old school by appearing on late night talk shows on the radio, THE RADIO! And the spotlight he was getting was addictive, almost as much as the painkillers.

The team's PR director, Vince Marciano, no relation to Rocky, knew more than most how to handle a star player. ‘Smile for the camera kid’ he’d say, followed up with ‘let em’ know who’s boss’ and the occasional ‘if you’ve got it, kid, flaunt it’. His favourite in front of the cameras for the teams shining star was ‘let em’ see the hero not the human’. But Frankie’s smile was starting to crack, not enough for anyone to notice, but it was there. The nights got longer, the mornings came round far too quick and the pain never left. When he broke his ankle in training Doc Sampson or anyone else on the team didn’t even know about it. Frankie had got himself a new supplier for the pain pills, and they weren’t enough anymore.

That’s when Randy came into the picture, well back into the picture is more appropriate. A friend of a friend at high school from their time at Queens Met, their friendship went from mere acquaintances to nightlife comrades, Randy was the kind of guy that ’knew everyone’ and could ‘get hold of anything’. Frankie had agreed to meet Randy at a night club called The Whisky A-Go-Go up in LA, ordering a double whisky on the rocks and working over a crowd of fans who recognised him as soon as he walked in, smiling and taking pictures.

‘Francis my guy’ Randy said, clapping him on the back and hugging him a bit too enthusiastically ‘how you been? I saw you score yet again earlier, what’s that, 19 for the season?’

‘22 actually’ Frankie replied but quickly got down to business ‘I don’t need to reminisce about school and all that. I know you know people, I’ve got these pills from the club but they aren’t cutting it anymore, and some others from 1 of the other players but I need something stronger’

‘Say no more my old friend. I’ve got just the thing’ Randy said and pulled out a little bag ‘Peruvian marching powder, as close to pure as you can get without being down there in Lima cooking the stuff yourself’ and he handed the bag over to Frankie across the bar

Frankie quickly pulled the bag off the bar and said ‘are you f*cking nuts, I can’t be seen holding drugs especially…’ Randy cut him off with a laugh

‘Behave yourself Champ. You’re a celeb round here, plus I’m a made man round here too don’t worry about it. I know people so nothing will happen to you or your image in here’

Frankie hesitated, took a sip of this drink and nodded. Randy then said ‘Look Champ. I’ve got a band coming in here tonight, I’m the guy through the week, everything’s Kosher trust me’

Frankie sipped the rest of his drink, the chill stinging on it’s way down. He didn’t know what to say about the bag, but the pain in his left leg shot right up into his hip made the decision for him. ‘How much do I take?’

Randy, quick as a beat said ‘as much as you need really Champ, but go careful with this stuff, it’ll make you feel like God but it’s got claws, don’t say I didn’t warn ya’ and he ordered more drinks for them both.

Heading to the toilets Frankie dipped a key into the bag and snorted the powder in 1 quick move. The hit was like a lightning bolt. His nose dripped slightly, eyes watered with the intensity of it but he felt invincible. The pain in his foot and leg had gone and his senses sharpened into high definition. He felt unstoppable, like he could power through every defender in the league at once, like his shots would get past 4 goalkeepers in the nets and that’s almost what happened.

In the next game he was on fire. If 22 goals in the preceding 29 games was good, his 5 and 2 assists against Western Conference leaders Houston Dynamo in the next was unprecedented. The following 4 games to close out the season heading into the play offs yielded 10 goals and 4 assists. The crowd roared his name, his shirt sales went through the roof, peaking right before the play offs, and the league voted unanimously for him to receive the player of the year award. 

As Randy had warned, and from his experience with the legal painkillers, this stuff had claws and they were digging into him. A small line before a game became a bigger line, then two and then three. Even though he’d bossed the last 5 games he’d trained once with the team, citing personal problems and was late to the meetings before all 5 of those final games.

The manager, Scotsman Jim Duffy, pulled him aside after his second mised training session of the last 4 weeks

‘You good Frankie?' His voice low but firm

‘Yeah coach corse I am. Just a bit tired, you know how it is, long season and I’ve played well every game’

Duffy shook his head and replied ‘don’t bullshit me son, I’ve been around footballers long enough to know when they’re lying. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but whatever it is you need to fix it and fix it sharpish. We’ve got the playoffs coming up, and we need you’

Frankie just nodded and left the room. The words barely registered in his head. The only thing that mattered was the next game, and the next hit. Whether that was the ball on it’s way to the net or the next hit from 1 of Randy’s bags.

San Jose were drawn against Sporting Kansas City in the wild card round of the Western Conference play offs, after finishing 8th. The city buzzed with anticipation, this team had never had as good a chance of progressing through the play offs since the MLS cup wins of 2001 and 2003, as they do now, with Frankie leading the line. It’s the kind of energy that turns football into folklore. Frankie told himself he’d clean up after the game, or was it after the playoffs? Whichever it was he just needed to get through this week and into the game against Kansas City.

But deep down he knew he was lying. The pills were still coming, and he kept taking them more out of habit than actually to cure the pain. The powder and the noise from the fans were all a part of the same high, and he was chasing it into the dark.

Good result that mate

Chapter 9 - Last roll of the dice

14:45. Fifteen minutes to kick off, and the home dressing room hummed with a nervous energy that felt alive, buzzing in the air and with a hint of sweat and expectation. Ashton Gate, packed to the rafters, no empty seat to be seen which has been the case all season in fairness. The roar of the crowd already vibrating through the walls. The cheers and chants before kick off was a reminder of what is at stake. One last game, one last chance at automatic promotion or confirmation of yet another play off run.

Mark Jaulk paced the room as he spoke, voice steady and shape with the usual hint of pre match tension ‘You’ve earned this, don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. No team gave us the win, every team made it hard for us to win and get to within one match of promotion. One game, one win, and it’s the Premier League. Trust each other, communicate and play how you’ve played so far’

Jimmy Sharpe sat in his usual spot, the same seat he’d had for fourteen years at the club, third from the right, taping his shin pads in place, starting at his ankle, the ankle he broke in the first game of the season. Around him the younger players were buzzing with adrenaline and energy. Daka and Targett had been seen slapping each other on the back as if promotion was a given. A couple cracked jokes to break the tension, but Jimmy didn’t need noise to focus, he needed quiet.

This season had been a storm of self doubt, an endless question of whether he still had it, and still belonged in a professional football team. But eight assists in the last five games, all to Sean Targett had quieted the whispers, at least for now. Now the question was did Jimmy Sharpe still have enough in the tank for the last push, the biggest push of the season so far? The ghost of the Wembley penalty miss still lingered. That penalty miss still replaying in his mind, the ball sailing over the bar and taking the dream of the Premier League with it.

Mark stopped in front of him as the players got up to head to the pitch and said ‘this is your day Jim, trust yourself as much as I trust you’

Jimmy nodded, swallowed hard and fist bumped Mark as he made his own way to the pitch. His hands were steady as he laced his boots up at the door, his own pre game ritual he’d done countless times over the years, and his heart pounded like a war drum.

== == ==

From the whistle Bristol pressed the advantage and took the game to Ipswich Town, the noise and energy of the crowd pushing the full team forward. While the game was tight both teams were cautious in the tackle and dangerous on the break.

In the thirty third minute Bristol struck first. Rolando Aarons, finding himself on the right wing, whipped in a cross from deep towards the penalty spot, and as he’d done expertly well these last five games, Jimmy read the play better than anyone else on the pitch. He drifted from in between the center halves to being goal side of the full back without anyone in defence picking up his run. He jumped above the full back and instead of going for goal he cushioned a perfect header down into the path of Sean Targett, who himself had ghosted in between the center halves exactly where Jimmy was three seconds earlier. The youngster didn’t hesitate, smashing the ball into the bottom corner. 

Scenes at Ashton Gate. The sound was deafening, a wave of joy crashing over the pitch. Some fans had spilled onto the pitch but the Bristol players didn’t celebrate much. Targett high fiving Jimmy as they made their way to the center circle. They all knew there was a lot of the game left to go, the job wasn’t done, yet.

== == ==

Ipswich weren’t going down without a fight and Bristol just made it to half time still in the lead. Ten minutes into the second half they struck back. A quick counter attack with surgical precision ending in a slick one-two inside the box and a neat finish saw Ipswich level the game. The stadium, for the first time today, fell silent, the only noise being the handful of away fans housed in the far corner.

The weight of the game was pressing down on everyone involved like a lead blanket. The equaliser took some of the swagger out of Bristol but they pushed on looking for a second goal. The Ipswich keeper denying Targett twice from close range and a Rolando Aarons effort from thirty yards tipped for a corner. Ipswich had chacnes of thier own, but the Bristol defence and keeper were equal to everything thrown their way. Heading into the last ten minutes, they'd held firm and were now happy to sit deep and play on the counter. A draw suits them as they’d be promoted, but a draw meant another playoff run for Bristol.

But just then, the moment came. It came out of nowhere really, a loose ball from the Bristol defence from a desperate clearance to thwart a rare Ipswich attack found it’s way to O’Niell in the middle, who in turned played it forward from his central midfield position, and suddenly Jimmy Sharpe had run onto the ball and found himself thirty five yards from goal.

The crowd, just like Jimmy, held its breath as he turned so the ball was on his now fully repaired right foot, his instincts taking over. He glanced up, saw the keeper off his line still and unsure whether to retreat back or advance on Jimmy. The keeper decided Jimmy was closer so rushed forward, and Jimmy didn’t think, he just put his foot under the ball, to lift it over the keeper, the kind of shot you do in training, the kind of lob he’d not tried in years.

Time seemed to slow down as the ball arced through the air, rising and rising, but then dipping and slicing the air as the keeper made a futile attempt to touch it, his outstretched arms nowhere near the ball. The ball fell calmly, smoothly into the net, and Ashton Gate exploded.

Jimmy stood frozen for a moment, the noise hitting him like a wave. Then, almost involuntarily he ran. Arms wide, face alight with emotion, tears almost coming out as he ran screaming to the corner flag and dived into the fans. His team mates swarmed him, the fans all jumped on the mass of humans piled in the corner of the Dolman Stand. Security didn’t try and restore calm. The yellow card for the celebration was worth it Jimmy thought.

When the final whistle came it felt like salvation. The roar of the crowd was unending, the stands a sea of red and white. They chanted his name, Bristol City were Premier League bound, and Jimmy Sharpe, like old times, was the hero.

He sank to his knees as teammates all rushed to him, the weight of the season falling away there on the grass. Fans rushed to the pitch all wanting to be near the man that won the game. Rolando Aarons and Sean Targett pulled him up, slapping his back, hugging it out and making noises no one had ever heard from either man before.

Mark Jaulk was hoisted on the shoulders of some fans and let the last nine years of frustration out as he embraced the chaos.

When some calm and order was restored Mark and Jimmy found each other on the pitch amidst all the fans and Bristol players and staff, and Jimmy hugged Mark and lifted him off his feet. As he did Mark whispered ‘that’s the Jimmy Sharpe I knew was still in there. No one else in this team would have scored that goal’ his voice horse but full of pride.

Jimmy just hugged him tighter, tears now coming down his face. The ghosts of last season, the Wembley miss, the doubts, the fears, they’d all gone. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole.

Cameras caught up with the pair and as he was asked what this meant for him, and he could only utter one word

‘Redemption’

Chapter 8 - The Weight of a Season
 

The days leading up to the final game of the season, a home tie against second placed Ipswich Town, were a blur of tension and routine. Ashton Gate had been a fortress of sorts for Bristol City and was always full of confidence, but these last few days it felt more like a pressure cooker. The city buzzed with nervous energy, could the city of Bristol be home to not one but two Premier League teams? Rovers had been promoted two long seasons ago at City’s expense. But the city on this day had fans donned in red and white, faces hopeful but lined with anxiety. Despite seven straight play off finishes, this was the best chance for City to get promoted at long last.

Jimmy Sharpe felt it too. Five wins on the spin since getting back into the starting line up and he’d been a big part of that run. Not the goal a game forward he used to be, no, that Jimmy seemed like a relic of past times now, but this Jimmy Sharpe, the rejuvenated and confident one was now a provider of goals for young upstart Sean Targett. Of Targetts nine goals in those five games, Sharpe assisted all but one, which was a penalty Sharpe had won away at Yeovil. Jimmy was the forward who could read the game two steps ahead. His passes had been the keys that unlocked the defences of Blackpool, Fulham, Everton, Leeds and the aforementioned Yeovil. His presence had steadied the team after a shocking loss at Burton Albion.

But assists, as key as they are, weren’t goals and Jimmy knew it. He could feel the unspoken question in the air from the fans, team mates, pundits and even himself. ‘Can he still do it? Can Jimmy Sharpe, a one club man still deliver for Bristol City when it matters most?

Mark Jaulk had been careful with his words in the week up to Ipswich at home. In team meetings, video reviews and even in warm down sessions he focussed more on Ipswich’s tactics, their composure off the ball and their belief that they only need to avoid defeat to be promoted as runners up. But in private, his voice carried a sharper more serious edge.

‘Sharpie, these last five games have just been what I wanted to see from you’ Mark had said after Yeovil away, when the rest of the team had left the dressing room, with a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder ‘we’ve been through it, me and you. These lads, they look up to you, Targett idolises you, and Daka even though you’ve kicked him out of the team is watching your every move. Just keep it up for one more game, and we’ll reap the rewards’

Jimmy nodded, but inside the doubt flickered. That penalty miss still haunted him, a shadow that clung to every decision, every touch. He hadn’t scored at all this season, what if his moment came in the Ipswich game and he missed again?

The younger players seemed oblivious to it all. Daka and Targett joked in the dressing room, Aarons, Howe and Murphy the victims of their pranks, and their laughter cut through the tension. Sean Targett, twenty three goals for the season, was Sharpes new strike partner, had a quiet confidence about him, the kind Jimmy envied.

The training sessions were harsh and relentless, the mood a strange mix of focus and nerve. Every player in the Bristol City first team knew what was at stake. Ipswich are no pushover, handing Bristol their first loss of the season which seemed an age ago now, but Bristol would be at a packed Ashton Gate, riding a wave of momentum from five wins in a row, conceding just twice in the process.

Jimmy stayed late on the Thursday, the penultimate session before the last game of the season, working on his touch and finishing with Rick Dawson, the teams attacking coach. Doing one on one drills with a youth keeper, taking first time shots from outside the box and headers from Ricks crosses. The ball hit the net more often than not, and Jimmy had nice words for the youth keeper, the keepers first taste of training with a first teamer, and club legend to boot. But it wasn’t easy, the keeper made Jimmy work, and it never felt like it used to

That night he laid in bed staring at the ceiling, the noise of Bristol town center just about creeping into the room. His mind replayed the penalty miss again and again, the ball blazing over the bar, the silence of the sold out Wembley before the jeers and groans began. But then other moments came into his minds eye. The header to set up Targett against Sheffield United, the defence splitting through ball against Fulham, the one two with Aarons inside the box to chip it to the far post for yet another Targett close range finish against Leeds. The roar of the Bristol fans as they solidified third in the table, setting up the biggest game of the season.

He wasn’t the same Jimmy Sharpe who had on average twenty goals a season, but that didn’t matter in this moment. What mattered was being here, being a part of this run, being a part of finally, maybe, getting Bristol into the Premier League.

As matchday approached the tension in the squad became palpable. Mark Jaulk kept his words short and to the point ‘this is our moment’ he told the players as they left on Friday evening ‘play football like we have been, leave everything out there and we’ll be fine’

Jimmy listened, he’d heard this man speak and give confidence for the last nine years, Mark Jaulk and Jimmy Sharpe were synonymous with Bristol City. Marks words were settling over him and with a slight nod from him to Jimmy, ever so slight only Jimmy noticed it, telling him he’d be starting the game, knowing he’d be a part of it one way or another.

But now, standing on the edge of glory, the edge of something they’d dreamed about and came so close enough times, he felt a strange calm. He wasn’t the hero any more, he wasn’t the man they all looked to for inspiration, but he was still Jimmy Sharpe dammit! And that, he decided, was good enough.

Chapter 7 - Teach an old dog new tricks

The crowd at Ashton Gate was restless, the low hum of anticipation buzzing through the stands. Bristol had been the better team and had pressed hard against Sheffield United, also looking for a play off place but were solid in their defending. The clock ticked to the sixtieth minute, the game locked at nil-nil, and every pass that didn’t go forward, every time Sheffield got the ball just added to the tension

The ball eventually found its way to Rolando Aarons on the Bristol left. The inside forward took a touch, glanced up and saw Jimmy Sharpe making a diagonal run into the box, a run he’d made a million times before. Aarons inswinging ball was a beauty, a long looping delivery with just enough whip on it to tempt the defenders but still aimed squarely for Bristols longest serving player

Sharpe was sandwiched between the two center halves, both as tall, both younger and both desperate to keep him quiet. But this was the moment of the game he was waiting for.

He timed his leap to perfection, rising above the two defenders, his body twisting to meet the ball with his forehead. He didn’t try to score, the keeper was positioned too close to him, and the odds were against him. Poor form, low confidence, he’d never bury this. Instead he aimed to lay it back across goal to make something happen.

It wasn’t a powerful header, it wasn't intended to be, but it was precise. The ball dropped like an early Christmas present to Sean Targett, who had made a late run, unmarked into the six yard box

He didn’t hesitate. He swung his right foot up and into the ball in one fluid motion, catching it as clean as you like. The volley screamed past Saunders in the Sheffield goal, rippling the net before the keeper could react.

Ashton Gate erupted. A wall of noise rolled out of the stadium and through the streets of Bristol, drowning out everything else. Targett wheeled away, arms aloft in celebration towards the man that made it happen.

The eyes of the fans weren’t just on Targett, they were on Sharpe. He stood there, hands on his hips with a rare grin breaking across his face. He’d done it, not the goal but the assist. He’d been a part of the breakthrough that ignited the fire. Targett reached Sharpe and jumped in his arms. The old head and the young lion in unison.

Mark Jaulk punched the air on the touchline knowing his gamble to drop top scorer Daka in favour of Jimmy Sharpe had worked. He was shouting instructions as the players jogged back to their half, ready to resume the game, and ready for the inevitable Sheffield United attack. Target might have scored but the fans were chanting ‘SHARPIE! SHARPIE! SHARPIE!

Jimmy heard them, and for the first time in a long time he let himself feel it. Pride, relief and a flicker of belief. He waved to the fans behind the dugout as Sheffield made a change. The fans all cheered at this as the chants continued.

From the restart Bristol were buzzing after breaking the deadlock. Sheffield United with one the toughest defences in the league look rattled as Bristol pressed for another

Sharpe had dropped deep to snuff out a Sheffield counter attack, and picked the ball up just by the center circle. A quick turn and glance forward showed Targett making a run on Jimmys left, taking the defender with him leaving a gap where younger Jimmy would’ve run with the ball right into. But his mind worked faster than his legs nowadays.

With a measured touch he slid a perfect through ball in the gap as Targett made the outside run back inside. The pass was like a needle into thread, curling just enough for Targett’s exquisite touch. Opening his body before the second defender could react, he curled the ball to the far post, way beyond the keepers reach. Ice cold, precise, no looking back now.

Ashton Gate had just settled down from the opener a mere minute ago but the roar from Targetts second goal was deafening. Target turned around and pointed right at Sharpe, acknowledging his work in the goal. 

They both jogged back to the center circle, with Jimmy trying and failing to hide the grin tugging at his lips. Two assists, and the old instincts were starting to feel razor sharp again.

With five minutes left in the game Bristol had been in complete control, Sheffield United had gone with three up top and gone all out attack in desperation, they needed the points to keep their own playoff hopes alive, but it was all in vain, as the gaps left at the back were just begging to be exploited.

A counterattack began deep in the Bristol half. Left full back Tommy Neil sprinted up the pitch and easily beat his man before stopping, and cutting back to play the ball in field to Sharpe, who was hovering unmarked outside the area. The covering defenders panicked, a motivated Jimmy Shapre unmarked on the edge of the box is the last thing any defender wants to see, so the three converged on him, wary of his ability and the two assists he’d already got. But Jimmy, mind still racing and one step ahead, let the ball roll across his body. With a deft side foot pass he redirected the ball into the path of Targett who was running into the box.

Targett, as with the first two didn’t hesitate. His left foot first time shot connected sweetly, sending the ball soaring up and into the net. The net bulged, the stadium erupted into the loudest cheers so far.

Target again ran right up to Jimmy Shapre pulling him into a bear hug as team mates swarmed them both. The scoreline was now three to Bristol, Ashton Gate was electric.

As the final whistle blew the fans chanted Sharpes name again. Three valuable points, three assists and a vintage performance from the veteran. Jimmy was the last to leave the pitch, his head held high. He might not be the main man, Targett was now pushing for twenty for the season, but tonight he’d been a catalyst. The fire inside wasn’t roaring just yet, but it was there, steady and warm.

Chapter 6 - Boiling Point

The away dressing was a furnace of frustration and anger. Boots thrown across the room, locker doors slammed and hanging on hinges by a thread, striker Daka’s personal vendetta against a water bottle carrier still going despite protests from the staff. The stench of sweat and defeat clung in the air like a bad dream. Bristol City, third in the league, unbeaten in fifteen winning eight on the spin and looking unplayable had just ruined a lot of acca’s by losing to Burton Albion, with nothing to play for having already been relegated to League One.

Mark Jaulk stood in the center of the room, his fist throbbing from ensuring the fold up table had seen its last days, his face a mask of fury. He didn’t shout, he didn’t need to, the silence was worse.

After the prolonged silence, the awkwardness was just starting to creep in, he picked up a water bottle, one of the ones punted by Daka, and spoke in a low and venomous tone ‘complacency has been the killer of many a teams run, it’s hard to spot, as I’ve just found out’ he took a swig, no one dared speak

‘Bottom of the league, they’ve got seven points all season, and four, FUCKING FOUR OF THOSE YOU LOT HAVE GIFTED THEM!! Could’t beat them at home, they played with ten behind the ball, I said at that time it was frustrating, but to come here, get outplayed, outfought and taught a lesson by this lot isn’t just unacceptable, it’s down right embarrassing!’ The words hung in the air, glances were exchanged between the players, still no one dared speak. Mark continued ‘there’s a mirror over there, I should line you all up and force to you have a fucking word with yourselves. You lot think you’re getting promoted to the Premier League playing like that?!? Not a chance. Absolutely no fight, no spirit no pride at all’

Apologies boss, it’s….’ Sean Targett had started to say before Mark cut him off

‘Apologies?! Fucking apologies?? Apologies don’t win games, don’t get us promoted. This is a cut throat sport lad, and you’ve just cost us a fortune there. We would’ve been second if we won that, now we’re down to fourth, Wigan and Bournemouth are above us now’ he said before throwing the bottle at the door. ‘You think this is easy? You think I enjoy this? I spend hours upon hours going over every little detail, tactics, analysing results, coming up with plans to win games and giving you gutless twats every tool to win the game. Last week you destroyed Villa like it was nothing, every week you take the pi*s out of every team but Burton Albion, who the fuvk are Burton Albion?!? Pathetic, the lot of ya’

‘You won’t give me anything now anyway but I am telling you I want answers. I’ve got to answer to the press, the fans and I need to know what the hell happened out there. Did you lose your bottle, is it the pressure getting to you all? Or dare I say it, are you shit scared of actually getting to the Premier League cos you’re not good enough? You will be reminded of this feeling, mark my words, every game from now on’

Jimmy Sharpe just stood at the end of the bench, still in his match kit under his tracksuit, ankle still strapped and his head down. He didn’t play a minute, despite Targett and Daka fluffing their lines, jogged when they should’ve sprinted, didn’t even think about tracking back and combining for a total of three shots in the game, none so much as making their way to the Burton keeper. Mark hadn’t even looked at Jimmy through the game at all despite the forwards doing nothing. He didn’t feel vindicated or angry, he just felt hollow.

Daka was now sitting scrolling on his phone like the loss was no more than a minor inconvenience. Targett was at least showing some emotion, going over the errors with Aarons and Martinez and his face red from all the shouting. These were young, gifted players, full of potential, but they were just that, young, inexperienced. And tonight they’d been wasteful.

Jimmy had conflicted thoughts. He should be angry with the two youngsters who’ve taken his place, but instead it was envy that he felt. Daka and Targett could afford to have the odd bad game, they had a number of years in front of them to make amends. Jimmy’s clock was ticking.

The penalty from the play off final last year replayed in his head yet again, the miss that started this spiral. The moment that turned him from the main man into a ghost. Every time he laced his boots he felt its weight. It wasn’t just his ankle that was shattered, it was his confidence, his identity. He started replaying the misses from the first game of the season at rivals Cardiff City when Marks voice cut through his thoughts

‘Sharpe’ his voice loud enough to be heard back in Bristol ‘how’s the ankle?’

‘Good boss’

‘Good to hear lad, good, because I am done with passengers and pretenders. If you’ve got anything left in the tank, I need it. Six to go and we’ve got to gain ground on second, I cannot have another play off failure, and neither can you’

Jimmy just nodded, this would be the eighth play offs they’d have gotten to. Mark then said loud enough so everyone could hear it ‘and you’re starting next week. I won’t be telling either of you two pissants who’s getting dropped or if we're going with a lone striker until the game at home to Sheffield United. I no longer need your attention, dismissed’

Jimmy felt the familiar feeling of doubt creeping in. What if he had another poor game at home next week, what if his ankle or another body part failed him on the day?

They all filed out of the room in drips and drabs and the mood didn’t lighten. Daka passed Jimmy without a glance, still glued to his phone. Targett offered a small nod, but it was a weak gesture of solidarity.

Jimmy lingered in the room staring at himself in a mirror on the wall. The face staring back was older, harder, more worn out. The eyes carried fourteen years and over two hundred goals for one club, but they also carried fear.

In the quiet of the empty room Jimmy clenched his fists and screamed at the mirror. Mark Jaulk believed in him even if he didn’t believe in himself. Six games to go, six chances to impress, six games to show that Jimmy Sharpe might be down, but he’s not out of it just yet

Chapter 5 - Watching from the Sidelines

Jimmy was sat in the dugout with the subs, still walking gingerly after getting the all clear to resume light training. The floodlights at Ashton Gate bathed the pitch in a harsh white, the kind that made everything seem raw and exposed. Bristol were winning 1-0 over a sub par Aston Villa team, themselves looking for a play off spot and just two points behind Bristol before the evening kick off. Daka was on the move again, all pace and swagger, darting around the Villa defence like a fox in a chicken coup. His strike partner Sean Targett wasn’t far behind, making another late run into the box waiting for another perfect ball to be delivered from Daka

It was the kind of strike partnership Jimmy used to dream about leading. Now he sat there, chewing on the bitter taste of irrelevance.

The crowd made more noise as Daka made light work of the double team from Villa and sent the ball over the top into the onrushing Targett who hit it on the volley and slammed the ball into the net, sending Ashton Gate in cheers. Jimmy barely reacted, his face looking as if carved from stone.

‘Sharpe, did you see that?’ Grant Jones, one of the attacking coaches said nudging him ‘textbook stuff, just like we’ve been working on’

Jimmy just smiled and nodded his head, he’d seen it all right, seen it too many times this season. Daka on fifteen and seven assists, Target with twelve before this game just added his thirteenth of the season, the young guns picking up where he’d left off, or where he’d failed to finish.

The broken ankle had been a blessing and a curse. The time off meant he’d be away from the noise, the jeers, the laughter and headlines about ‘Jimmy Sharpe’s decline needs to be studied’, but it also meant weeks of watching these young kids, graduates from the academy just like he was years ago, running the show and hearing fans and pundits rave about the ‘future of Bristol City’

He didn’t hate them, not at all. He himself had taken the palace of striker Leon Simms all those years ago. Daka was lightning in a bottle, full of raw talent mixed with anger and charm. Targett was like Jimmy, a thinking mans player, a clinical finisher with ice in his veins. They were both good committed kids, both nineteen just like Jimmy was, always worked hard, listened and deserved their success. Each goal or assist felt like another nail in Jimmys coffin.

He’d tried to be part of the team by offering advice, shared tips, offered techniques and so on, acting the veteran player that he is. But they didn’t need him, not any more. Targett would nod and in his Geordie accent say ‘aye pal, smashing’ and then do things his own way, scoring more often than not. Daka was all business, just nodding to the words from Jimmy and create chances in a way Jimmy never could.

The physios had said he was ready. The ankle would still ache but it was strong and repaired enough to play, and his body fit. But his mind? That was another story still. Seven games left to go, the play off race wide open and even a chance of grabbing second place and automatic promotion. Plymouth Argyle had all but secured first place, a whopping sixteen points separated them from second. Mark had hinted Jimmy might see some minutes yet, but he knew they’d just be scraps, see the game out kind of thing. Token gestures to keep the old dog happy, and for the fans to cheer him being back on the pitch. The truth gnawed at him. He wasn’t jealous of Daka and Targett at all, he loved to see kids breaking through and taking their chances. But he was jealous of their belief, their momentum and the fact that they both could easily out score him. Jimmy Sharpe used to be unstoppable, a name that struck fear into defenders. Now? Now he was a relic, a memory, a name fans bring up when they’re reminiscing about times gone.

The ref blew the whistle. Another win for Bristol City, Daka and Targett playing the full game and each getting a goal and assisting each other. It was the type of strike partnership managers dreamed about. The chemistry between them is so good it should be taught in schools. Both jogged off the pitch to the applause of the fans. Jimmy sat still on the bench, waiting for the players to leave the pitch, letting the cold air creep into his bones.

‘Lad’ Mark Jaulks voice boomed from his left. He looked over to him, nodded and stood up as Mark said ‘good to have you back on the bench, even if you weren’t in the team today’

Jimmy just smiled and picked his bag up, as he did Mark said ‘we’ve got a free week, Burton are in the cup up at Birmingham, so this week we train every day. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance’

He looked at the remaining fixtures, Burton Albion away next, already relegated to League One, a meaningless game in which Bristol won’t even need to show up to get the win. Would this be his chance to start? Or would he get a 5 minute cameo in injury time after Daka scored a hat trick in the game?

As the rest of the players and staff filed into the dressing room Jimmy stayed behind and stared out at the stands. He looked over at the Atyeo stand, named after Bristols leading goalscorer ever, John Atyeo, Jimmy a close second behind wondering would he get a stand named after him, or would that be renamed the Daka stand before it’s named the Sharpe end? The few fans that were left made their way out didn’t even notice Jimmy wandering the touchline, and they didn’t chant his name anymore.

He clenched his fists feeling the scars of a season lost. The fire wasn’t completely gone, it was there, just, smoldering slightly and waiting patiently. The question wasn’t if he’d play again and get his chance. The question was would he take his chance or not?

Seven games left. Seven chances to remind them just who in the hell Jimmy Sharpe really was.

Chapter 4 - The season opener

‘And what better way to kick off the Championship season  than with the Severnside Derby between Cardiff City and Bristol City. Bristol of course have reached the playoffs seven seasons in a row, getting to the final twice and losing both. Cardiff however have had a…..’

The radio that was playing on the coach was turned off as Bristol City arrived in Cardiff for the season opener. ‘Listen, there’s a couple new players here this season, but let me be frank’ Mark Jaul, Bristol's long serving manager said ‘our club and its fans hate Cardiff as much as they hate Rovers. They hate the city, the stadium and those god awful blue Rovers like kits they wear. They also hate the Welsh for the way they hurl abuse like it’s the national sport of Wales’.

There were a few murmurs to Marks speech, which was intended to brace the new players for what was coming.

Jimmy Sharpe was the first off the bus at the Cardiff City Stadium. The fans waiting outside booed and jeered as the doors opened, the cauldron of noise almost like that it itself would be walking down the tunnel for kick off. ‘Hey Sharpe, over the bar again lad, over the bar’ a voice bellowed, mocking him before they all  started chanting ‘over the bar, over the bar, Jimmy SHAAARRRPPPPEE, he hits it over the bar’. They hadn’t forgotten the penalty miss, neither had Jimmy.

Kick off came fast and brutal. Bristol as the away team but playing in the kit of red shirt and shorts with white trim, Cardiff in all blue, the pitch a battleground of anger and emotion. Jimmy led the line, his number nineteen, his age when he signed his first professional contract with Bristol fourteen long years ago, clinging to his back like a target. Marks words echoed in his head, like they had a million times before ‘BE IT Jimmy, don’t feel it, you’re our main man’

The first chance fell to Bristol in the twelfth minute. A cross whipped in from the left hand side, Jackson finding space perfectly, the ball curling towards the two center halves like fate didn’t know what to do, but Jimmy Sharpe did. Running into the space between the defenders he rose before the defenders did, met the ball with his forehead, sent the ball towards goal, but it flew harmlessly over the bar. Groans from the away fans, cheers from the Cardiff fans.

‘A warning shot from Sharpe there, letting the defenders know he’s not dead yet’ came the words from the Sky Sports commentator. A warning shot maybe, but would there be any more?

The second chance was worse. A perfectly weighted and timed through ball down the middle, an impeccably timed run from Jimmy met it as he broke the offside trap, something he’d made a career out of. He let the ball come across him, took a touch on his left, only the keeper to beat who had committed himself by coming off his line early, Jimmy opened his body up, the full goal just about to aim for, he swung hard and fierce with his right pulling the trigger, but fate wasn’t having it. 

The ball bobbled as he hit it and went high into the stands. The biggest cheer from the Cardiff fans so far. It was a horrendous miss, and Jimmy knew it.

Marks words from earlier in the week playing in his mind ‘you’re rusty Jim’ but the rust was thicker than he thought

The chances Jimmy scuffed, Cardiff took and struck first, a bullet header from a cross, the type of goal Jimmy used to score with his eyes closed came just before half time. The worst time to concede. The whistle went and the boos rained down from the away end as Jimmy trudged off the pitch and into the away dressing room with his team mates. Slumped into his seat, shoulders sagged and his legs heavy, Mark started talking ‘The chances are coming, we’re just not clinical’ he said looking over to Jimmy. He continued ‘we’re not done yet. Jacko, Aarons, you two keep pumping that ball into the box. They’ve had one chance and taken it, we’ve had three and not taken them’ he took a mouthful of his drink and finished up by saying ‘Sharpe, keep your head up, your moment will come’

But Jimmy, as much of the footballing world did, didn’t believe it.

The second half started like a bad dream. Cardiff pressed and Bristol dropped deeper and faltered, and Jimmy was a shadow of himself. He was isolated up top as Cardiff kept the ball well out of his reach, but the ball did make its way to the final third.

A long hopeful ball from Shaw in the middle found Jimmy, who held it up, played it to the left to Rolando Aarons who’s got pace to burn. He skimmed the full back, and then the covering defender was also wrong footed by Aarons, he then cut on to his right foot and hit an inswinging cross to the far post. Jimmy was covered by the other center half but was goal side of him as the ball came in. A fifty-fifty challenge in the area as Jimmy jumped for the ball a split second quicker than the defender, but the defender went in to the back of Jimmy with the force of freight train.

Jimmy hit the deck feet first and as he did his ankle twisted, sending pain right up his leg like a bolt of lightning. He clutched his foot as the jeers rained down but he didn't hear them, just like he didn’t hear the roar from the away end as the referee blew for a penalty for the foul as the Bristol physio ran on.

As he was checking over Jimmy he said they’d got a penalty for the foul on him. Jimmy sat up now, thinking this was the chance to right the wrong of Wembley, to show he’s still got it, but the physio had other ideas. He spoke into his mic as well as relaying it to Jimmy shaking his head ‘you’re done Jimmy, you’re coming off’

Mark Jaulk stood on the sideline next to Sean Targett, the young forward who would be replacing Jimmy, giving instructions. Mark's face didn’t give any hint of his frustration as Jimmy limped down the tunnel.

When he was sitting in the physio room he heard the roar coming from the away end of the stadium, Rolando Aarons had scored from the spot to tie the game at one each. But it didn’t matter as the game ended 3-1 to Cardiff and Bristol never looked like scoring once Jimmy was off the pitch. The players all walked like zombies into the away dressing room, as Jimmy sat with his ankle taped up and propped on a crate, both his and the teams pride shattered.

The bus ride home was silent. Mark Jaulk didn’t speak to Jimmy or any player separately or as a group, and no one dared speak to him. Jimmy thought Marks not speaking to him meant he’d lost his faith in Jimmy, and after those glaring misses and now a broken ankle, Jimmy had also stopped believing in himself.

As the city lights of Bristol came into view Jimmy just stared out the window not really paying attention to anything going on around him. Who was he now, anyway? A washed up striker with a broken ankle and nothing left to give?

But was there just a sliver of hope, a small piece of the old Jimmy Sharpe in there, buried beneath all the rust and regret? Or was he just imagining that, hoping beyond hope that there was still some life left in him?

Chapter 3 - Back to the grind

05:30, and as usual the training ground was a graveyard. The early sun was starting to bleed through the mist, the scent of freshly cut grass sharp in the air. The loud bang of the closing gate echoed like a gunshot going off in the distance. Jimmy Sharpe stood at the edge of the entrance to the Robins High Performance Center, boots tied up tight, his stomach even tighter

Mark Jaulk was already there, walking the touchlines of one of the training pitches, barking orders at a couple of younger players Jimmy didn’t recognise. Built like an Austrian tank and voice like a hammer, Jaulk was the kind of manager that could turn a scrapheap into a war machine. He glanced at Jimmy, told the youngsters to carry on and walked over to his star player, and the hero of Bristol ‘you’re here then lad’ not waiting for Jimmy to say anything he continued ‘show me, and these you’ve still got it’. Jimmy nodded back, not even sure if he did still have it or not.

The drills were brutal on his aging and unfit body. Full length sprints, passing triangles and one touch rondos. Jimmy felt his legs burn, his ankles ache and stitches aplenty, the weight of months spent rotting on the sofa, wallowing in self pity. The younger lads were quicker, sharper and eager to impress. Jimmy was chasing shadows, lungs screaming for respite.

But then late on in the day came the shooting and attacking movement drills. Mark Jaulk knew what paid Jimmys wages. He ordered two of the younger forwards, when paired with Jimmy, to create the space for him to run into. Jimmy didn’t even need to think when and where to move to. Then came the through balls and crosses from the wide areas. The first came in like a rocket to Jimmys feet, he swung his leg out and fired the ball high, wide and not very handsome. The second, a low ball from the left, just quick enough for Jimmy to take a touch, steady himself form fourteen yards and hit the shot agonisingly past the post, the keeper was beaten. The third and easiest chance was a through ball between the defenders, Jimmy ran onto it, stopped, and looked up at the advancing keeper, all he had to do was tap it in, but he scuffed it and the keeper just held onto it, the easiest shot he’d ever had to save. Snickers from the younger forwards that weren’t even tried to be hidden, he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

Then finally it happened. Ball into feet his killer instinct kicking in. He hit the ball first time, a low, hard and clean daisy cutter that veered into the far post, the kind of shots keepers hate. A ripple in the net. It took Jimmy a moment to realise he’d finally scored. Mark Jaulk clapped once and not wanting to draw much attention to the finish he said ‘there it is Jimmy, took you long enough’. Tough love.

The two young forwards turned to look at Jimmy with a smirk. The other senior players doing the drill simply nodded, a show of respect for their talisman, or was it even respect at all, or pity? Respect for a comrades fallen confidence? Begrudging or not, Jimmy felt a flicker in his chest, a flicker he’d not felt for a few months. The predator wasn’t dead yet, just sleeping

The session ended in a six v six scrimmage, red bibs against blue on a half pitch. Jimmy played up top in a sea of midfielders. He watched the game unfold, as was the norm for this back to goal striker, waiting for a chance. Eventually one did come, a through ball right in the middle of the defence, just like a threaded needle. Jimmy ran onto it, heart pounding in his chest as the clubs first major signing of the season, keeper Jans Dmitry on a free from Zenit Saint Petersburg, came rushing off his line. He took a touch to steady himself, big mistake, as the experienced Czech international covered the angle with his body and Jimmys venomous hit went sailing toward the near post and Dmitry's hands.

Another miss. The groan from his team mates behind and shouts which didn’t register in his mind. ‘Unlucky Sharpie’ one teammate yelled, another followed with ‘you’ll get another chance, head up’ but he saw it in their eyes. Doubt, unmistakable doubt. He jogged back, head not wanting to meet any eyes.

Mark Jaulk caught up with him afterward, his face like granite. ‘You’re rusty, Jim, that’s all’ he said, voice low. ‘Shake it off. You’re still our main man."

With a shake of his head Jimmy said ‘doesn’t feel like it boss’ and headed off to the changing room, but before he could get away Mark grabbed his arm

‘You don’t need to feel like it. You need to BE it. Be the man you’ve always been, a goal a game forward. Come Saturday, away at Cardiff, you’re leading the line. I aren’t asking if you’re ready, I’m fucking telling you, you’re ready and you’re playing!

Jimmy drove home that evening after a video session at the club, the bright lights of downtown Bristol shining through the windshield. His core ached, his ankles throbbed and the stitch he has had all day didn’t feel like it would be leaving any time soon. His mind raced, was Mark right, could he do it?

The miss at Wembley still haunted him, the multiple misses in training racing through his mind but something else flickered in the shadows of his minds eye as he walked into his house. A spark was trying to get through the shadows, and with it a sliver of hope.

Saturday loomed large. The Championship opener. A fresh start, or the same old nightmare? Jimmy Sharpe wasn’t sure yet.

Chapter 2 - Ghosts of penalties past

Jimmy Sharpe. The name rang out in Bristol like that of a God, a hero in the red side of the city. The Gas, the nickname from the other side of Bristol, the Bristol Rovers side, were loving the fact that the man that had scored over 200 goals for City couldn't be relied upon when it mattered most. Rovers had already secured promotion to the Premier League two seasons ago and managed to survive both times by the skin of their teeth.

They didn’t have a player the calibre of Jimmy Sharpe though. His fourteen years of blood, sweat, goals and glory will go down in the Bristol history books. He’s the fox in the box defenders hate. A killer instinct, a predator he’d been called regularly. Before the West Brom game at Wembley. Before promotion yet again slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass.

He couldn’t feel it anymore, the hunger, fire, desire, energy and determination, gone. All gone in an instant in the ninetieth minute in the play off final. He sat slumped on the sofa in his living in his house in Bristol, opening another bottle of whisky with the tv muted. Sky Sports was on and they showed another promotional video for the upcoming Premier League season. Faces of players flashed across the screen. The Bristol Rovers badge was shown, and it felt to Jimmy it was shown for a lot longer than the other teams on there. Newcastle, Chelsea, the Manchesters, Arsenal, Liverpool all got time in the video. Even West Brom were there smiling away. Young up and coming players mixed with world class veterans all posed for the video, except Jimmy Sharpe wasn’t one of them.

The manager called again, always the same gravely optimism, same energetic words wanting his star forward back for the season. ‘Jimmy, you’ve still got it. The defenders in this league absolutely sh*t it when you’re on the pitch. You’ve had worse games than Wembley. Get yourself in gear ready to go next Monday’

Jimmy muttered a half arsed ‘yeah boss, sure thing’ but his heart wasn’t in it. What was the point any more? He’d done this for fourteen years, a one club man, got the team to the last seven play offs, getting to the final twice and falling short. He’s thirtythree now, running on fumes and past energy, his best days behind him. 

Last season he managed twentyone league goals, the season before twentyfour, and every season bar his rookie season he scored no less than twenty two league goals. The young defenders were starting to eat him alive, picking him off with ease. The young forwards at the club already were faster, flashier, could dribble, do tricks and score screamers regularly. Jimmy was a relic, a sit on the last man forward, a poacher in every sense. But he was a goal poacher in a game that didn’t need poachers anymore.

But like any good manager, the Bristol City manager, Mark Jalk, himself a hero in Bristol having guided them to the 7 straight play off appearances wouldn’t give up. He’d seen Jimmy in his prime, seen the magic, the goals at the most important of times. ‘Sharpe as a balde’ Mark had wrote in his program notes many times over the last nine years. He could bury half chances blindfolded. Headers, volleys, first time shots and tap ins. Jimmy Sharpe did the lot with ease. But now? Now he couldn't even look at a goal without breaking into a cold sweat.

The house was a mausoleum, dut on the shelves, spiders walking around like they owned the place. The trophies he’d won over the years, Championship top scorer six seasons in a row, Championship player of the season four times, the key to the city of Bristol, plus many more all lined up like tombstones. He picked up a picture frame, him and Mark celebrating Jimmy's player of the season and Marks manager of the season awards. He stared at his younger self smiling back at him, hair slicked back, brimming with confidence and pride, his nose still straight and confidence just oozing from him. Who was that guy? Or better yet, where was that guy?

He heard the roar of the crowd in his head. The chants - ‘Jimmy Shapre, scores when he wants’ and ‘Jimmys on fire, your defence is terrified, JIMMYS ON FIRE’. The red side of Bristol used to sing it with pride, he’d hear the songs randomly in supermarkets, in restaurants, they even sang it at the darts tournament which was picked up by Sky Sports. Now it was a cruel joke. He couldn’t score if his life depended on it.

The knock at the door came sudden and sharp. The raps, loud and quick. He ignored it but they came again, louder and quicker this time KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. This time he got up and went across the room.

He opened it up and there was Mark Jaulk, in a Nike tracksuit wearing a big fedora cap, big sunglasses and bringing his big personality with him. ‘Morning sunshine’ he said and barged his way in without being invited. He looked around the room, smelt the stink of sweat and stale booze, noticed the empty takeaway boxes and whisky bottles. ‘Jesus H fucking Christ James, is this what retirement looks like?’ he didn’t wait for an answer before adding ‘I’m surprised you’re not dead yet, kid’

‘Feels like it’ Jimmy said with a shrug

Mark grabbed the remote and turned the telly off, tunered to Jimmy and said ‘Listen to me you big self loathing pr*ck. I’ve got twenty lads, all raring to go, all working their bollocks off just to get selected in the squad never mind stepping on the pitch. I’ve got three young strikers who are gold, and I mean absolute mustard that are gonna terrorise the league this year’ he held a hand up as Jimmy tried to speak but Mark continued ‘but not one of them, or even all three combined is Jimmy Shapre. None are gonna get anywhere near your record, none have got your instinct, your mental ability to break the line, hell none of got your fucking fight lad! I don’t care what you think, I don’t care what people say in the streets, you are coming back. You’re coming back because this team needs, I need you’

Jimmy stared at him but the words escaped him. Mark then said ‘I need you, because if we don’t either win the league or we don’t win the play offs and get promoted, I’m stepping down’

‘Why? You’re the reason I’ve ever played well’

‘But I hear the whispers too lad, I hear them say it all the time, that I can’t take the next step, I can’t get a team promoted. And without you this season I definitely won’t be getting us promoted’

Words were bouncing in Jimmy's head, they were bouncing around like the water off an umbrella. Bet deep down something stirred. Something under the hood started knocking but below that was the doubt creeping back in, the fear and the shame was there.

‘You don’t get it boss, that miss, Wembley, I can’t shake it’

‘You missed, so what. Big deal. Ask any kid right now if they never had a chance of playing pro but were given that one chance, just one opportunity to take a penalty at Wembley and they missed, what would they say?’

Jimmy just shrugged, Mark continued ‘You’ve missed before, you’ll miss again and so will every other striker in the league. But what they won’t have is that they won’t score more than they miss, like Jimmy Sharpe does. You’re gonna score again lad, we’ve got Cardiff at home and I know your record against them is unreal. You will score, you always do. Now get your miserable ar*e into gear and show me, show the young lads, show fucking Bristol that you’ve still got at least a tiny bit of fight left in you!’

Jimmy watched him leave and sat back down on the sofa. The TV still turned off but he turned it back on. He sat staring at the screen but nothing was registering in his head, other than Mark believing in him. But did Jimmy Sharpe, two hundred goals plus for Bristol City, believe in himself?

This is the first of a series of short stories I've done. Similiar to how @HockeyBhoy is doing with his.

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

Chapter 1 - The miss

Jimmy Sharpe lived and died by the spot. Never once missing a penalty in his fourteen years as a professional player. Twelve yards. Ball. Keeper. Goal. Him. It was all he ever needed, until now.

He stepped up, looked to his right, leant back, swung his foot and….....slipped. The miss played on repeat on Sky Sports News and was one of Youtube's most watched shorts of the year. One kick, one miss and one slip into oblivion. The stakes of that miss? Promotion to the Premier League. The chance to finally, after nine years in The Championship and seven straight play off finishes, claw out of the second division. Leave the grind of fourtysix games a year behind, get paid some real money.

The goal was yawning wide open. To make matters worse the West Brom keeper went the other way to where Sharpe was going to hit the ball. The ball flew right over the bar, the keeper rushing to retrieve it quickly while Bristol heads were in hands, players in disbelief. The keeper releasing the ball long to Jones who was wide open in the Bristol City half while Bristol were still coming to terms with the miss, onside as the ball was played from his own half, to dribble alone towards the goal where he slotted it in to win the game 1-0.

Heartbreaking stuff. West Brom celebrated like hyenas tearing into a fresh kill. Jimmy stood frozen, a statue on scorched Earth. His teammates consoled and patted him on the back, the West Brom keeper even coming over and saying ‘I got away with that, you had me wrong footed’ but it was all for nothing. The fans and even the managers eyes said it without saying it, ‘he bottled it’

That summer stretched on long and mean. The usually welcoming city of Bristol had turned on Jimmy. One newspaper ran the headline ‘Jimmy Sharpe? More like Jimmy Blunt’. He couldn’t step into a pub, restaurant or shop without feeling the weight of the stares and the whispers. At one corner shop a kid mimicked his slip by skidding on a can of peas along the floor.

The boss, Austrian Mark Jaulk, called him regularly. His voice gruff, worn and tinged with a hint of desperation ‘we need you back Jim. Pre seasons starting early this time. You’re still my main man’. But was he? Jimmy hadn’t laced up his boots or even worked out since that miss, he couldn’t bring himself to.

He’d lived his life like a ghost. Curtains drawn, only one light on at a time and a bottle of cheap Scotch his only team mate. He’d watched the pundits dissect the miss time and time again that summer. ‘Pressure’s a killer’ one pundit remarked, himself never making it to the Premier League and another quipped ‘Sharpe crumbled under the pressure’ a former player that retired due to injury in his twenties, also never getting a game in the Premier League. His name became a shorthand word for failure, a punchline for people who’d never set foot on a football pitch.

But the pitch haunted him. The penalty spot, a spot that had brought up to that miss a one hundred percent accuracy rate, now a black hole that sucked him in, chewed him and spat him back out. In his dreams he’d be standing over the penalty spot at Wembley again and again, same focus, same flicker of the eyes, same run up, same nervous energy. Same miss. Every time.

The night after the call from the boss, drunk and desperate he dragged himself to the local park where there were a couple of standard sized goals. The grass was horrible, the ground bumpy, the moon hanging low as if mocking him. He brought a ball with him that was scuffed, deflated and stained, much like how his mind had turned out. He lined it up toughly twelve yards, stepped back and readied himself. Imaginary crowd roared in his head. Imaginary team mates in hushed anticipation. He took the shot, missed. Set it up again, missed. Both times the ball clipped the bar as it sailed harmlessly over.

His breath came in short sharp gasps. The weight of failure was pressing down on his chest like a ton of bricks. He dropped to his knees, clutching the ball and screaming, pleading with it. As if it had any answers.

He looked to the sky and muttered to himself ‘Sharpe, what the fuck has happened to you?’

Good luck with the national team hope you do well

As @HockeyBhoy  says you should get some images of the game up to really set your story alive 

Chapter 8

The final game of the season had all the subtlety of a public hanging. The air in Legionowo was thick with desperation, a feeling that had clouded over Polonia Bytom all season long. Scott Lańkowski had his eyes fixed on the pitch, watching as the selected starters held the responsibility of securing a survival nobody predicted would happen. He was a man on the edge, juggling hope and dread with his mind a whirlpool of what ifs.

As intended Bytom came out swinging and showing no fear. ‘I’d rather go down fighting than sitting back’ was Scott's last words to the players. They moved with a frantic energy, like cornered animals fighting for their lives. Every pass was crisp, every tackle perfect and every movement carried the weight of the season

Scott was barking orders from the sideline, his voice hoarse from shouting into the abyss every week. His heart was pounding in his chest with every touch of the ball by Legionowo and every attack they cut out.

The first half ended at nil-nil. The players came off the field, covered in sweat and weary from the energetic first half, but Scott barely noticed. His mind was racing already, trying to balance the knife's edge of tactics and motivation.

Half time came and went in a blink of an eye. Scott commended his team for taking the game to Legionowo and not conceding, and talking about fight and passion. The game restarted much like the first, fast, frenetic and end to end.

But then it happened, sixty minutes on the clock. A harmless looking left wing cross into the Bytom box. Mateusz Sidowoy, the full back coming back from injury and who had been a revelation in many ways, rose to clear at the near post, but he caught the ball on an angle, glancing off his head and looping over the Perdijic into the goal.

Silence. Then came the roar of the home fans. Sidowoy dropped to his knees, head in his hands and Perdijic grabbed him and picked him up ‘Forget it Matty, we’re not done yet’ was the veteran keepers words to the full back.

Scott felt the blood drain from his face. For a second the world narrowed down to that single, cruel and heartbreaking moment. He slammed his fist against the dugout roof showing emotion and anger he tried to contain. But then he forced himself to stop. There was no time for anger.

He wouldn’t be checking the scores of the other games, all he and the players cared about was their own result.

Bytom threw everything and everyone forward. Crosses from deep, long balls as soon as possession was regained into the box. They had chances to equalise, Varadi and Broz combining well, pulling saves out of the keeper. Sidowoy tried making amends for the own goal by bombing down the right wing and sending perfect crosses into the box, but they were cut out. The clock ticked down and with every passing second Scott felt the weight of the season pressing down harder and harder on him.

He glanced at his assistant who had a forlorn look on his face. He suspected he knew what was going on in the games at Katowice and Raków, and judging by the look on his face it might not be in Bytoms hands anymore.

The players were running on fumes. Broz tried a long range effort which wrong footed the keeper but was slightly too high. Varadi beat one defender on the turn, played a give and go with Broz but didn’t generate enough power on his first time shot to trouble the keeper. Then the final whistle went, and it felt like a punch to the gut. They had lost one nil.

Scott was frozen on the touchline as reality sank in. Some of his players collapsed on the pitch, the effort, the battles, the constant struggle was all for nought, they were relegated despite it all.

The Legionowo manager came over and shook Scotts hand, and as he did mumbled something about congratulations, or at least it sounded like that to Scott. But then Sidowoy jumped up screaming, so did Broz and Perdijic and came running over to Scott. The news that Katowice had lost and Raków conceded an equaliser meant one thing.

Bytom were safe. Just.

The tension in Scotts chest broke at once and was replaced with a flood of relief so overwhelming it left him dizzy. As he closed his eyes to let the moment wash over him the players all hoisted him and celebrated the unlikeliest of survivals.

== == ==

The locker room was a strange mix of emotions, relief, exhaustion and sadness, all mixed in with a sense of disbelief. Scott stood in the center of the room, as he had done earlier in the day before the game, looking at his players, the men who had fought with everything they had to defy the odds.

‘You did it’ he started and the players cheered ‘it wasn’t pretty, it was ugly. But you went and did it. You gave everything you had and kept this club alive. Don’t let anyone tell you any different’

The players nodded, some managing faint smiles. Mateusz Sidowoy sat in the corner, still haunted by the own goal with his head down, and Scott walked over and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You made one mistake’’ Scott said. ‘But you’ve been solid all season. Don’t let this define you. We survived because of the work you put in’. The full back beamed after the words from his manager.

Later, as Scott stepped out into the cool night air, he had brought a bottle of whiskey with him, either to celebrate an unlikely victory or to drown his sorrows. The job had aged him, taken years off his life. But for the first time, he allowed himself to feel something he hadn’t dared all season.

Pride.

– – – – --

Chapter 7

The streets of Bytom were still heavy with coal dust and doubt, but something had shifted in the air. Survival wasn’t a word that got whispered in back alleys or muttered over shots of vodka in dimly lit bars. It was a possibility now, a real, living, breathing possibility. Scott Lańkowski felt it in his gut every morning as he pulled on his hoodie and headed to the stadium. It wasn’t hope, exactly. It was more like a defiant refusal to die quietly.

Under the rookie managers watch the club had scratched and clawed their way out of the relegation zone finally after twenty six games. The defining game, a one all draw at home to Błękitni Stargard, saw them finally escape the drop zone after spending all season in the bottom four.

The game wasn’t pretty or an exhibition in exciting football. The turf was soaked and mud was everywhere. The wind howled, the stands creaked and every tackle felt like a declaration of war. But the point gained was enough to lift Bytom into fourteenth in the league. Scott had stood on the touchline in the downpour and watched as his team grinded out a result that felt like salvation. Definitely a point gained and not two dropped.

It was the clubs fourth game in a row unbeaten after the loss at home to Radomiak Radom right after the restart and the good form helped lift them up the table. 

There was another loss on the journey for survival however. A three one defeat at Tarnobrzeg that felt like a gut punch on the road that could have sent the players spiralling back into despair. Scott had stared at the wall after that game, replaying every misplaced pass and the three defensive lapses before speaking to the players

‘This isn’t over’ his voice cutting through the silence ‘this one loss isn’t going to derail us, it’s merely an inconvenience. Heads up, chest out and go again, we’ve still got a long way to go yet’

And go again they did. Winning another three and drawing one since that loss. The biggest win came in the form of a two one victory at home to Odra Opole. Not big in terms of scorelines, they’d secured bigger wins this season, but big in terms of what it meant in the grand scheme of the season. This game was the kind of game that legends are made of.

Odra Opole had been the team to beat. Top of the league almost all season, a stark contrast to Bytom’s bottom four most of the year. Odra had already beaten Bytom earlier in the season but this was anything but another defeat for Bytom.

The goals still replayed in Scotts mind. The first a coolly placed penalty by Broz after thirty five minutes. Broz himself was clipped in the box in the buildup and put his team in the lead. The second goal just after the second half restart, a thunderbolt from center half Broniewicz that rattled the underside of the bar as it went in. An outswinging corner found Broniewicz wide open just inside the area. As the ball bounced he braced himself, leant back and put all of his might and anger through the ball with his right. The keeper tried and failed to stop the ball flying into the net.

Odra pressed hard after the second goal went in and got a goal back from a penalty of their own. The penalty was dubious, Kalahaur adamant he didn’t touch the forward but the ref had given it. Perdijic guessed right but the ball was too fast and went in.

Bytom didn’t panic or buckle. Perdijic was a wall in the goal making four key stops to keep his team in the game. Broz failed to convert a late run and cross from the left by Musiolik but it didn’t matter, Bytom won the game, and just about secured survival. Scott let out a roar when the final whistle blew, a sound like it came from his very soul.

That win meant heading into the final game of the season Bytom were sitting on thirty five points in thirteenth place, three points above the relegation zone. Rakow, Bytoms big rivals, on thirty three points in fourteenth and Katowice sat on thirtytwo in fifteenth.

If Bytom win they secure survival. A loss would mean they need results elsewhere to go their way to ensure survival.

Enjoying this one mate keep it up

Chapter 6

The cold air in Bytom hit harder than usual, with fog creeping in. The floodlights weren’t on just yet, but the ground staff were ready if they needed to be switched on. The fans packed the stadium, their breath rising in clouds of defiant hope. Polonia Bytom had been battered and bruised enough times this season, but the lead up to the winter break gave them something, legs that ran harder and hearts that beat stronger. The eight point deduction was still a millstone around the teams neck but against the opponents for today, Radomiak Radom, Scott Lańkowski’s team looked ready to fight.

The roar of the fans was electric, every touch greeted with cheers that echoed off the terraces of the crumbling stadium. Polonia came out like a team possessed with unmatched energy. In the third minute, a darting run down the left by Musiolik received an alm ost wayward pass from Mroz, then chipped the ball into the box saving it from going for a goal kick.  Mateusz Bro, back in the lineup, soared like a man with something to prove. His header slammed into the back of the net, and the stadium erupted. 

Scott clenched his fists in triumph pacing the sideline like a predator. That was exactly what he wanted to see from Musiolik, chasing down a lost cause, resulting in a goal. He’d have a word with Mroz after the game, his sloppy pass nearly going out of play. The whole team was up for the game, playing with sharp intensity, aggressive tracking and unrelenting pressure. But the footballing Gods were fickle.

Radomiak hit back in the 16th minute, exploiting a moment of defensive chaos. A low cross was tapped in and sneaked past Perdijic in the Bytom goal, and the crowd groaned as the scoreboard flicked to one each. Scott cursed under his breath, but the worst was yet to come.

Just as Scott was pleased to see the hard and high work rate, he was cursing even more under his breath. Broz, energetic and lively after scoring the opener was chasing a loose ball in midfield, and lunged in for it recklessly. The studs up challenge sent the Radomiak player tumbling like a sack of bricks and the Radomiak players didn’t hesitate in surrounding the referee. It didn’t matter as his mind was made up even before Broz got to his feet. The red card coming out straight away. The stands erupted in outrage and Scott was livid.

Broz walked off the pitch down the tunnel with his head down as Scott glared daggers at him. He didn’t say a word to Broz, he didn’t need to. The look in his eye said it all without saying a word.

The inevitable came just before halftime. Radomiak capitalized on the numerical advantage slicing through the defence with ease, as Agu was unmarked inside the area to give them the lead heading intohalf time.

The locker room was a furnace of frustration. Scott slammed the door behind with his voice cutting through the tense silence. ‘Broz, what the hell was that?!’ he barked and his tone was scathing. The striker just sat on the bench and buried his head in his hands

‘You think we can afford this? You think we’ve got a chance with only ten on the pitch now? We’re already fighting a losing battle this season and then you go and pull that crap? What were you thinking? But before Broz could respond Scott said ‘forget it you won’t have anything constructive to essay anyway’ he then turned his attention to the players still elft in the game

‘The rest of you, forget the first half, we’re still in this. Play smart, play hard and play together. If we go down at least go down swinging’

Radomiak smelled blood. They pressed hard right form the restart and in the 57th minute, they found a third goal. A slick passing move carved open Polonia’s defense, and the ball was slotted home with clinical precision from the unmarked Kwiek.

Scott kicked a water bottle, his frustration boiling over. But he kept barking orders, pacing the sideline, demanding more.’We’ve got nothing to lose, push forward’ he yelled.

Polonia clawed one back in the seventy fourth minute. Varadi, weaving through defenders unchallenged, managed to get free of the last man and lashed a shot into the bottom corner. The crowd erupted again, their hope rekindled.

For the next ten minutes, Polonia threw everything forward leaving one man back, not bothered about a counter attack. Crosses whipped into the box, shots blocked, scrambles cleared. The equalizer felt agonisingly close, but Radomiak broke on the counter in the eighty fifth minute. A simple finish inside the box made it 4-2, and the fight drained out of Polonia’s players. The game was over.

Scott talked of bouncing back in the week between the Radomiak game. The next game seemed like a crossroads. GKS Bełchatów welcomed Bytom expecting an easy home victory over a team already dead and buried. Instead the were met by a team reborn. Scotts pre match speech was filled with fire and daggers, and the players responded.

Without Broz they didn’t struggle. Loan singing Machalski showing everyone what he’s got, scoring the opening two goals, and then setting up the fourth goal.

After the final whistle Scott stood on the pitch in front of the away fans, taking in the cheers from the handful that made the trip. The loss at home to Radomiak had hurt, but this was proof that his team still had fight left in them. Polonia Bytom weren’t dead yet.

– – – – --

January 2017 football news

Danielle De Rossi leaves AS Roma after sixteen and a half years. He leaves for 1.5 million to Argentine league leaders Boca Juniors. In his first start two days later De Rossi scored the equaliser against Tigre, and almost secured the win but his long range strike was just a little too wide. There are protests outside the Stadio Olimpico as calls for Luciano Spalletti to be sacked are heard amid other non-printable words toward the manager. It takes a press release from Francesco Totti no less, to calm public wavering from the Roma fans.
 

Some big transfers were completed as Barcelona spent 40 million to sign Asier Illarramendi from Real Sociedad. Real Madrid weren’t about to be outdone as they splashed thirty five million on winger Vitolo, who’s leading La Liga in assists, from Sevilla. They do however sanction the sale of Nacho to Jose Mourinho’s Manchester United for twenty million.
 

The only other big Premier League transfer in January saw Virgil Van Djik leave tenth place Southampton and join sixth place Chelsea for thirty million. Southampton do fend off interest from Liverpool for striker Charlie Austin, thirteen goals so far as they look to push for a Europa league finish.

Big money came from China recently as well, as 2016 Chinese Super League runners up Guangzou Evergrande spent thirty nine million to bring in Sokratis Papastathopoulos from Dortmund, as well as sending a further thirty seven million to Porto for the signing of Yacine Brahimi. Both Dortmund and Porto were at the top of their respective leagues when these transfers were confirmed, both players in the starting line up suggesting the move to China is all about one thing.

== == ==

The January weather brought grey skies, the colour of slate, over the city of Bytom, the kind of heavy cloud that felt like it would press a person to the ground if it decided to come down from the sky. But for once the gloom didn’t find its way into Scott Lańkowski’s chest. The Canadian / Polish manager stood at the edge of the training pitch, watching his team, breath curling out into the cold air. The players were running through drills with an energy he’d not seen in months, if at all.

Polonia Bytom had life again. Two wins and a draw from their last three had brought the faintest glimmer of hope. They still occupied the relegation zone, six points from safety, but the fight was back in the team, if there ever was a fight in them to begin with. The winter break came as a cruel interruption as the time off was like a dagger to their momentum. But Scott wasn’t going to let the frost outlining the pitch settle on their spirits.

Training finished and the players all filed back into the locker room. The cramped, steam-filled cool down area was soon covered in muddy boots, mud streaked bibs and training jumpers and empty water bottles but the atmosphere was lighter than it had been all season. Scott stood in the center of the room, his hand tucked in his tracksuit bottoms pockets, eyes scanning the room waiting for quiet

‘Alright, listen up. That was a good session’ he began with a low firm voice, the kind that demanded attention. ‘I know what you’re thinking, these last three games you really have shown up. Two wins and that draw, and all of a sudden we’re not the punch line any more, not the whipping boys of the league either. And you know what, that’s right, we’re not, but don’t think for one second that this fight is over. Fourteen more battles, fourteen more chances to secure survival left to go yet’

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and pointed around the room while saying ’look around you. Every single one of you has been written off. The press, the league, the other teams, fans and even yourselves I’m sure, all thought you’d be going down without as much as a whimper. But I don’t give a fuck what they think, I only care what YOU think’

He took a moment and said ‘I’ll address the elephant in the room, Marek. He’s gone’ acknowledging Marek Szyndrowski being conspicuous by his absence. ‘He told me last night he wants to go, and lo and behold an offer came in from him shortly after that conversation, strange how fate works isn’t it’ it was a tongue in cheek statement, not a question. 

He continued on ‘He did as well as his aging legs could do for us, and I thank him for that, but it’s no coincidence how well we defended these last three games and he wasn’t even on the bench. But we’ve got to forget that and move on, which brings me to the next piece of news I want to share with you’ he pulled his phone out and said ‘we’ve agreed a deal for Maciej Machalski, on loan. He’s not in the team at Pruszków so he’s coming here to get some game time. He’s hungry for minutes, he won’t let up to show he deserves a chance at Pruszków, that’s the kind of fight and determination you have to every single day until this season is over’

Scott’s voice hardened, his accent tinged with the edge of his father’s Wrocław roots. ‘We’ve got something here right now, something people who aren't here don’t see. Belief. And maybe a little bit of luck, finally. But belief doesn’t mean anything unless we fight for it. This break hasn’t been a holiday, you all know that. It’s a soft reset. A chance to build on that good form we had until the break. When we line up next week, from that game onwards every game is like a cup final. Every point is life or death, and I’ll say it, if you play like we have these last three games we WILL survive’

He let the silence hang and the players locked eyes on him, the weight of his words settling over them ‘So, go home tonight and rest. But when you wake up tomorrow I want you to ask yourself one thing: what are you willing to give to secure the survival you all claim you want? What are you willing to give for each other? Because as I’ve said the fight isn’t over, not by a long shot. When it is over, when the fight is done I want every single one of you to have given everything you had’

He nodded to the door and said ‘dismissed’, and the players left slowly, some high fiving, some clapping each other playfully, a team united.

Scott was the last to leave the locker room and as he did he switched the light off, and felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in months. Hope. For the first time this season survival felt more than just a dream, it felt like a possibility.

– – – – --

The derby

The air in the city was heavy with tension and coal dust. Despite Bytoms rough form the streets buzzed with anticipation, locals gathered in dingy bars muttering about the derby. Raków Częstochowa, the enemy, the team with more money, more muscle and more points so far. Scott Lańkowski could feel the weight of it all pressing down on him like a bad hangover. Polonia Bytom are bottom of the league, scraping the eight deducted points off and sitting on exactly zero points, with a skeleton thin squad and the kind of luck that felt cursed.

He stood cramped in the hallway at the stadium, staring at the lineup pinned to the wall outside the changing rooms. His mind raced second guessing every choice. The previous seven games had been a death march to poor results, bringing with them injuries and shattered confidence. He didn’t know if he was ready, or even if the players were ready for this.

== == ==

The stadium was filling early, the Bytom fans showing their support as the old stadium groaned into life as fans placed banners and flags draped in red and blue. Chants rising into the early afternoon sky like a battle cry. Scott poked his head out of the tunnel as the teams did their final preparations, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat with a nervous anticipation

Varadi had looked sharp in training, getting the starting nod due to the injury to Broz. Kalahur at left full back was always full of energy and didn’t show any worry for the big game despite his youth, quite the opposite, he seemed like he was up to it more than any other player. That’s not to say the rest of Bytom’s players weren’t confident. They lined up in the tunnel with the type of swagger of a team that expected to win. Scotts words in the days before still ringing in their ears - ‘Our season starts now!’

== == ==

As the game kicked off the first whistle sounded like a gunshot. The derby was on and Bytom weren’t just fighting for much needed points, they were fighting for pride, survival and a reason to believe. 

They started cautiously, as was the plan. Raków had sent the ball wide in the hopes of targeting the full back duo of Siodowy on the right and Kalahur on the left, with Sidowoy being caught in possession early on, and a cross floated into the middle. Perdijic, the veteran keeper made a great early stop from the point blank header from that cross. The sigh of relief from the Bytom fans could be heard around the full stadium. Scott barked orders to his right back, concentrate, don’t be hasty. His voice hoarse already.

The twenty third minute came like a flash of lightning. Siodowy making amends for his earlier lapse in concentration bombed on the overlap down the right, received the ball from Stefanski as the defending full back couldn’t keep pace. The cross from Sidowoy was nicked by a defender on the way and went out for a Bytom corner, the first of the game.

Lachowksi, the captain stepped up to take it from the Bytom right. His outswinger dipped quickly and dangerously at the near post. Batista, his only goal this season coming from a corner in the opening game, rose like a man possessed above his marker and flicked it toward the six yard box. Mroz, asked to attack from deep, rushed in unmarked to tap into the net from two yards out. The home fans behind that goal erupted as it went in. The noise from the other home fans came a second after, as did the smoke and the flares from the stand behind the dugouts. Scott punched the air as adrenaline surged through him like a drug. One nil to Bytom and fully deserved.

Raków pressed hard with their midfield carving out chances for the forwards, but Polonia held firm. Both sides traded blows, three good chances apiece and both keepers equal to all. The halftime whistle came as a blessed reprieve with the score still one to the good for Bytom.

In the locker room it smelled of sweat, anticipation and adrenaline. Scott stood before the players, holding a bottle of water and said ‘right, that was good. We held firm but they carved out a couple of good chances, chances similar to those we’ve conceded in other games’ he took a moment then continued ‘The second half is where we show them what we’re made of. They think we’re dead and buried, that we’re already relegated. They'll be thinking they will get back into this game but you’ve proved them wrong already. Keep our shape, stay disciplined and only make the forward move if you’ve got something on, and when you do hit them hard! Get out there and finish the job’

The players nodded, agreeing with the boss, some offering words of encouragement to each other. Mroz, still riding the high of his goal, was the first back onto the pitch.

Raków came out swinging, their opening dominance suffocating the Bytom back line and silencing the crowd. Perdijic became more a folk hero than a footballer as his double save five minutes into the half kept the score in Bytoms favour, then his reaction save from a long range effort that nicked Siodowy on the way to goal, held with a reflexive dive just as impressive. Scott was pacing the touchline, his jaw clenched at every missed chance from Raków, a stay of execution.

Then came the break in the game, the change that killed off the Raków momentum. Sixty three minutes on the clock and Raków were camped in the Bytom half. Mroz won the ball just outside the penalty area, looked to his to his left and threaded the ball by the advancing Raków midfield to the on loan Musiolik, who surged forward from his own half down the left, into the opponents half, all the way to the box where the advancing keeper rushed off his line trying to stop the young loanee. As the keeper was seven or so yards away Musiolik stopped, composed himself, opened his body up and placed the ball by the keepers right and into the net. The stadium all erupted as one this time, louder than before, the sound reverberating all across Bytom.

===

The last half an hour felt like an eternity to anyone in Bytom colours. Raków threw everything at them, down the line, over the top, through the middle, but the underdogs from Bytom held firm. The ball hardly left the home team's half, with Perdijic making a number of stops to keep his team in the lead. When the ref did blow the final whistle it was like the release of a coiled spring. Bytom players collapsed to the pitch, some were jumping for joy and all were exhausted but triumphant. Scott stood frozen for a moment, his brain struggling to process what had just happened. Then he smiled, as he did the Raków manager came over and shook his hand and congratulated him on a well fought victory. Scott walked down the line, arms raised and cheering with the crowd.

The home locker room was electric. Players jumped and laughed, shouted, embraced at the enormity of the victory. Mroz poured water over the exhausted Perdijic a number of times, to which the keeper just smiled back. He was too worn out to react. Scott leaned against the wall taking it all in.

It wasn’t just a win. It was salvation, a spark to set off the rest of the season, a season that had been nothing but darkness with a couple of slight bits of light. For the first time in weeks Scott believed that Polonia Bytom might just survive.

After the game, Raków sacked Marek Papszun, this defeat to Bytom being their third in a row. They sat twelfth in the league and he was still sacked. Scott wondered how long he’d be kept in the job if being mid table was a sackable offence.

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Chapter 5

Scott Lańkowski wasn’t sleeping much. The nights were spent reviewing game notes, going over reports and tactics and just bled into mornings, the stress carving into the hollows under his eyes. Polonia Bytom had started with a flicker of hope, two blistering wins that silenced the cynics, if only briefly. But football was a cruel and twisted lover. Five straight losses had brought reality crashing back down.

The eight point deduction loomed over everything, morning sessions, warm downs, team meals at lunch time like a lead weight around the neck of a squad of players, mish mashed together from the loan and free transfer markets, all of who were already drawing in doubt. Every mistake on the pitch, every misplaced pass, mistimed tackle or half chance squandered felt like another nail in the Polonia Bytom coffin. Scott tried to hold it together, but inside he was unravelling.

There was more than a little hope after the first two games. A four nil dismantling of Kotwica Kołobrzeg away in the first game, followed by another four nil win, the demolishing of Warta Poznan had the fans dreaming of not just a great escape but of a good season ahead. For a fleeting moment after two games it felt like the storm clouds had parted. But Scott knew better. Two wins might’ve secured six points, but athere are seventeen other teams above them and a lot more points to play for. Two wins helped but didn’t fix the broken mentality of a team that had been kicked down so much already.

Then came the slide. Four straight losses, each one a little uglier than the last. Conceding eleven in the process, a respite in the form of back to back draws, meaning the eight point deduction was cleared and Bytom were now only on zero points at the bottom of the table, which was celebrated by two more losses. Things weren’t just looking bad, they were looking catastrophic. 

The biggest punch to the gut was the two nil home loss to Siarka Tarnobrzeg, where Mateusz Broż, the only striker with a natural nose for goal went down injured clutching his ankle. Scott stood helplessly as he was carried off on a stretcher, his eyes closed, not wanting to accept what was happening. He’d been a bright spot really, four goals and the only player attempting to score, always being in the right place even if his finishing had been off. Early reports say six weeks is how long he’ll be out.

Scot had pushed the players hard in training following the latest defeat, maybe too hard all things considered. Michal Chrabąszcz, a work horse in midfield, went shoulder to shoulder with Zmuda in defence in a routine drill. A loud pop, a muted scream and Chrabąszcz was on the ground clutching his shoulder. Dislocated from the fall. Three months on the shelf at least.

Scott cursed himself as he replayed the moment in his mind over and over again. Could he have stopped it? Could he have lessened the workload? Was it the intensity he demanded? Or was it just fate giving him the middle finger?

Rozwój Katowice at home in the next game and like every one of the thirty plus games this season, this was a must win. Down by one to a comical own goal after twenty two minutes, Scott stalked the sidelines as Katowice celebrated. Barking orders from the touchline, Bytom were at the Katowice defence right from the off and grabbed the equaliser four minutes later.

After clawing it back to one each they gave up another mid way through the second half, Katowice not even working hard to retake the lead. Scott felt like a man drowning or grasping at straws. But with five minutes to go, substitute Pielichowski frustratingly hit the ball from outside the box that fate felt deserved to go in the net. It bobbled as it landed, catching the keeper off balance and creeped over the line. It wasn’t pretty, it looked more like a lash at the ball out of anger than actually trying to score. For the first time in weeks, Scott felt like his team had some fight in them.

Next up for Scott and Polonia Bytom is Raków Częstochowa, the clubs big rivals. A team with more money, better form, more swagger and points than Bytom. The kind of team Polonia Bytom hates, the kind of team Scott would’ve hated as a player back in Toronto.

‘This is it’ Scott had told the players in the dressing room after training on the day before the game. ‘In the games we’ve had so far we’ve been kicked, punched and written off. But we’re still standing, clawing our way through them. Raków thinks they’re better than us, bigger even. We need to prove them wrong, we need to let them know we might be down but we’re not out yet. Our season starts tomorrow!’ he said emphatically, passionately, hoping to get some sort of response from the players.

He didn't know if the players believed him or even believed in him, he still wasn’t sure he believed in himself either. But it didn’t matter. This game, the derby, had to be the one. The one that kick starts the revival.

He sat alone in the office at the training ground long after the players had left, staring at his squad list. Two key names crossed out in red pen and only youth players available to replace them. He felt like drinking, the last drink he had two years ago when he was told his playing career was over. He allowed himself a small glass of cheap whiskey held in the office by the chairman.

As he drank it, the sharp stinging down his throat like a reminder to the upcoming battle against Raków, he whispered into the silence ‘Don’t screw this up Scott. Not this one’

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Good this pal keep it up

OMG incredible mate

Chapter 4

The season started under a bleak cloud, as Polonia Bytom were already on negative eight points before a ball had even been kicked. Eight points, the kind of punishment that makes veteran players question their loyalty and young players question their dreams, their desires. But this was Polonia, a club too stubborn to die, and a team built on past glories and defiance. And they rolled into Kolobrzeg with something to prove.

Kotwica Kołobrzeg’s ground is a wind swept patch of grass by the Baltic, the kind of place where ambition went to drown. The home fans were loud, their jeers as cold as the sea air, but Polonia and their new rookie manager Scott Lańkowski didn’t flinch. The whistle blew, and they attacked like men with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

It started with an early corner in the first half. A high, looping in swinger came in like a dagger aimed at the far post. Peter Bašista, the old workhorse was wide open from the knock down and stroked home the ball at close range, and Polonia had the scent of blood. Six minutes into the new season, and the relegation certainties had taken the lead.

Before Kotwica could gather themselves and prepare to fight back, Polonia struck again. A high press right from kick off, the kind of pressure that turns defenders into deer in a headlight. The ball was played backwards slowly, but the defence, already breached, didn't want anything to do with it. It made its way back towards the keeper but the lone striker Varadi was there in a flash, picking up the loose backwards aimed ball and slotting it under the keeper. Two goals in two minutes, Bytom were in complete control

The second half was a masterclass in punishment. Varadi was replaced by Broz at the half. Varadi had run his socks off and was unlucky not to double his tally. Bytom smelled the weakness and exploited it with ruthless efficiency. Jakub Zmuda, one of the young loaned in players, a youngster with something to prove floated in a picture perfect cross from the left hand side. Broz rose above the covering defender and buried it. Three goals to nil. Easy.

Two minutes later and Zmuda and Stefanski playing a neat one-two to get Zmuda in space on the left, he threaded a perfect low ball into the box from the left hand side. Broz was buoyed by the first goal, ran onto it, cool as ice and finished it with clinical precision. Four nil now to Polonia, game over. The home fans fell silent, with more than a few heading for the exit, they’d seen enough.

When the final whistle blew it wasn’t just a win. It was a statement, a message to the rest of the league that Polonia may be going down, but they were going down swinging. Zmuda, one of the kids on loan, walked away with the man of the match award. Two assists, endless energy and the kind of performance those in charge at Polonia and his parent club Ruch Chorzow were hoping to see.

Four goals scored, none conceded and a mountain of deceit reduced to a manageable molehill. Polonia Bytom weren’t just playing for points, they were playing for pride and redemption, and the love of the game that never loved them back.

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Chapter 3

The morning air in Bytom smelled like wet iron and old regret. The kind of air that sticks to your clothes and crawls down your throat and into your lungs. Scott Lańkowski walked through the gates at the stadium, Edwarda Szymkowiaka, his breath fogging up in the June chill. He didn’t feel like a manager, he didn’t even feel like himself.

Polonia Byton, once a big name in Polish football, now just a punchline with an eight point deduction to start the season, and with it the grim possibility of relegation hanging over it’s head. The players didn’t look up as Scott walked over the cracked floorboards of the locker room. A few nodded, some rolled their eyes. He’d been in the job less than 48 hours but the whispers had already started Who is this guy? Some no named nobody from Canada trying to profit off his dads name?

Lańkowski had asked himself the same question every day since agreeing to the job over a Skype call in Toronto. He’d been a so-so combative midfielder once, solid, hardworking but otherwise unspectacular. Coaching came later at the behest of his dad, Piotr Lańkowski, after his left knee failed him again and surgery couldn’t repair it. He was twenty five. The playing side of the beautiful game passed by him but coaching locally in Toronto, as well as afar for a season in Winnipeg, where he oversaw a miracle escape from relegation as a coach at FC Manitoba, and suddenly he was here, in Bytom, pretending he knew what he was doing, hoping to oversee another miracle escape.

The pitch was a disgrace, and that’s putting it lightly. Patches of mud where grass should’ve been, uneven around the center circle and corner flags, the goalposts rusted at the corners of the bar at both sides. He could see it in the players faces, they didn’t want to be here any more than he did. A mix of washed up veterans and kids who didn’t know better, all wearing the red shirts with blue stripes of Polonia Bytom. They were broken before the training session even started.

‘Right’ he said, hands clapping together to get attention. ‘Let’s get started’ His Polish was perfect although it did sound foreign. He felt like an imposter in his own words.

The warm up session was half hearted, the passing and moving drills even worse. Passes went astray, the movement lacking an edge. Tackles mis timed when it was easier to retrieve the ball. He called for all out attack from the yellow bibs, hoping to light a fire in the team, but all he got was more sloppiness, more effort seen by the players tying their laces than in the session. The club had an assistant for him manager, who himself reeked of cynicism and anger, who leaned in close

‘They don’t believe in you’ he muttered. Scott replied with ‘Not yet’

Scott Lańkowski didn’t need to be told the obvious. He saw it in every mis placed pass, the opposite to his every instruction being done. He didn’t blame them really, he didn’t believe in himself much either.

Eight points deducted, bottom of the league and favourites to drop like a stone even before the season had started. And now this squad, this motley crew of players was his, a team in name only. Polonia Bytom was dead on its feet, and Scott Lańkowski was the man tasked with resurrecting it. He felt the weight of his inexperience like a noose tightening around his neck

‘You call that football?’ he barked after another period of pathetic training. His voice cracked, betraying nerves. He stepped onto the pitch, mud squelching under his boots. ‘I do not care if we’ve got an eight point deduction, eight minutes left of the season or we've won the league by eight points. You play like this, you put this amount of effort in and we’re done. You want to be relegated, huh? Fine, i’ll walk out that gate right now, head back to Canada and be done with it, and you can handle it yourselves’

Silence. The players stared at him, their breath steaming in the cold just like Scotts. One of the older hands, veteran defender Marek Szyndrowski, stepped forward

‘And if we don’t?’ the man asked, his voice flat and face unreadable

Scott didn’t have an answer, not yet and certainly not a good one. He shoved his hands into his tracksuit bottoms pockets, staring at the players, at the bleak horizon beyond the stadium. ‘Then we fight. Every game, every minute, every damn second. We claw our way out of this hole, this mess or we die trying. But it starts right here, right now’

It wasn't a speech for the ages but it was enough. The session resumed and with it a little more bite, a little more energy and a little more urgency. It wasn’t pretty but it was something.

As the sun dipped to signal the end of the day, Scott stood at the edge of the pitch, hands still buried in his trouser pocket. The doubt gnawed at him, his constant companion. He didn’t know if he was up to the job, didn’t know if he could get the players on board and certainly didn’t know if he could keep Polonia Bytom afloat.

But for now he was here in Poland, his second nation. And sometimes, just showing up and being accounted for is the first step to greatness.

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