A sideways short story site
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
Janie In My Heart
June 18, 2012
— 2 Comments
by Thomas Ang
Nov 1, 2010
I promised Laura that I would explain it to her eight-year-old daughter, Janie. I have some regret about that now. How do I tell her that everything will be okay, when I’m not sure it’s true — when I’m pretty sure it isn’t? How can anything ever be okay again? I sure as hell won’t be. I spent thirty years looking for the love of my life, finally found her, only to have her taken away. If it weren’t for Laura I’d probably still be a drunk, or worse. Now I might be headed down that road again.
Part of me is already gone with her and she’s not even dead yet. Some days I can’t get out of bed. What’s the point? What’s the point of going out into the world and doing anything, caring about anything? Everything that matters to me is to be taken away, and I’m not sure I can bring myself to let anything else ever matter again.
Janie. She’s the other thing that matters and the one thing I’ll be left with when Laura’s gone. Whether I like it or not, her daughter is the one reason for me to go on living. She’s a responsibility — a burden when I’d rather join Laura, go off and drink myself to death — that will keep me alive. If I can’t live for myself anymore, at least I’ll live to take care of Janie. She’ll be the one bit of Laura left in the world.
But Janie’s a wonderful thing in her own right, not just because she reminds me of Laura. She’s bright and thoughtful in ways I don’t think an eight-year-old should be. It’s like she’s got an extra sense and knows what people are feeling. She says and does just the right things too.
One time, the three of us were walking past a Merseyrail station and there was a really downtrodden man sitting on the ground outside. He hadn’t shaved days, and looked like he needed sleep. I don’t always give change to the homeless, but there was something different about this man, and Janie was tugging me in his direction. As I reached into my pocket, though, Janie spoke to him.
“What’s its name?” she asked, in her bright way.
Her question was met with a stunned look on the man’s face, and then, eventually, a reply.
“Lucy.”
There was a hesitation as Janie recognized that something wasn’t quite right. When she responded the cheeriness was replaced by concern.
“Is she happy?”
He considered for a moment, then closed his eyes and nodded.
“She was. She is.”
Janie thought for a moment before patting the man on the shoulder.
“Lucky Lucy.”
The reaction was slight, not a smile, not like the darkness was gone, but it was like a small light — a candle, perhaps — had been lit somewhere inside him. Only then did I realize that he was holding an empty leash, and I was glad that I didn’t have any change in my pocket.
There I am again: of all the memories to choose from, I recall one with death in it. I need to think of Janie’s future. If I focus on that I might just hold together.
Nov 5, 2010
When we first found out, we pretended to be strong for Janie, but today Laura had to move into the hospital, and the masks are starting to crack. I haven’t cried yet, but I probably need to. Not in front of Janie though. It’ll happen some time when Laura and I are alone. Or maybe when I’m alone. Which feels like all the time now.
Nov 6, 2010
Couldn’t sleep last night. Again.
Nov 7, 2010
I put the football on today. Up until I was fifteen, I used to go with my father. For a few years after he left us, I hated anything to do with the game. I got over that, but I’ve never been back to Anfield since. These days I catch what broadcasts I can, but I don’t fret too much about it in between. I didn’t even know who we’d be playing against today or whether I’d be able to get that fixture on the television, but any match would do for the much-needed distraction.
When we were visiting Laura at the hospital in the morning, I had decided that today was the day to explain it all to Janie. When we got home I became hesitant again. Breaking down while telling her would send the wrong messages, but at the same time I didn’t want to explain it in a cold, uncaring way. I needed to work out the right balance. The match would buy me some time.
As it happened, they were showing Liverpool, at home to Chelsea. I kept my eyes on the match, but my mind was on cancer and death and how to explain those things to an eight-year-old. The ball moved, the men moved, the commentators bantered, the crowd sang, but I didn’t really see or hear any of it. How could I tell her the truth, in a way that she’d understand, without breaking her little heart?
Not long into the match we scored, and I remember Janie bringing me out of my silent shell with questions about the man who’d scored the goal. The replays were showing Torres reaching the ball, controlling it, and knocking it in, over and over again.
“He looks like a prince, is he one?”
“No. He’s kind of a hero though.”
“Does he always score?”
“Once upon a time, he always did.”
“What happened, did someone cast an evil spell on him?”
“He got hurt and he’s never been the same.”
“Who hurt him?”
“No one meant to do it, sometimes it just happens.”
“But now he’ll be okay, right?”
Sometimes it just happens. Like how sometimes people just get cancer and die. Whatever answer I gave to her final question satisfied her and she turned happily back towards the game. I followed her lead, not wanting to dwell on dangerous thoughts, and tuned into the titanic battle playing out before us.
Liverpool was in the midst of its worst start to a season in my lifetime, but they were mounting a serious effort against the defending champions and league leaders. It was a battle between an old power, trying to cling to its relevance, and a new one on the rise. Twenty-five years ago, Chelsea would have been the underdog, but the balance of play might have been the same.
“Is the red team the best in the world?”
“They were, once.”
“Did they all get hurt?”
“No, that was a much longer time ago.”
“What happened?”
“Some of the great men of the team moved on and couldn’t be replaced. Other teams have grown stronger.”
“I hope the great men come back and the red team becomes the best again.”
Liverpool might return to the heights of its former glory someday, might become something to rival what they were when they’d dominated in the previous century, but it couldn’t be by bringing back Shankly, or Kenny Dalglish, or whoever else. The world changes and things can never go back to the way they were. I wanted to tell Janie that sometimes a person could be gone forever.
Torres scored a second goal just before halftime, and it was more beautiful and stunning than the first. Though there would be no further goals in the game, it was the second half that I’ll never forget. The Liverpool supporters were having the worst season of their lifetimes, and yet, the thing unfolding before them was as beautiful as anything any of them had ever witnessed. Truly a diamond amongst coals, and shining that much brighter for it. And so the Anfield faithful were in full song, passionately bellowing their famous anthems.
The words were as they always were, but in the voices I heard something else, something that felt like defiance. It was as if they were crying out for all to hear:
You might be the top team in the land, but THIS IS ANFIELD! We might not be what we once were, but we’re still here and we won’t let you — or anyone — forget all that we’ve won. Ever.
The strength of the better part of forty-five thousand voices was overwhelming, and the sound brought me back to those Saturdays spent standing in the Kop with my father.
Janie asked what they were singing and so I repeated what words I knew to her.
Outside the Shankly Gates
I heard a Kopite calling
Shankly they have taken you away
But you left a great eleven
Before you went to heaven
Now it’s glory round the Fields of Anfield Road.
All round the Fields of Anfield Road
Where once we watched the King Kenny play (and he could play)
We had Heighway on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
Of the glory round the Fields of Anfield Road.
Outside the Paisley Gates
I heard a Kopite calling
Paisley they have taken you away
You led the great eleven
Back in Rome in seventy-seven
And the Redmen they’re still playing the same way.
The hairs on the back of my neck were raised and I could feel something pulling on the chains around my heart. I might have choked on the words if I wasn’t careful. The song was about memories of better times — some of which I’d witnessed with my father — and it was also about loved ones who were gone, and what they’d left behind. I didn’t want to give it all a chance to sink in and rip me apart, so I moved on to the other anthem.
When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm
Is a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark
Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
Tho’ your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on, walk on
With hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone
You’ll never walk–
My voice broke and a single tear found its way down my right cheek.
“Are you crying?”
I pretended to scratch my face to remove the tear. I didn’t know what to say. How did you put it in words? How did you bring yourself to utter, to admit, that the love of your life would be gone forever?
“Nah, why would I be? We’re winning, see?”
She took a deep breath and paused. Her face had turned sombre. It was as if she were the one who had to let the cat out of the bag.
“Because of mom?”
I just looked at her like a schoolboy who’d heard the teacher call his name but not heard the question asked right before.
“Janie…”
“It’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you after mom’s gone.”
I didn’t hide the rest of the tears.
*
Thomas Ang is a kindred spirit to strange bOUnce, whose fictional sportswriting and blogging can be found at RoaroftheFaithful.com. He’s working on a book, too.
Schrödinger’s Cat
March 10, 2012
by Martin Palazzotto (as translated from today’s edition of SZ)
Munich (SZ) – The Allianz Arena was the setting for a bizarre midweek match in the DFB Pokal, last night. Bayern Munich, already struggling to keep pace with new rivals Borussia Dortmund and old enemies Borussia Mönchengladbach in the Bundesliga, were hard put to overcome determined lower league side VfB Occam.
The Rasierern, unable to match the Rekordmeister’s quality, weren’t about to complicate their tactics. They stuck to a simple game plan, making sure they had everyone behind the ball at all times, while patiently awaiting an opportunity to strike on the counterattack.
With Bayern’s back line struggling, Occam’s chance came soon enough. Just prior to the 20-minute mark, defender Nathan Rosen gained control of a loose ball in the box and launched it towards the centre circle, where his number 10, Boris Podolsky (no relation to the FC Köln and Die Mannschaft regular, Lukas Podolski), latched onto it, bisected Bayern’s green centre-back pairing of Holger Badstuber and Jerome Boateng, then coolly lobbed the ball over the onrushing Manuel Neuer and into the home goal.
Having gained the lead, Occam closed ranks even further, and defied a furious Bayern attack until the respite afforded by the halftime whistle. After the restart, the home side redoubled their attack, until shortly after the hour, when the Occam eleven at last began to show signs of fatigue. Mario Gomez was mistakenly left alone in the box and had time and space to tee up and thunder a volley past the helpless Rasierern keeper, Erwin Schrödinger, to equalise.
Having finally broken through the smaller club’s defences, Bayern went for the jugular. However, Schrödinger was a man possessed, stonewalling the Rekordmeister time after time. He palmed away a drive from Thomas Müller, forced Ivica Olic to shoot over the bar, and made a crucial save when Arjen Robben cut in from the right wing to unleash a low shot labeled for inside the far post.
With less than a quarter-hour remaining and his lads nearing exhaustion from the relentless Bayern pressure, Occam manager Paul Sophus made three changes, each in quick succession. Two defenders and a holding midfielder replaced attack-minded players, their individual entrances cleverly spaced to afford the remaining starters as much time as possible to catch their breath and regroup. Sophus’ ploy worked, with the substitutes, along with keeper Schrödinger, bolstering a reinvigorated Rasierern back line, and keeping the underdogs on level terms deep into extra time. Then, as penalties approached, events suddenly took on a surreal tone.
According to Christian Nerlinger, the Bayern Sporting Director, it was all down to an unanticipated and completely unpredictable accident.
“Due to the recent spate of pitch invasions by animals all across Europe, most notably in Liverpool,” Nerlinger explained, “Bayern recently took the preventative measure of placing two young interns in charge of pest control. It has been their duty to keep squirrels and other four-legged creatures out of the ground, and pigeons from roosting in the rafters.
“Today, just before kick-off, they captured a tomcat which had been prowling the stadium, and placed it in a cardboard box to await the arrival of the Humane Society. Near the end of the match, the interns noticed that the tabby had grown very quiet, after yowling non-stop for several hours, and gently prodded the box to ascertain whether the animal was conscious.
“I’m sorry, repeat the question? Yes, of course air holes were provided. This is the twenty-first century. It’s not as though we poison them, or dose them with radiation. I must say that I find the question to be in bad taste. Which paper are you with?
“At any rate, the animal did not respond to the prodding, nor to the intern’s gentle cooing. Concerned, they consulted one another and reached the decision to open the box. When they did, the cat leapt out, startling the two young men, then fleeing their office through the half-open door. Sadly, we all know what happened next, as it was witnessed by everyone in the stadium and those watching on television at home.
“Bayern regrets the incident and extends its apology to VfB Occam and their goalkeeper, Mr Schrödinger. We sincerely regret that he was unable to continue in the match, and that, as a result, the Rasierern were forced to finish with just ten men and their striker in goal. However, these things do happen from time to time, and are part of the game. As such, we believe we are under no obligation to replay the match.”
The incident to which Herr Nerlinger refers, is, of course, the subsequent pitch invasion by the frantic, disoriented cat, who streaked onto the pitch, evading the desperate lunges of security officers and the fourth official. It made straight for the centre circle, where it confronted Bayern midfielder Tony Kroos. Kroos’ attempt to coax the frightened feline into his arms was rejected, and, perhaps with a perverse instinct, the animal made a bee line for the Occam goal.
Erwin Schrödinger, who it has been subsequently revealed has a very severe allergy to cats, backed away from the intruder. Emboldened, the animal pursued him, perhaps hoping that the netminder was leading him to the exit. Schrödinger panicked, dashing behind the goal with his nemesis close at his heels. Unnerved, the keeper mistimed his attempt to hurdle an advertising board, suffering a severe ankle sprain. The tabby then nuzzled up to the prostrate Rasierern, who lost all self-control and, forgetting his pain, began thrashing wildly in an effort to rid himself of the unwanted animal. The end result was that he suffered several deep facial lacerations and went into anaphylactic shock, while the animal resumed its search for a way out of the ground.
Schrödinger was treated on the scene by paramedics, then rushed to hospital, where he is said to be recovering from his attack. When order was restored, Occam, having used all their substitutions, had no option but to place their remaining attacking player, Podolsky, in goal. Bayern quickly took advantage, scoring three times in the eleven minutes of added time the referee assessed. When this report went to press, the cat had yet to be found, and it is rumoured that Herr Schrödinger will, additionally, have to be administered a precautionary rabies shot.
The visitors are protesting the match, accusing Bayern of being aware of Schrödinger’s condition. Given the 22-time League Champions’ recent run of poor form and the seven-point deficit to holders BvB (with 10 games remaining in the Bundesliga schedule) combine to make the DFB Pokal their best hope for a trophy this season, the visitors believe there is probable cause that the incident was a planned contingency, to be implemented in the event that the match’s outcome was in doubt.
“It is ridiculous that a renowned club with all Bayern’s resources must resort to such measures,” an angry Paul Sophus ranted in his post-match press conference.
Bayern manager Jupp Heynckes was nonplussed by the charges levelled. “How can we possibly predict where a cat will go once it is set loose in a stadium of this size?” he asked, before musing further. “If it was a dog, then it might be possible, yes. But a cat? Impossible. You can’t even train them to come near when you want to pet them, much less fetch a pair of slippers or attack a defenseless keeper. If you could do the last, I would be first in line to sign ten of them and play them twice a week!”
The DFB, however, are taking the allegations seriously. The federation announced this morning that it would be launching an inquiry to determine whether the charges have substance and if Bayern should be held accountable for Schrödinger’s suffering.
The announcement drew further ire from Bayern President Uli Hoeness. “Absurd,” he grunted as he brushed by reporters to make his way from the car park into the Bayern training facility. “We will be fighting these charges to our fullest ability.”
On the face of it, the possibility of a conspiracy does seem farfetched, but this reporter can’t help but compare Occam’s reaction to that of Bayern in late 2010, when they became incensed with the KNVB after their perpetually injured Dutch winger Robben returned from World Cup duty with a damaged knee. Perhaps, though, the final word should go to Bayern immortal Franz Beckenbauer.
“For me, [the allegation] is out of the question. This is not the Bayern way. We do have creative players, it is true, and we allow for some experimentation within the system, but ultimately, we are known as a clinical side. To act in this manner would not conform to the club’s methodology; it would not be scientific.”
Schrödinger’s Cat by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Anfield Anonymous
February 16, 2012
— 2 Comments
By Carl Mungazi
The lighting in the bar of an exclusive, discreet Liverpool hotel casts a shadow that hangs menacingly over one corner of the room. Two Englishmen share a drink, seeking seclusion in that darkness. Hidden away from prying eyes, they lean back in their seats, sipping occasionally and watching other guests enjoy their dinner. Their waitress, long-legged and elegant, brings them another round. They pretend to ignore her, only stealing a glance when she walks away.
“Is this what it’s come to, then?” The smaller of the two men sips his drink. “Hiding out in hotel bars?”
“We’re not hiding. It’s just nice and quiet here.” The larger man’s gaze lingers on the departed waitress. Tilting his head back, he shakes his pony-tail.
“Well, we really can’t go anywhere else,” comes the bitter reply.
“I’m tired of it all.” Ponytail takes a long swig of his drink. “ I could have been a king on Tyneside but I decided to risk it and move here because that’s what big players do. I never asked to be bought for £35m, in any case. You had it easy in the Midlands.”
“Take it easy, you don’t want to get drunk do you?” His companion was becoming alarmed. “ The boss will kill you.”
“To hell with him. I’m my own man.”
“Yes, a man under contract. You know what will happen if you’re caught drunk again.”
Ponytail looks away, muttering under his breath, then reluctantly puts down the glass. It’s almost empty, anyway. At the bar their waitress has been sizing them up. A colleague joins her and the two whisper, cast mischievous glances in the men’s direction, and lapse into fits of giggles.
“Oh great, we’ve been spotted,” the smaller fellow groans. “ They’ll be bringing out their cameras next. “
Ponytail chuckles. “I heard that’s how they found you — some YouTube clip with you kicking balls into a bin?”
“I know, it’s embarrassing. The whole thing was choreographed. You’d have thought that Damien fella would have caught on before he went for me; even Becks did one on the beach and it looked dodgy.”
“Yeah but he’s a legend. You…you’re just alright.” Ponytail’s eyes bore through the table, in the direction of his mate’s moderately famous left foot.
His friend snaps back. “I’m more than alright.”
“Come on, you know what people say. Your service is so poor, you couldn’t deliver a pizza.” The pony-tailed man grins widely.
“Ha. Ha.” The smaller man isn’t smiling, attempting to hide his annoyance behind his pint glass. “And your forward play has the penetration of a eunuch.”
The second waitress approaches the table, not as pretty as her friend, but more curvaceous. Ponytail is instantly on alert. He fetches a chair from a nearby empty table.
But Pizza Boy is having none of it. “Two more please, and ten shots of that stuff there.” He points to a brightly coloured bottle on the highest shelf behind the bar.
“What are you doing, mate? I wanted her to sit down.”
“She’s supposed to be working.”
“So?”
“We should let her work.”
“She can work here.”
“No. She can work over there.”
“Do you know what your problem is?”
“No.”
“You’re scared. You lack confidence and you go missing in big moments. Sunday was a prime example. I ran all afternoon but no delivery came. ”
“And when it did come you fluffed it as usual. So we’re even.”
“This isn’t a competition.” Ponytail shakes his head, then decides to try a new tack. “Why did you order ten shots, anyway?”
“Because I’m being adventurous. You just said that’s what’s missing from my game, and the boss agrees. I’ve got to start somewhere.”
“He also said we said we should improve our chemistry.”
“Why? I don’t want to date you.”
“No, but she might,” Ponytail nods. The voluptuous waitress returns with their drinks. Collecting the empties, she winks at Ponytail and saunters off, her hips swaying with every step.
“I reckon I’m in there.”
Pizza Boy snorts. “Whatever. Now come on, five shots each. Drink up.”
The pair down the shots quickly, Pizza Boy’s inexperience showing as he coughs and sputters his way through the five glasses. “Come on, then.” Using the seat rests to support himself, he rises slowly. “Let’s get us some girls.”
Ponytail leaps to his feet at the invitation and the duo set off in the direction of the waitresses. The foursome spend a moment chatting before the girls excitedly shed their aprons and split to fetch their belongings.
As they slip out of sight, Ponytail punches his tipsy friend playfully in the arm. “Who knew you had it in you? You sly dog!”
Standing in silence at the door to the lobby, they watch a group of revellers come out of the lift, shouting and jostling as they stagger through the foyer.
“Do people really say that about me?”
“Huh?”
“The stuff about my pizza delivery service.”
“Oh, I made that up.”
“Bastard.”
The pony-tailed man shrugs and scans the room. He’s tired of waiting.
“I’m going.”
“What about the girls?”
“What about them?”
Both men step out into the cold, crisp, night air, searching for a taxi. Pizza Boy waves one over, and when it pulls to the curb, opens the door with a magnanimous gesture. Ponytail hesitates, cocking his head quizzically at his companion.
“Is my forward play really that bad?”
A Pint Between Reds by Carl Mungazi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Rafa’s Melwood Vacation
February 8, 2012
by Emelie Okeke
Fact. Hecho, in my native tongue. A strange word, fact. Not a beautiful word, yet simplicity personified in its meaning. To paraphrase the Oxford English dictionary: “a thing that is known or proved to be true”. The margin for error when comprehending this definition is as small as the latest bill from Pako Ayesteran’s barber.
And yet this word, fact, gave me many problems during my time as head coach here at Melwood, where I am currently spending the lion’s share of my ample free time. Musing. Conjugating. Observing the boys. My boys.
It was West Brom away. No, Stoke City. Definitely Stoke. I do not make mistakes with recollections. January tenth, 2009. Horrid, windswept evening. To say my boys were affected is a fallacy. Gerrard hits the post in the dying seconds. I stand by what I said the previous day. The boys were not affected. Incredible save by Sorensen from Kuyt. My boys were not affected. Unfortunate goalless draw meant we remained top.
No, it was the dictaphone monkeys who created the disease. Liverpool, Premier League Champions 2008-09. The best team did not win it. I stand by what I said. The press always against my boys. Look through history — and the present day.
Take Suarez. I watch him sell Luis Enrique a dummy in a six on six out on the pristine Melwood field. Beautiful. Pako would have praised him, let him know how beautiful a move that was. Steve Clarke merely nods. Dour Mourinho lackey. Don’t get me started.
My boys, Agger and Skrtel are synergising perfectly, defending their area like lions. Kings of their domain. Showing why only City have conceded less. Zero point nine one. Not bad for a pair no-one had heard of before I plucked them from obscurity. The boys agreed with what I said here at Melwood on that Friday afternoon; they had not been affected by it. Here’s what affected them: ghastly headlines; Rafa’s Cracking Up; Other Managers Tripping Over Themselves To Back Alex. Every word said and every pass played analysed. No-one can function well when every move they make is over-watched.
Good pass there from Gerrard.
Mike Dean. Ferguson — I’m searching for a particular word — ah yes — harangued poor Mr Dean after the Hull game that season. Steve Bennett. Harassed into giving the penalty at Wigan which won them the title in 2008. I predicted similar shenanigans in the corresponding fixture the following season. Lo and behold, another penalty, another title. Why does no-one call me Nostradamus!
My flask is nearing empty. I’d better switch on the heater in my Seat Ibiza. If you are prepared to get up early — very early — there is a small clearing in the bushes of the Melwood complex. On the other side of this, there is a gravelled area from whence I can observe my boys in total anonymity. No-one knows that I am there.
There has only been one moment where I felt my vantage point comprised, when Lucas was urinating in the bushes and pointed in my direction. Turned out he had spotted a starling. Very interested in ornithology, my boy Lucas. He can go on about cockatoos till the cows come home. But do not assume I am not welcome at the complex. It’s just…. awkward. Kenny prefers not to see me. At least, not with the clipboard, laptop and playbook. Says it puts the boys off. Maybe his boys, the lily-livered Downing, the potato-head Adam, or that pony-tailed, want-to-be ruffian from Newcastle, yes. My boys are made of sterner stuff. Gerrard is never phased. Even at half-time that night in Istanbul, when I only had ten players on the tactics board during the team talk. He got my message.
People are curious as to why I still persist living in the Merseyside area. The people here understand me. They shared in the success I created with my boys. Istanbul 2005. Cardiff 2006. The double over United in 2008-09. Ah yes, 1-4. The boys were not affected. They understood my philosophy. I was firm, yes. But I was fair.
Johnson is straying. Let him know, Clarke! Rodriguez can exploit the space. Go on Spearing, release. Nothing doing.
Do I miss them? I think — I believe — they miss me more. Defensively they are back to nearing the solidity which I instilled in the unit. In terms of attack, there is obviously more work to be done. Blackburn and Fulham have scored more this season. My boy Nando. Discarded. A hundred and fifty percent. You’re welcome, Mr. Henry. Who thought it safe to bring Bellamy back? At least he’s remained more than fifty miles from Riise. It’s for the greater good. I am convinced N’gog could have been a Kop legend.
OK, maybe I jest with that one.
I chuckle as I turn down Radio Five Live on my car radio. Alan Green has finished broadcasting for the day. I’m glad he liked the away shirt I sent him with all my boys signatures. Says he never misses a match. Nice man. Can’t say I enjoyed the six-pack of Kestrel he sent me in return, though.
Kenny has blown his whistle and brought them all in. Winding up for the day. Kuyt listens intently. Maybe he cannot decipher the strong Glaswegian brogue. Lord knows I struggled. Glaswegians. Not my favourite people. Alex played a little joke on me the day after he connived his way to the title in 2009. Sent the ’2009-2010 fixtures’ to my office, six weeks before they were released by the Premier League. Quite accurate, as it turned out. As a footnote, he wrote: ‘Better luck next year, you fat, bearded bastard. This is a fax’.
Or maybe he meant facts…
Rafa’s Melwood Vacation by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
What’s In A Name?
February 2, 2012
Tommy didn’t believe he’d ever felt as nervous as he did right at that moment. The stark, modern elegance of the IMG offices were, incredibly, every bit as intimidating as the ancient dining halls at Old Trafford and Anfield. In his playing days, both United and the Reds had sought his services, and the tour of each facility had been daunting, what with their fine, lacquered wood decor draped in rich history and tradition. If that wasn’t sufficient to set your knees knocking, the prospect of one of the two legendary Scots, Sir Alex or King Kenny, waiting to have a word, and perhaps discover that up close and personal you didn’t measure up to their club’s standard, was enough to make your heart burst from its chest.
After a solid if less than memorable career, the last two seasons of which he’d done double duty as player and coach, his body had let him know it was past time to take the next step. So, he’d hung up his boots and taken the last of his UEFA badges. The missus had typed up a CV for him on the computer and he had a thick file of glowing references from some of the biggest names in football management.
As a player, he’d never felt the need for an advisor. He’d always done well for himself, looking the gaffer in the eye and settling matters with a firm handshake. Yet, in this changing world not even a lower league club would consider putting a man in charge who didn’t have proper representation. That was why he found himself in this imposing lounge, leaning forward nervously on the hard, steel and leather couch, brief case balanced on his knees and gripped tightly with both hands.
The offices were on the thirty-first floor of a glass tower, and, if he could think about anything other than his new career, he’d have enjoyed a breath-taking view of the Thames. Instead, he waited and worried. Meanwhile, phones chirruped, voices hummed and men and women in power suits hurried by on such urgent business. Tommy felt completely out of his element. At last, the receptionist’s voice broke through his mounting anxiety.
“Mr. Fitzwallace? Mr. Bloom is ready for you.” She was standing next to an open door leading to the inner sanctum, smiling and gesturing for him to enter.
Swallowing nervously, Tommy croaked out his thanks and, hugging his case to chest, hurried inside. Robert Bloom was standing in front of an impressively large plate-glass desk, resplendent in a finely tailored Savile Row suit, flashing a broad grin. There were a pair of overstuffed black leather chairs for guests in front of the desk, a glass credenza on one side wall, and photos of several of Bloom’s illustrious clients mounted on the wall above it, each client appearing very happy to be in their advisor’s company and care.
“Tommy! Good to finally meet you. You know, I saw you play at Elland Road in that FA Cup match against ‘Boro, when you scored the brace. That own goal at the death was just tragic, an utter shame. You lads deserved much better. Come in, mate. Sit down.”
Trying to match Bloom’s enthusiasm, Tommy strode across the large office and offered the man a strong, if slightly sweaty grip. In doing so, he nearly dropped his case. Laughing nervously, he regained control of himself and dropped into one of the chairs. Perhaps due to the extra pounds he had put on since retiring, the cushion bleated loudly in protest.
Bloom smiled down at him and asked, “Comfortable?”
Tommy looked up and grimaced sheepishly. “Yes, thanks.”
“Good!” Bloom gave him an approving nod and walked around his massive desk, taking his place in the high-backed chair behind it. Tommy inspected the work surface, hoping to learn something about the man he had chosen to guide his professional life from this moment forward.
He cringed when his eyes fell on the man’s name placard. It read Robert Blum, P.A.. With a U. Not two Os. Christ, he had sent the man nearly a dozen letters! How embarrassing! Hopefully, the fellow hadn’t held the gaffe against him. It was an understandable error, wasn’t it? After all, what was in a name, really? Best he apologise, though.
“Uh, listen, Robert…”
“Call me Bobby. All my friends do”
“Alright then, Bobby. I just wanted to say that I’m very grateful that you’ve agreed to represent me, and…”
Bobby waved off his words dismissively. “Think nothing of it, man. Happy to.” Tommy relaxed somewhat at Blum’s affable nature. It didn’t seem as though he had taken the least offense to the faux pas. “But are you certain management is the right choice for you?”
“Erm, sorry?”
“Getting into coaching. Are you sure it’s what you want?”
“Yes, yes, of course it is. I know my career wasn’t exactly what you’d call stellar; Tommy Fitzwallace isn’t exactly a household name. I’m aware I didn’t have oodles of talent but I did everything I could with what I had.” Tommy’s jaw jutted out proudly. “I learned how to work within the framework of a team, and, as my career wore on, I discovered a natural ability to lead in the clubhouse. Surely that ought to stand me in good stead in the dugout?”
“Yes, I’m certain it would, but look, Tommy, here’s the thing…” Blum looked up at him, his expression plainly revealing that he had something to say which Tommy wouldn’t like, but that Blum hoped wouldn’t offend.
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’m sure that you know the game is becoming far more analytical?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course you do. And, therefore, you’re aware that teams are looking at all the numbers when recruiting players: height, weight, speed, intelligence, everything.” Blum arched an eyebrow questioningly to see if Tommy was following his train of thought, and received a nod of agreement. “Well, they do the same for coaches, too, only it’s a bit trickier to identify a good coach.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “Well, spit it out, Bobby. I can take it. What is it about me that you think doesn’t measure up.”
“Well, this is going to sound a little ridiculous, Tommy,” Blum hedged. “Can you keep an open mind? It’s only your own interests I’m looking out for, after all.”
Tommy’s back was up, but he knew better than to lose his patience. He desperately wanted to stay in the game, and Blum had come highly recommended. “I’m listening,” he growled.
“Great!” Blum took a deep breath and began to explain. “Well, we ran all the numbers, and you’re correct. You have any number of excellent qualities that, normally, would mark you as a likely success in management.”
“Normally?”
Blum winced. “Yes, Tommy, normally. Unfortunately, there’s one thing about you that’s going to scare off almost every prospective club.”
“Well, what is this horrible flaw I have, then?”
Blum hesitated before replying. “Perhaps the best way for me to explain is to ask you a question.”
Tommy didn’t enjoy all the dancing around the issue; he was a straightforward bloke. Still, if he was going to get a foot in the door, he’d need Blum’s help. “Alright, ask away.”
“How many managers can you think of who share your name?”
“What? Fitzwallace?”
“No, not your surname. How many gaffers do you know named Tommy?”
“Oh, come on, that’s easy! There’s…” Tommy’s face scrunched up as he tried to think. “Okay, no. But there’s… or how about…”
Blum leaned back, tenting his fingers, patiently waiting for his client to come up with an answer. Tommy racked his brain for a minute or two, but couldn’t think of anyone.
“Alright, nobody pops to mind right off the top of my head, but I’m sure there’s a bunch. Tommy’s a common enough name; there has to be somebody.”
“So you would think,” Blum nodded, and leaned forward to make his point. “If you look on Wiki, you’ll discover that Thomas is the fifth most popular name in the UK and Wales. Don’t ask me why the Cwms are given singular status, and not the Scots, but they are. That’s getting off topic, though. At any rate, there’s another site that rates Tom as the tenth most prolific name in the US.”
Tommy nodded and tried to absorb the numbers as Blum carried on with the lecture. “Here’s the kicker, though. Of the ninety-two clubs in the Premier and Football Leagues, and the forty-one Scottish League clubs, not a single one has a gaffer named Tom.”
Tommy blinked in astonishment. “None?”
“No, mate, nary a one. And that’s a hundred thirty-three clubs!”
“Yer having the piss with me.”
Blum laughed. “No, mate, I’m not. And it gets worse.”
“How can it get worse than that?”
“Well, there’s UEFA to consider, too,” Blum replied. “They’d be Tomas or Tomasso, naturally, but be that as it may, there aren’t any Toms in Serie A or La Liga. Portugal, either.”
“You’re kidding.”
Blum shook his head.
“What about the Dutch?”
“Sorry, no. Out of all the major competitions, there’s just Thomas Tuchel and Thomas Schaaf in the Bundesliga.”
“Crimey.”
Blum spread his hands out in sympathy.
“I never thought I’d be grateful to the Germans for anything,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head.
Blum chuckled. “I’m glad to see you have a sense of humour about it, but I’ve only just scratched the surface.”
Tommy ran his fingers through his thinning hair and flexed the tightening muscles in the back of his neck. “Go on,” he muttered resignedly. “Let’s have it all.”
“The cold, hard truth is that while Toms may captain clubs or prove excellent second-in commands, they just don’t do well in upper management. Even in other fields, they’ve failed to make their mark. There hasn’t been a Tom as Prime Minister since Thomas Pelham-Holles left office in 1762, or a US president since Jefferson, in 1809. The evidence is simply overwhelming.”
Taken aback by the sheer enormity of the argument, Tommy searched for a way to put the mind-numbing facts in a better light. “Well, has it occurred to anyone that perhaps we’re due?”
Blum threw his head back and laughter echoed off the walls. “Ah, Tommy! Ever the optimist!”
“Every good manager needs to be,” Tommy rallied.
“True enough, true enough,” Blum was still shaking with mirth. “Sadly, it’s going to be extremely difficult, with your lack of experience, to get anyone to hire you on the strength of positive thinking alone. On the other hand…” Blum tilted his head in thought for a moment, “didn’t you play in America for a time?”
Tommy nodded. “I did. Three seasons in Texas, actually. Why do you ask?”
“Well, the numbers aren’t great for Yank Toms, either, but they are more encouraging. If you played in Texas, you’ve probably heard of Tom Landry?”
“Not really.”
“No? He’s a legend there. Coached the NFL Cowboys from the sixties to the eighties. Won two Super bowls, although being a Tom, he also lost three.”
“Well, that was a bit before my time.”
“No worries, mate,” Blum shrugged. “There’s also a fellow named Coughlin. He actually has the New York Giants in the Super Bowl this Sunday, and he won it a few years ago.”
“Well, that goes to show you it’s possible for a Tom to get the job done, doesn’t it?” Tommy asked.
“Oh, definitely,” Blum agreed, “and there’s two or three other Toms in other American sports, as well. That’s why I think we should put you in touch with our New York office, perhaps get you on a plane over there?”
“I dunno,” Tommy fretted. “The missus hated it when we were there last time. Too hot in the summer, she said. Too cold in the winter, too, and no place to find a decent cuppa. She’d be much happier if we stayed in England, even if I started out with a small club and worked my way up the ladder?” he ended hopefully.
Blum tented his fingers again, and frowned. “I made some preliminary inquiries, mate, but no one seemed too willing to go against the numbers. If you want to stay in Britain, I could shift you to our entertainment division? There are plenty of Toms with an artistic bent. Tom Clancy, Tom Hanks, Tom Jones and let’s not forget Tommy Cooper. I loved his show when I was a lad. That fez with the floppy tassel! You’d likely do famously in the broadcast booth.”
The conversation was beginning to take an insulting turn, Tommy thought. His hands gripped his briefcase again, and he prepared to take his leave. “I appreciate the advice, Bobby, but my heart’s set on being in the dugout. I’d prefer to focus on that.” He stood up and held out his hand. “If you can do anything for me, I’d appreciate it.”
Blum stood up and reached across the desk to take the proffered hand. “Naturally, I’ll do everything I can, Tommy. Thanks for coming in.”
Tommy nodded, turned and made for the door. He looked back for a moment, as though he might have one last argument, then thought better of it, opened the door and went out.
Blum sighed heavily, regretting the inevitable, and sat back down. He thumbed through Tommy’s file one last time, then closed it and reached over towards four trays arrayed along one side of the desk. Three were labeled with familiar phrases from the back pages. The nearest read ‘At The Top Of The List,” the next closest was “Also In The Frame” and the third said “Next To Impossible.” The furthest had no label but it’s neighbour hinted at the status of the candidates who found themselves in that unfortunate pile.
A colleague poked his head in the open doorway, curious. “Any luck, Bobby?”
“No, Reg,” Blum shrugged and tossed the file into the last tray. “I gave it my best shot, but he just won’t listen to reason.”
Reg tutted in sympathy. “Don’t give up hope,” he offered. “Who knows? You put Maradona in that tray, after the World Cup, and Al Wasl took a flyer on him. Never say never, mate.”
Blum’s face brightened a bit. He hated to give up on a client, no matter how hopeless matters appeared. “Maybe Reg. I doubt it, but we’ll see.”
“Yeah, mate, we will,” Reg encouraged. “Ta, I’ve got to run. Roy Keane is in my office.”
What’s In A Name? by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Legend Of Nando and Carroll
December 29, 2011
by Emelie Okeke
Window’s ajar, rumours swamping the press,
Agents abound, they flog their pound of flesh.
From guarded boardrooms do chequebooks appear,
Threats of P45s fuel coaches’ fears.
Millennium’s twelfth year, the first month’s end,
Fallen giants with designs to pretend.
Once-proud liver birds with little to sing,
Hope rekindled with return of the King.
The Kop’s poster-boy of a previous reign
Has lost his lustre for club and for Spain.
Still, past exploits guarantee a suitor:
Interest from an Italian tutor.
Ere contracts could even be ink-embossed
Tough terms were imposed on the Russian boss:
Serious money would have to change hands,
But the Blues did not quake at Red demands.
Whilst trophies were laden the past two years,
(Cup, League and Shield caused Mancunian tears)
Half way table a truly sorry sight,
Champions flounder, with rivals in full flight.
February entered its first vestige,
Saw a deal struck of premium prestige.
Young matador adorns the shirt Number Nine,
A larger fee no-one had ever signed.
Their idol departed, roster not set
The Yanks had to purchase a new goal threat.
Burning pockets emptied upon the Tyne,
A rash amount spent, given sight of hind.
Rash followed Rush, and Aldridge and Fowler,
This Geordie lad best not have a howler.
Talented, troubled, scourge of Capello,
No-one’s cost more, but Nando and Dzeko.
What the future holds is yet to be seen,
Scarce optimism is left to be gleaned.
Anfield goals still rare as sitters are missed,
No trip to Ukraine a likely last diss.
And as for new Blue Boy, panic ensues,
The bench is his rest; upstarts earn their dues.
AVB and Kenny at pains to nurse
Their multi-million pound transfer curse.
The Legend of Nando and Carroll by Emelie Okeke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at strangebounce.com.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://strangebounce.com/2012/01/13/the-great-spl-brainstorm/.
