March 22, 2012
By Carl Mungazi
“I don’t know what I ate.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I can’t remember.”
Arsene paced up and down, stopping only to stare at his stricken captain, lying before him on the physio bed.
“How can you not remember? Weren’t you there when you ate it?” Arsene shook his head. He knew this day would come, but he hadn’t expected it to come under such circumstances.
“Okay, okay. Let’s not panic.”
“I’m not panicking boss,” Robin looked at his worried manager, “but your pacing is making me nervous.”
Arsene stopped walking and stood still. He folded his arms and then unfolded them. His hands went into his pockets and then came out again. The door opened.
“Boss when do you wa-”
“Not now! Get out!” The unfortunate soul who’d made the mistake of interrupting spun on his heels and made a hasty exit. Arsene glared at the door long after it had shut.
“Boss, you’re overreacting. It’s just a stomach bug. The doctor said I’ll be okay in a few days.”
The French manager snorted.
“A few days can be the difference between third and fourth. Do you want Harry to win? No. Third is our trophy.”
“But I thought it was fourth?”
“Football is fluid, you know this. It always changes. Now we have new aims.”
Arsene walked over to a table near the bed and picked up some documents that had been left by the club doctor.
“It says here you have a bug, most likely food poisoning.”
“I know, I was there remember? It was most likely from that new Tapas Bar that opened in Manchester.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Why there?” Arsene’s eyes narrowed.
“My wife suggested it.”
“Your wife. She’s been tweeting this week.”
“Yes, she wrote a tweet rubbishing rumours about a potential transfer for you.”
“You shouldn’t go out anymore.” Arsene put the medical report down and turned to face his player.
“There are people out there who want you. Want you badly.”
“Boss, are you feeling okay?”
Arsene stood in a trance like state staring into the distance, his hands resting on the table. An uncomfortable silence passed between the two men.
“Is the grass always greener on the other side?” Arsene suddenly asked. “Because if it is, then I’ve been missing out. I’m like a cow who’s been chewing the same grass for fifteen years and both my stomachs are fed up. I need new grass.”
The Dutchman looked at his boss in bewilderment, but Arsene didn’t notice. He continued.
“But then I ask myself, why change when the grass you’re chewing is okay and just needs new seeds to spruce it up a bit? The challenge comes when you have to make your own grass.”
He looked at his puzzled captain.
“Grass is resilient, it can grow and survive anywhere. Like us. We’ve survived, haven’t we? All the attacks that have come our way have only made us stronger.”
Robin nodded. He climbed out of the bed and put his slippers on.
“Where are you going?”
“I need the loo.”
The Arsenal captain walked uneasily to the door, his stomach still unsettled.
“Robin.” Arsene stopped the striker as he turned the door handle. “Are you sure you don’t know what you ate?”
The Dutchman shook his head.
“Good. I’d hate to think you’d tried eating a new type of grass.”
The Grass Isn’t Always Greener by Carl Mungazi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.