mblessing19
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Chapter 1 - Cold Russia
I sank in to the engulfing leather chair. Nine more chairs lined the perimeter of the meeting table.
The day was hot, an unsually warm day in the middle of May. The sun beamed it's way in and illuminated the whole room. The vague tint on the windows did it's job and kept me from squinting. I undid a button on my suit jacket as I felt an uncomfortable warmth travel through me.
I gave my tea another uneccesary stir as I flicked my wrist to check my watch.
12:30.
"Where is he?"
As I pulled my spoon from my cup and placed it on the adjacent saucer, Mr Roman Abramovich had arrived. I rose immediately out of my seat and walked towards the door, with my arm outstretched and offering my handshake.
He stood at the door, with his trademark awkward smile and apologised for being late. But I got the impression he wasn't genuinely sorry. He shook my hand very loosely and began walking towards the table.
"Mr Parkes, I am so glad to have finally met you. Please do take a seat" Roman said. In a very thick Russan accent.
"I won't waste my time here, or yours, in telling you about what we will be discussing this afternoon".
I just nodded. With what must have looked like a gormless look on my face. I was awe inspired, here I was sat opposite a man who has more money than God and owner of one of the biggest club in Football. I did not want to put a foot wrong.
"We were very impressed with the work you done during your time in America with LA Galaxy and in Spain with Villareal." He continued.
"And as you are aware, as of last week we are now without a manager. Mr Di Matteo did not fit the bill in terms of what we were looking for, but you seem the ideal candidate for the managers position here at Chelsea Football club."
I wasn't shocked. I knew why I was here. They had been through a catalogue of managers for interviews here and not one of them have touched Chelsea. I was there last resort. I wasn't stupid.
"I am very flattered that you would consider me for a position such as this" I replied.
"Good!" Came the repsonse from Roman.
"Now, we have gone over all your achievements and your Footballing CV and it makes sense for us to not bother with small talk but to rather just ask you one question. Will you take the job here?"
Where was I going? Back to Villareal? Where the locals torched my car because I lost the cup final. Where the boardroom was so dodgy I couldn't **** sideways without somebody knowing about it.
This was the only job opportunity in months. Yet somehow saying yes felt like making a deal with the Devil.
"That would be an absolute honour"I blurted out, with a forceful grin.
"Excellent. Unfortunately I am a very busy man, but I will leave you in the capable hands of my assistant Alexander to sort out details such as your contract and anything else you should need to know".
Rushed. Never a good sign. He sat down for a total of one hundred and eighty seconds and suddenly I'm the new boss of Chelsea Football club.
Alexander walked in.
An average sized man, dressed in a shiny navy suit, with a pale blue button downed collared shirt. His hair was parted on one side and was slicked back with the use of hair product. He had a large slab of stainless steel, poking out of his cuffs, a Breitling or a Rolex surely.
He darted over to me and shook my hand. He did not look impressed nor happy in general. He took the seat where Roman sat and spun a leather bound document on the table and flicked it open for me.
It was a contract. That much was evident from the Chelsea letterheaded paper. Removing a Mont Blanc pen from his jacket, Alexander started to indicate certain points of the agreement with me.
"This will be your remuneration package here, this is the length of your contract here, here are your list of targets for the upcoming seasons..." He waffled on, not interested in the slightest.
"I am sorry Alexander, but can I just stop you for one minute? I won't be signing this right now, I will need my solicitor to come in and check the fine print. Don't wan't to be signing my life away now do I!" A little joke to cheer up this poor looking sod.
Nothing. Not a flicker. Fine, suit yourself.
He got up and walked out with the merest of goodbyes.
"Great here ain't it..."
I sank in to the engulfing leather chair. Nine more chairs lined the perimeter of the meeting table.
The day was hot, an unsually warm day in the middle of May. The sun beamed it's way in and illuminated the whole room. The vague tint on the windows did it's job and kept me from squinting. I undid a button on my suit jacket as I felt an uncomfortable warmth travel through me.
I gave my tea another uneccesary stir as I flicked my wrist to check my watch.
12:30.
"Where is he?"
As I pulled my spoon from my cup and placed it on the adjacent saucer, Mr Roman Abramovich had arrived. I rose immediately out of my seat and walked towards the door, with my arm outstretched and offering my handshake.
He stood at the door, with his trademark awkward smile and apologised for being late. But I got the impression he wasn't genuinely sorry. He shook my hand very loosely and began walking towards the table.
"Mr Parkes, I am so glad to have finally met you. Please do take a seat" Roman said. In a very thick Russan accent.
"I won't waste my time here, or yours, in telling you about what we will be discussing this afternoon".
I just nodded. With what must have looked like a gormless look on my face. I was awe inspired, here I was sat opposite a man who has more money than God and owner of one of the biggest club in Football. I did not want to put a foot wrong.
"We were very impressed with the work you done during your time in America with LA Galaxy and in Spain with Villareal." He continued.
"And as you are aware, as of last week we are now without a manager. Mr Di Matteo did not fit the bill in terms of what we were looking for, but you seem the ideal candidate for the managers position here at Chelsea Football club."
I wasn't shocked. I knew why I was here. They had been through a catalogue of managers for interviews here and not one of them have touched Chelsea. I was there last resort. I wasn't stupid.
"I am very flattered that you would consider me for a position such as this" I replied.
"Good!" Came the repsonse from Roman.
"Now, we have gone over all your achievements and your Footballing CV and it makes sense for us to not bother with small talk but to rather just ask you one question. Will you take the job here?"
Where was I going? Back to Villareal? Where the locals torched my car because I lost the cup final. Where the boardroom was so dodgy I couldn't **** sideways without somebody knowing about it.
This was the only job opportunity in months. Yet somehow saying yes felt like making a deal with the Devil.
"That would be an absolute honour"I blurted out, with a forceful grin.
"Excellent. Unfortunately I am a very busy man, but I will leave you in the capable hands of my assistant Alexander to sort out details such as your contract and anything else you should need to know".
Rushed. Never a good sign. He sat down for a total of one hundred and eighty seconds and suddenly I'm the new boss of Chelsea Football club.
Alexander walked in.
An average sized man, dressed in a shiny navy suit, with a pale blue button downed collared shirt. His hair was parted on one side and was slicked back with the use of hair product. He had a large slab of stainless steel, poking out of his cuffs, a Breitling or a Rolex surely.
He darted over to me and shook my hand. He did not look impressed nor happy in general. He took the seat where Roman sat and spun a leather bound document on the table and flicked it open for me.
It was a contract. That much was evident from the Chelsea letterheaded paper. Removing a Mont Blanc pen from his jacket, Alexander started to indicate certain points of the agreement with me.
"This will be your remuneration package here, this is the length of your contract here, here are your list of targets for the upcoming seasons..." He waffled on, not interested in the slightest.
"I am sorry Alexander, but can I just stop you for one minute? I won't be signing this right now, I will need my solicitor to come in and check the fine print. Don't wan't to be signing my life away now do I!" A little joke to cheer up this poor looking sod.
Nothing. Not a flicker. Fine, suit yourself.
He got up and walked out with the merest of goodbyes.
"Great here ain't it..."
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