Alpha Romeo Metaphor II

Enrico Pucci

Enrico Pucci

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My Alpha Romeo is a metaphor for my life. I was once a calciotore, a centrocampista for Bologna FC 1909. I once lived the dream. I was a highly paid, pampered Serie A player with a beautiful wife, sumptuous apartment and all the associated trappings. At the peak of my playing days, I bought an Alpha Romeo convertible. It's a beautiful machine. It purred, growled and roared like a dream. It cornered like nobody's business. When I roared up, grown men looked on in envy. When my wife climbed out of it, these same grown men became weak in the knees.

As the world's economy collapsed in 2008, so did my knees, my playing career, my investments and my marriage. By the end of 2009, by the time my perfect storm had passed, the only thing I had left was my Alpha. Of course, it didn't run. It needed repairs and was sitting in my mechanic's lot collecting dust and pidgeon ****.

I tried to restart my life. It took a while. Eventually, Cadiz CF S.A.D. hired me to manage their team. Cadiz is a beautiful city on the Mediterranean directly south of Sevilla. El Submarino Amarillo are a former La Liga club languishing in El Segundo B4. That's one of the four third division leagues. They expected me to get the team into the play-offs yet undercut me at every turn. They eliminated meals at our training facility, slashed travel costs forcing us to drive six to ten hours on match days and downgraded our buses to jalopies. My tenure became a Spanish version of the America movie 'Major League.' I earned enough to get the Alpha running again and keep it running. I met a lovely woman and made some good friends.

Then the Swiss consortium that owned the club sacked me. They kept calling me on the carpet, repeatedly demanding I explain my plans for getting into the play-offs. When we lost away to the league leaders, a match I hadn't counted on getting any points from in my plan, I was dumped. What was so galling was that I found out I was sacked because one of the players read about it online while we were on the bus ride home. No phone call, no nothing.

I fell into depression until I started getting interviews for jobs in England.

AFC Wimbledon, a fan-owned and well-run club, hired me. Where Cadiz were deeply in debt, poorly run and arbitrary, Wimbledon were the complete opposite. Like me, they'd been reborn out of the ashes. The club formed after Wimbledon FC moved to Milton Keynes. They'd held try-outs, built a team and climbed up through the leagues. They had just barely survived their first season of professional football in the Sky Bet League Two (division four in England). I rebuilt the team and led them to promotion.

My Alpha was running beautifully. Since the club couldn't pay me the prevailing wage most League Two manager's made, they'd arranged with several supporters who owned garages to maintain the Alpha. Furthermore, a stunningly gorgeous younger woman decided she liked me. As my squad ran rampant, her modeling career took off culminating with her image plastered on billboards across the UK.

As my squad were kicking **** in the Sky Bet League One, as I contemplated trading in my old Alpha for a newer model, my past caught up with me and ruined my lovely relationship with Wimbledon.
 
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You might recall that I fell into depression after Cadiz sacked me. Maybe you don't. Let me retell that story, briefly, in order to place how I'm feeling now into context.

Cadiz was a rollercoaster ride emotionally. The Swiss Consortium that owned the club would periodically undercut my efforts. One day they eliminated team meals at our training facility, eliminated overnight stays on away matches and downgraded our bus service to jalopies without air-conditioning. This was all because they'd thrown money around like drunken sailors on shore leave when they built their new stadium. It's a beautiful, glass-encased jewel. But their matchday income never justified this. Bizarrely, they never forced me to sell any players.

I felt I had to made herculean efforts to make this team competitive. I had a defense that gave me nightmares. Literally. I'd wake up in a cold sweat having dreamt of an opposition on the fast break and my defenders fleeing for their lives as if Freddie Krueger was after them. They would actually retreat into the penalty box and cower. Every time the opposition broke on the counter I usually felt one of three things (and sometimes even several at once): the urge to fill my pants; the urge to wet my pants; the urge to vomit. Counter attacks against my El Submarino Amarillo usually led to me covering my face and peeking out between my fingers. The poor guy I hired to coach the defense screamed himself hoarse during matches and on the training pitch. The fact that we led the the El Segundo B4 in the least goals allowed category when I was the manager still baffles me. I attribute our low goal's against to the poor quality of our opposition more than anything else.

Furthermore, we had the propensity to lose home matches against anybody. As far as I can tell, many sides don't play well after moving into a new stadium. This trend continued under the new manager, so it wasn't just me.

While I was initially shocked they sacked me, they were arbitrary enough that it wasn't all that surprising once it sank in. By contrast, I am utterly shocked that AFC Wimbledon sacked me. We're in the hunt for a play-off spot and I have my guys punching way above their weight. The supporters love me and the allegations from Freddie Five Fingers are barely plausible.

Yet, they sacked me. You've all read about it.

The first few days, I spent my time moping around my flat doing my best to stay drunk. Then I got bored of drinking. Thank God for Breaking Bad, the American television show. I started watching it. I'm in the middle of the third season now. It's more addictive than crack.

My Mom called. My agent Luca called. Esteban called. Gwen has been my angel. It's not that she's done much of anything, it's more that she's given me space and has been willing to order in food for me as even that has been beyond my capabilities right now.
 
15 December 2013

My phone jangled in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was my agent.

"Bon giorno," I answered.

"Enrico, my friend. Who amongst all the people in the world aside from your mother is looking out for you.

"You're awfully excited for so early in the day."

"That's right. I am. Me. Your most loyal and trusted friend. The friend who won't stop fighting for you and looking out for you even as Europe's media drags your name through the gutters."

"How many cups of coffee have you had so far today?"

"You toe nail eating ****head. Do you have no gratitude for how hard I work on your behalf?"

"You know I love you."

"You only say that when I confront you for your lack of gratitude and compassion."

"Well, yeah."

"I have good news," he continued. "Bologna are willing to bring you on to manage their youth team. I think I can get you as much or more than you were pulling in at Wimbledon."

"Back to the mothership."

"Hello, Mama."

"Gwen has said she'd love to live in Italy."

"And there's that. But that's not all."

"Oh?"

"Yes. As you know there are two factions inside Bologna. One of those sides is the same culprits who are responsible for everything that hasn't been happening at the club. But there is a new faction of younger, bigger picture Directors who are apparently talking to some Americans about investing in the club."

"Doing a Roma?"

"In a sense. And if everything continues on the current path of listless attacking and porous defense, Bologna will get relegated and you would be well-positioned as Youth Team manager to take over once the new American owners are in control."

"You have thought this one through, my dear Machiavelli."

"And I ask you yet again, for the millionth time, who is looking out for you."

"You are."

"Right! I'll text or call with more details once I get this rolling. Ciao."

"Thanks. Ciao."
 
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11 January 2014

I turn the corner and I see the entrance ahead. I exhale a sigh of relief as if I'm coming home as I pull into the entrance area. Nothing has changed. Same walls, buildings and signs. I can even see Enzo slouched in the guard booth. He looks up from his La Gazette dello Sport, it's easily identifiable as it's pink, and throws it down when he sees it's me. He nearly takes the door off it's hinges as he flings it open. He's still an immense man, but he's obviously lost some weight.

"My little Devil, it's you!" he bellows as I roll up to his booth.

"Yes, Enzo, I'm back," I reply rolling down my window.

"Now step out of the car so I can frisk you," he says.

As soon as I'm out I'm engulfed in a bear hug that squeezes all the air out of my lungs and probably moves a few vital organs.

"You look good, my little Devil," he exclaims surveying me at arms length. I should explain his nickname for me. When I played for Bologna, he thought I ran around like a crazed maniac and having just watched a nature show that featured the Tasmanian Devil, decided that he'd call me 'his little devil.' "I approve of the hair cut, too. Much more refined. Yes, I like it."

"And how are you?"

"Me? Well, my wife stills has my balls in her vice," he replied. "Nothing new."

"You've lost weight," I said. "You look to be half the man you used to be."

"I have," Enzo said proudly. "Between the vice and my doctors, I've gained an interest in postponing my inevitable death and lost interest in eating. There's so little I'm allowed to eat these days I barely bother."

"It is so good to see you and I'm glad you're back despite all of the ugly accusations," he continued. "You know where to go. Please get yourself a badge today so I don't get in any trouble, okay?"

"I will and it's good to be back, great to see you," I said climbing back down into my car.

I drive over and park in front of the main building which houses the cafeteria, offices and conference rooms. As I'm walking in, Massimiliano Varricchio is walking out. We played together and coached the kiddie's together and now I'll be his boss.

"Maxi!" I exlaim.

"Enrico!" he exclaims. We hug. "Do I have it right that you've just arrived? Sorry to hear about all the controversy. You were doing so well with your team in England. Quite a shame. Regardless, your my boss. I always said you should have been Captain. We need to talk about the boys soon, though."

"Of course," I said. "I need to check into my hotel. Maybe dinner tonight?"

"You're in a hotel?" Maxi said. "You must stay with me until you find a villa. I can't let you live in a hotel."

"No, I couldn't trouble you..."

"It's no trouble," he interrupted. "You know how huge my villa is. I have plenty of rooms and several have their own bathrooms. You must stay with me. Plus Julietta would love to host you. You must."

"Sounds great," I replied. "I'll see you in a few minutes when I meet the players. I actually need to sign my contract."

"Excellent! I'll see you in a few."
 
12 January 2014

After switching trains in Roma and catching a taxi from Piazza Garibaldi in Napoli, I arrived at my potential doom. Despite taking the high speed line to Roma and from Roma to Napoli, it seemed to take forever. As I got closer, the more nervous I became. By Roma, my imagination had me sweating. By the time I got to Napoli, I nearly chickened out. I actually turned around and was going to walk back and catch the next train back. The taxi ride through Napoli and it's suburbs was excruciating. I had moments that I had trouble breathing and wondered if I was having a coronary or a stroke.

You might think I'm being melodramatic, but may I remind you that I'm visiting the villa of a member of the Camorra.

Regardless that I'd been here dozens of times before the turn of the millenium and in the aughts, this place always scared the **** out of me once I finally figured out that family of the woman I was planning on marrying was connected. Prior to my realization, this appeared to be a beautiful villa atop a small hill. Through an ancient gate and then up a cyprus-lined drive. Initially I thought it odd at first to have a pair of guards at the gate, but I chalked it off as to how the rich lived.

The guards were expecting me and waved me through. It's rather odd to see these beautiful hills and this working farm yet at the same time know that many people were driven out here to their deaths. Maybe I'm being overdramatic once again, but I could imagine the police finding dozens of unmarked graves for corpses with no teeth or fingers.

A servant led me in and I had me sit out on the veranda in the shade. This was a good sign.

When my ex-father-in-law walked in, I rose.

"Enrico," he exclaimed. He looked genuinely excited to see me. This is what made my eventual realization so incongruous. My ex-father-in-law was always so genial and pleasant and I could hardly imagine him ordering anyone's death or managing the Camorra's shipments of *** slaves or anything nasty.

Maybe this is what scared me most.

I kissed his hand then we embraced. I hope you recognize the importance of this. First, I kissed his hand to show respect. Also, this gesture showed that I understood the power relationship between us and knew my place. That he embraced me indicated that he still thinks well of me. That he didn't kiss my cheeks meant that I didn't need to wet or otherwise fill my pants.

"You are looking very good," he remarked. "The shaven head compliments you. You are well?"

"Yes, very well," I said. "I heard about Isabella. I'm so sorry. I really don't even know what to say."

I'd heard through friends that my ex-wife had nearly died from a heroine overdose recently. She wasn't just drinking and snorting coke anymore. Heroin and meth were in the picture now, too.

"Thank you," he replied. Then he sighed. Then he motioned that I should sit down. We sat. "I know you tried when you two were together. I've certainly tried since she left you." He sighed again.

"What do the doctors say?" I ask. "She's one tough woman."

"There's no brain damage," he replied. "So there is that. She's still in denial that she has any problems despite the mounting evidence. I fear that she'll be dead the next time. She's very weak still, physically."

"I'm so sorry," I repeated.

"What can we do?" he asked rhetorically as he shrugged. "Nothing. She seems intent on killing herself with drugs. But thank you for your concern. But I don't think that's why you traveled all the way to my villa."

"No."

I worked on my courage for a moment.

"I want to settle any debts I owe you," I said. "And explain my circumstances in London to you personally."

"I saw you were sacked by Weemble-Dohna," he replied. Italians always add a vowel to any English word that ends in a consonant. I have always found this endearing. "Pity. You had them playing very well."

"Thanks," I said. "It's a great club. I think they're going places. I'm glad I was able to contribute to the cause."

"Scotland Yard, the English police, approached me right after those local thugs approached me," I continued. "I realized that they must have connections to your business and that the police might trace back to people connected to you. So when they approached me about the match fixing, you probably read about me, um, beating up the guy." My father-in-law nodded. "I realized that these guys were incompetent and that if I forced the police's hand they might end the investigation before they started tracing links back to Italy. I turned out to be right that the police would raid the thugs and end the investigation. Plus, they threatened my girlfriend."

"You're dating or is it serious?" he asked.

"I sometimes wonder, I sometimes pinch myself, but, yes, I think it's serious."

"I'm so happy for you. You're a good man. You were good to my daughter. We both know what happened in the end was just inevitable. I hope this works out for you."

"Thank you very much," I replied. "But I must ask you, do I still owe you anything? I want to close the books ... financially ... with you. The London thugs claimed they bought my debt as a favor to you. If they didn't or there's a remaining balance or whatever, I'd like to pay that."

"Thank you for being so thoughtful," he said. "Let me speak with Gianluca. A moment, please."

He walked off and had a brief phone conversation.

"They bought your debt for fifty thousand euros," he said as he sat back down. "But you are a good man who tolerated my daughter for far longer than I could have. How much do you want to pay?"

"All of remainder," I said.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I know, but you helped prop up my restaurant and that was very generous. I am a horrible businessman. My future is in Calcio and I want to make things right now that I can. If you have an account you want me to wire money to, I have a bank in the Caribbean that is untraceable."

"Ahhh," he said smiling. "Are you sure you're such a horrible businessman?"
 
Fantastic as always mate. Really looking forward to reading more and more. ??????
 
First day on the job

Monday, 13 January 2014

I met the youth team staff. It was more of a reunion. Only one new physio since I was once a youth coach myself. I never really thought about it before, but Boy-O, do we have a lot of physios, fitness trainers and goalkeeping coaches. Could use a few more coaches. I explained the changes I was making. We'd be working harder on fitness, switching to a short-passing possession game and reorganizing training to focus on tactics and ball skills. They were all cool with it because they all knew me. Or at least they were all polite enough not question my authority during my honeymoon phase.

Once they were all in the locker room, I introduced myself the the boys. I explained the changes. I explained that like them I had been a kid trying to adapt to being far from home and learning the trade. I told them that my door was always open and that they all had my mobile. I further explained that I had found the sympathetic coaches in which I placed my trust and they became my surrogate parents while I tried to figure it all out. I mentioned that several were still employed and standing next to me.

I emphasized that the coaches would do our best to be clear about why we wanted them to do certain things in certain ways. I told them that for them to be successful and learn the trade, they all needed to buy into the team philosophy. Winning was a by-product, not an end result. I promised that we would teach them everything they needed to know to be a professional.

Then we went out and nearly ran them to death.
 
Here's the deal about what happened as winter turned to spring. Bologna continued to stink. Davide Ballardini became the third manager of the season and had the guts of the team ripped out in early February. Chairman Albano Guaraldi sold star forward Allesandro Diamanti to a Chinese team. It just so happened that Marcelo Lippi was manager of said Chinese team.

I get it that Guaraldi was just trying to get some money for an aging star who is having a stinker of a season. Diamanti only had five goals, but that was one quarter of the squad's goals.

I felt for Davide. He's a decent enough manager, but everyone just gave up. It's every manager's nightmare. Sell the team's talisman and suffer the consequences. There were protests at the gates to the training ground. There were protests during matches. They assigned a security detail for Gauraldi and Davide.

It was miserable.

Conversely, the U18 team took off in the opposite direction. At the winter break when i took over, we sat 14th. By the beginning of March we were 8th thanks to only dropping four points.

The rumors began to circulate in March of a new ownership group who would take over and revitalize the club.

In April it was confirmed that it was the owner of the Montreal Impact, Joey Saputo. Saputo has Italian roots and apparently his star striker for the Impact, the irrepressible Marco Di Viao, has played a large role in getting him interested.

By the end of April, the U18s are fourth and the Rossoblu were second bottom.
 
Thursday, 17 April 2014

The word around Casteldelbole was the two Americans thinking of taking over the club and investing in it's rebuilding, Joey Saputo and Joe Tacopina, would be visiting today. The janitors had worked extra hard to make the place look clean which to me is counter-intuitive. Don't we want to show them what a dump it is and explain how awesome it will be once they're paying for everything? Whatever.

During training, I saw a group of suits emerge onto the pitches. I recognized several of the more distinctive board members from a distance. Someone must have spotted me as the gaggle soon were heading my way. I told my coach to keep the drill going and walked toward them once they got close.

"This is Enrico Pucci," Director of Football Roberto Savoia said. "He's a former player and currently working miracles with our youth squad."

"Pleasure to meet you guys," I said in English as we shook.

They both looked shocked.

"You speak the English?" Joey Saputo said.

"And like an American," Joe Tacopina remarked. "Where you from?"

"DC," I replied. "Family connections got me a try-out after I failed out of my university soccer scholarship. Been here ever since. More or less. Just took the youth manager post after getting sacked by my English club."

"So, what's your secret?" Tacopina asked. "The boys are kicking ***."

"My flippant answer is that I'm just doing the exact opposite of Ballardini, Pioli and Bisoli," I replied. "The slightly longer version is I convinced the boys to buy into high pressing, short-passing possession football. I told them they'd learn a lot under me and have fun. We're certainly are having a good time."

"So you're saying you could do better than them?" Saputo asked.

"I am."

Several of the directors who shall remain nameless were staring daggers at me. Alessandro Benucci, one of my allies on the board, was barely suppressing giggles and chewing on a knuckle.

"Marco said to watch out for you," Saputo said. "Said that you'd be nothing but trouble."

"Marco's just still sore that I'd always take him out at the knees in training," I retorted.

"You know he said you'd say that," Saputo replied.

I just smiled that smile that people have told me scares people.

Joey Saputo smirks, wacks me on the shoulder and spins. This indicates that our conversation, or was it an interview(?), is over. Everyone follows him back towards the entrance to the locker room.
 
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I was devestated when your old story abruptly stopped!! Very clever how you have donet this! I hope you stick with it as it makes my day. I am already gutted htat I have finished these two pages and there are no more updates!!!
 
Welcome Back Enrico, it's fantastic that this is back...last years story on FM14 was an absolute joy to read, it was so detailed and captivating, I enjoyed every minute of it...looking forward to starting again with this one!
 
Love love love love love love that this is back!

Can you tell I'm pleased?
 
Thanks everyone for your kind words. It is good to be back.
 
My boys ended up finishing second. It was quite an inspired run that fizzled out at the end with an unexpected draw and loss in our last three matches. I have to give a lot of credit to them. They worked their ***** off and learned a lot. Only a couple will likely ever play in the Serie A so it's not like I had a lot to work with. But isn't it always that way with my squads.

On several occasions I had to make appearances in front of a match-fixing panel in Spain. Of all the cases they were considering, mine was the weakest. They couldn't establish that I'd had any financial gain and they'd poured over my finances. Mainly, they couldn't find any purchases I'd made that would indicate I'd just come into a large sum of money. Keeping the Alfa was most definitely a good idea. Furthermore, my explanation of how we'd barely stayed in the play-off plays and how I'd been repeatedly called in front of the board to explain myself went over well. The written testimony from the Cadiz board backed up my story.

I wasn't explicitly exonerated, but charges were dropped.

The Rossoblu finished second bottom. At least they were consistent. Consistently poor. Only two wins under Ballardini.

I know you're going to be shocked when I tell you this, but they sacked the manager. Surprised? No kidding.

The rumors started floating around that I'd be the next manager, others said there was no way the current leadership would every hire an American regardless of his history with the club.

I just enjoyed my vacation. I figured I'd let my agent Luca fight those battles. We toured Sweden and Norway. We visited my Mom in Washington, DC. We saw the Rockies (the mountains that is). We ended up in Cadiz. It's quite a change going from high up in the mountains to sea level, by the way.

My phone jangled.

"Luca, what's new?" I asked.

"You will not believe how difficult its been, but I've finally gotten you the interview for the Rossoblu job," he said.

"Excellent! I knew you'd pull this off."

"I've gotten you in the door, but you need to know several things. First, President Guaraldi is not a fan of yours. Neither is Director of Football Roberto Savoia. Neither of them were particularly happy with your comments when you met Joey Saputo."

"Interesting."

"However," Luca continued. "Alessandro Benucci, who along with Marco Di Viao, has been trying to get Saputo in control, likes you. So Benucci and his allies will support you and the old guard will try to undermine you. To that end, Guaraldi and Savoia been busy unloading some of the more expensive contracts and filling up the squad with lesser replacements. Furthermore, they've already loaned out a number of players you'd probably have wished they hadn't. Essentially, you're going to have to patch together a sports car out of pieces and parts from sedans."

"Finally, if you get the job, you will have to get the Rossoblu promoted in your first season if you're even going to have a hope of convincing them you can manage in Serie A."

"Thanks for all you do, Luca, you are the best!" I exclaimed.

"I have not confirmed the date for the interview, yet, but keep your schedule open," he concluded.

"You got me my chance, that's all I ask for. Ciao."

"Ciao."
 
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