bigmattb28
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The season was over, but the silence in Scott Lanowski’s flat felt louder than any stadium. The league table said another third place finish, overachievers by anyone’s measure. But numbers didn’t soften the ache of falling short, nor did they answer the question gnawing at him; what now?
Leândro was gone. Koftas was still a question mark. Zygmunt would return to Lazio and Kwiatkowski’s loan from Wisła Kraków had run its course. The spine of his team was being pulled apart piece by piece, and the promises of tomorrow felt thin against the weight of reality.
Scott stood by the window, city lights bleeding into the dark, and let the thought settle. He could stay. He could fight again with whatever scraps were left and patch the squad together whilst chasing the promotion dream that had just slipped through his hands again
Or he could leave. Either take some time off or maybe go somewhere new. Somewhere that tested him, demanded more and maybe gave him the chance to step into becoming the manager he kept telling himself he could be.
He thought of the call earlier in the year from Sofia, as well as from Sarajevo. The calls he hadn’t really wanted to take, but they were reminders that people were watching. That he wasn’t just a small time story in Wrocław.
The season had ended. But for Scott, the real decision hadn’t even begun.
Indecision clung to him like a second skin. Part of him wanted to fight again with Ślęza, with the club that had given him the chance to show what he’s made of and to prove that third place wasn’t the ceiling but a stepping stone, a necessary rung on the ladder. Another part whispered that he’d already done his proving here, dragged a modest club further than anyone thought possible. To stay might mean loyalty, but it might also mean stagnation.
The papers only twisted the knife. Wisła Kraków, the big team fallen on hard times, had sacked Tomasz Kafarski after failing to claw their way back up. Within hours, Scott’s name had been mentioned, tucked neatly among a list of candidates. A rumor, maybe. Or maybe someone had decided his work in Wrocław wasn’t just a fluke.
He wasn’t sure how he felt reading it. Pride, yes absolutely, but fear too. A name like Wisła wasn’t just a job; it was a weight, a stage where failure echoed louder than success. And he wondered if he was ready for it, or if walking into a fire like that would burn away everything he’d built. He’d refused to comment on the speculation when asked by a member of the media on his last obligation before breaking for the summer.
Scott sat alone in his flat that night, the city outside humming with its usual noise, oblivious to the storm in his head. A glass of whisky sat untouched on the table. He stared at it like it might hold an answer, but none came.
What now? Start again with Ślęza, try to get over a line they might never cross? Or walk away before the weight of loyalty pinned him down for good?
He thought of Koftas and Leândro, a pair of unspectacular forwards that formed an unbreakable bond on the pitch and that shared most of the club’s goalscoring burden. He also thought of the players who had bled for him on cold nights in the forgotten corners of Poland whilst doing everything he asked, and more. He thought too of Kraków, of Sofia, of Sarajevo and of the voices telling him he could be more. One road promised comfort, the other danger and opportunity. Both carried the risk of regret.
When he finally switched off the light, he hadn’t chosen. And maybe he didn’t want to, because the moment he did, one part of him would be lost.
The office smelled of stale coffee and damp training gear. Marcin Lachowski, his director of football leaned against the desk, arms folded, eyes on Scott like he’d been waiting for this moment all year. Peter Basista, his assistant, sat opposite, tapping a pen against a notepad but not writing a word.
Scott didn’t know where to start, so he didn’t. He just let the silence hang until Marcin broke it.
‘You’re leaving, aren’t ya’? he said flatly. No accusation or malice, just pure fact.
Scott rubbed at the back of his neck and shook his head slightly ‘I haven’t actu…..’
Marcin cut him off ‘you don’t need to say it’ his voice quieter but sharper ‘we’ve seen it in your face these last few days, maybe even weeks. The way you look past the pitch or the walls sometimes, it’s like you’re already somewhere else’
Scott looked down at the desk. There was no way to dress it up ‘it’s not that I want to, it’s more like that I have to leave’
Marcin gave a small nod, like he’d rehearsed it in his head already ‘well whenever it’s settled, when or if you go, we go. The next man will want his own people. And we won’t hang around pretending to be wanted. If you stay, we stay, if you go, we go, that’s it’
Peter leaned forward, finally stilling the pen ‘if you’ll have us that is. Doesn’t matter if it’s Poland again, Bulgaria, Bosnia or Mexico. We built something here, we’ll do it again at the next place’
Scott felt his throat tighten. These were two of the men who had carried the weight with him, the ones who’d patched the holes when everything looked like it might cave in. Leaving Ślęza was one thing, but leaving behind these two, it twisted the knife deeper.
He gave them both a slow nod ‘whether the next step is here or somewhere else, I want you there’
For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the radiator, filling the silence of three men who knew a chapter was closing, even if the book hadn’t shut yet.
Marcin broke the silence by asking ‘do you have something lined up? Krakow want you I’ve seen, and didn’t the chap in Sarajevo say he might be back in touch?
Scott shook his head ‘nah, nothing yet. It could be a while, months even. If we leave any time soon it could happen quicker but, I don’t know, that’s what scares me the most, the waiting, the uncertainty’
The words hung in the air, heavier than any tactic board. late night or early morning team talk. Waiting. Uncertainty. Scott had lived with both before, but never like this.
His eyes drifted to the training ground outside the window, half lit by the sinking sun. How many hours had they bled into that grass? Scott sat there a while longer after Marcin’s question, the quiet pressing down on him like a weight. The thought of waiting months, maybe longer, scraped at the back of his mind. He hated drifting. He hated not knowing.
His mind then wandered and it carried ghosts. Alain Ngamayama, the center half scoring twice in the away win at Polonia Bytom in Scott's first game against his former team, the same season they survived in the ii liga. Koftas celebrating with arms outstretched after scoring the equaliser away at Znicz Proszkow that secured promotion to the i liga the season after. And Koftas scoring a hat trick away at Chojniczanka Chojnice, there were many more memories, and that's all they would be now, there would be no more to add.
Ślęza wasn’t just where he worked. It was where he’d bled, where he’d grown and where he’d been reminded what football could mean when you stripped it of money and glamour and only left the fight.
But every memory pulled at him the same way, they were already in the past.
Scott stood, slow but deliberate ‘I need to talk to Slawomir’ he said. His voice was steady now, firmer than it felt inside. The decision had landed, even if his heart still lagged behind it.
Leândro was gone. Koftas was still a question mark. Zygmunt would return to Lazio and Kwiatkowski’s loan from Wisła Kraków had run its course. The spine of his team was being pulled apart piece by piece, and the promises of tomorrow felt thin against the weight of reality.
Scott stood by the window, city lights bleeding into the dark, and let the thought settle. He could stay. He could fight again with whatever scraps were left and patch the squad together whilst chasing the promotion dream that had just slipped through his hands again
Or he could leave. Either take some time off or maybe go somewhere new. Somewhere that tested him, demanded more and maybe gave him the chance to step into becoming the manager he kept telling himself he could be.
He thought of the call earlier in the year from Sofia, as well as from Sarajevo. The calls he hadn’t really wanted to take, but they were reminders that people were watching. That he wasn’t just a small time story in Wrocław.
The season had ended. But for Scott, the real decision hadn’t even begun.
Indecision clung to him like a second skin. Part of him wanted to fight again with Ślęza, with the club that had given him the chance to show what he’s made of and to prove that third place wasn’t the ceiling but a stepping stone, a necessary rung on the ladder. Another part whispered that he’d already done his proving here, dragged a modest club further than anyone thought possible. To stay might mean loyalty, but it might also mean stagnation.
The papers only twisted the knife. Wisła Kraków, the big team fallen on hard times, had sacked Tomasz Kafarski after failing to claw their way back up. Within hours, Scott’s name had been mentioned, tucked neatly among a list of candidates. A rumor, maybe. Or maybe someone had decided his work in Wrocław wasn’t just a fluke.
He wasn’t sure how he felt reading it. Pride, yes absolutely, but fear too. A name like Wisła wasn’t just a job; it was a weight, a stage where failure echoed louder than success. And he wondered if he was ready for it, or if walking into a fire like that would burn away everything he’d built. He’d refused to comment on the speculation when asked by a member of the media on his last obligation before breaking for the summer.
Scott sat alone in his flat that night, the city outside humming with its usual noise, oblivious to the storm in his head. A glass of whisky sat untouched on the table. He stared at it like it might hold an answer, but none came.
What now? Start again with Ślęza, try to get over a line they might never cross? Or walk away before the weight of loyalty pinned him down for good?
He thought of Koftas and Leândro, a pair of unspectacular forwards that formed an unbreakable bond on the pitch and that shared most of the club’s goalscoring burden. He also thought of the players who had bled for him on cold nights in the forgotten corners of Poland whilst doing everything he asked, and more. He thought too of Kraków, of Sofia, of Sarajevo and of the voices telling him he could be more. One road promised comfort, the other danger and opportunity. Both carried the risk of regret.
When he finally switched off the light, he hadn’t chosen. And maybe he didn’t want to, because the moment he did, one part of him would be lost.
== == == == ==
The office smelled of stale coffee and damp training gear. Marcin Lachowski, his director of football leaned against the desk, arms folded, eyes on Scott like he’d been waiting for this moment all year. Peter Basista, his assistant, sat opposite, tapping a pen against a notepad but not writing a word.
Scott didn’t know where to start, so he didn’t. He just let the silence hang until Marcin broke it.
‘You’re leaving, aren’t ya’? he said flatly. No accusation or malice, just pure fact.
Scott rubbed at the back of his neck and shook his head slightly ‘I haven’t actu…..’
Marcin cut him off ‘you don’t need to say it’ his voice quieter but sharper ‘we’ve seen it in your face these last few days, maybe even weeks. The way you look past the pitch or the walls sometimes, it’s like you’re already somewhere else’
Scott looked down at the desk. There was no way to dress it up ‘it’s not that I want to, it’s more like that I have to leave’
Marcin gave a small nod, like he’d rehearsed it in his head already ‘well whenever it’s settled, when or if you go, we go. The next man will want his own people. And we won’t hang around pretending to be wanted. If you stay, we stay, if you go, we go, that’s it’
Peter leaned forward, finally stilling the pen ‘if you’ll have us that is. Doesn’t matter if it’s Poland again, Bulgaria, Bosnia or Mexico. We built something here, we’ll do it again at the next place’
Scott felt his throat tighten. These were two of the men who had carried the weight with him, the ones who’d patched the holes when everything looked like it might cave in. Leaving Ślęza was one thing, but leaving behind these two, it twisted the knife deeper.
He gave them both a slow nod ‘whether the next step is here or somewhere else, I want you there’
For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the radiator, filling the silence of three men who knew a chapter was closing, even if the book hadn’t shut yet.
Marcin broke the silence by asking ‘do you have something lined up? Krakow want you I’ve seen, and didn’t the chap in Sarajevo say he might be back in touch?
Scott shook his head ‘nah, nothing yet. It could be a while, months even. If we leave any time soon it could happen quicker but, I don’t know, that’s what scares me the most, the waiting, the uncertainty’
The words hung in the air, heavier than any tactic board. late night or early morning team talk. Waiting. Uncertainty. Scott had lived with both before, but never like this.
His eyes drifted to the training ground outside the window, half lit by the sinking sun. How many hours had they bled into that grass? Scott sat there a while longer after Marcin’s question, the quiet pressing down on him like a weight. The thought of waiting months, maybe longer, scraped at the back of his mind. He hated drifting. He hated not knowing.
His mind then wandered and it carried ghosts. Alain Ngamayama, the center half scoring twice in the away win at Polonia Bytom in Scott's first game against his former team, the same season they survived in the ii liga. Koftas celebrating with arms outstretched after scoring the equaliser away at Znicz Proszkow that secured promotion to the i liga the season after. And Koftas scoring a hat trick away at Chojniczanka Chojnice, there were many more memories, and that's all they would be now, there would be no more to add.
Ślęza wasn’t just where he worked. It was where he’d bled, where he’d grown and where he’d been reminded what football could mean when you stripped it of money and glamour and only left the fight.
But every memory pulled at him the same way, they were already in the past.
Scott stood, slow but deliberate ‘I need to talk to Slawomir’ he said. His voice was steady now, firmer than it felt inside. The decision had landed, even if his heart still lagged behind it.
