Okay, here goes. I haven’t written a FM story for a few years. A few of you may remember my “From Russia with love” story. I apologise in advance if my grammar or spelling is incorrect at times, I can only try my best. Also, the title is a quote from the bible, which is probably why it makes very little sense. This story is of course fictional, anything that happens or any resemblances it has to real life and/or real people are completely coincidental and there is no disrespect to anyone intended in my writing. I hope you enjoy reading and would be happy to receive some feedback.Chapter 1
‘Oi, who the f*ck are you?'
I stand alone in this dull, damp and poorly lit corridor. 18 men in football boots and red tracksuits clamber past me as if I was nobody, if only they knew. I make my way across the thick British mud and take my place in the stand. To my left a man dressed head to toe in the clubs kit—even at this level there are diehard fans, who knew, and to my right an old lady cradling her dog; I know children go free, but dogs? That’s a new one.
I sit here cautiously waiting for the team I will soon call my own to start playing, just hoping they don’t suck as bad as I’d been told they do.This manager-less team couldn’t buy a point right now. Although, they’ve somehow managed to avoid relegation thanks to an unbeaten run earlier in the season. They’re sitting uncomfortably in the 7[SUP]th[/SUP] tier in English football and it isn’t a pretty place to be. This isn't ideal considering my dream is to one day manage England at the World Cup, who's isn't, right? But I know everyone has to start somewhere and for me it’s here, Hemel Hempstead FC
The match kicked-off and I just knew it was going to be the longest 90 minutes of my life. The pitch looked as if it was made entirely out of mud as the ball trudged from side to side at a snail’s pace. I can’t complain though, most of the footballers on the pitch are better than me and I’m the man who will be telling them what to do the next time they play. ****. Still, when you see challenges like this you can understand why I’m so bewildered.
My father used to play for England, it’s likely that's the only reason I got this job. I can’t complain though, I asked him if he could help me out and he did, now I’m about to earn a massive £160 per week, woohoo. I know this job certainly won’t be easy but it’s got to be better than the life I’m living at the moment. No kids, no girlfriend, no social life to speak off. It’s just me, my job, and football. Well, the job I just quit—so really it’s just me and football.
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I wouldn't say I was a bad footballer, I had trials at a few Football League clubs in my teens but when you get to 19 and you aren’t signed you start to wonder if it was really meant to be. I gave up and decided to get some coaching badges alongside work. I’ve managed a couple of my local sides and lead them to success, nothing major. I'm 31 now and still waiting for that solid gold World Cup medal, can’t help but feel I’ll be waiting a long time for it, either.
The match finished 1-1, the highlights being a couple of goalmouth scrambles and a corner that was blown onto the crossbar by HHFC’s twelfth man, the wind. As everyone began making their way out of the one lonely stand, a man started walking towards me. He was wearing a black suit, woolly hat and wellingtons. “Ahh, Mr. Smith, would you like to meet your team?” he bellowed towards me, trying to make his voice heard through the gale force winds. It was the club secretary Dean Chance. “Sure.” I replied. We made our way back across the park and into the changing rooms.
The first team coach was giving the boys a debriefing as I entered.I took the seat closest to the door and waited for the coach to finish talking. “..And well done to Barry’s wife, Sue, who managed to raise £200 for charity in the cake sale last weekend. Now, I’ll hand you over to the very capable hands of Stan Smith.” I took the place of the coach in the centre of the room. This was it, the moment that I’d spent years dreaming of, I’m finally going to address my play—“Oi, who the **** are you?” I had shouted at me from the corner of the room. I forgot the speech that I spent 6 hours writing and instead replied with “I’m the guy who’s going to get you out of this shithole and into the big-time.”
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