Simply the Best
Chapter 1
29.10.1996,
‘Hello Paul,’ Ole GunnarSolskjaer greeted me as I entered the cliff, ‘Nice day for football?’
'Yeah,’ I said quickly, I didn’t want to get pulled into a discussion with him. I had to speak with the boss. I said my goodbye and strode confidently down the polished corridor to the doormarked with a brass plated emblazoned with the unforgettable words:
Alex Ferguson, Manager
I knocked and waited for the boss to answer it, to my surprise, the door opened and Brian Kidd, Ferguson’s assistant, answered it.‘Hullo Paul,’ the scot appeared like a giant at his desk. His shoulders wide and his aging face full of wisdom and savagery. He looked at me for a moment, inspecting me, and then gestured for me to speak my mind. ‘You wanted to speak to me I believe,’ His eyes boreinto mine and I blurted out,
‘I was just wondering if you were considering me for the starting XI against Chelsea this weekend boss,’ I said quickly. Ferguson’s eyes narrowed but he took a moment before gesturing for Brian Kidd to shut the door. As I heard the wooden mass slam into place Alex got to his feet.
‘Why do you think you should start at Old Trafford on Saturday Paul, what would you bring to the side?’
‘I would think you’d know that sir, especially since I’ve been at this club since 1986,’ I knew instantly itwas the wrong thing to say.
‘AND DONE ABSOLUTELY NOTHIN’!’ He roared furiously, ‘ach! Look at the other strikers! Look at your competition! Look at Eric’ He pointed out the window that faced the training pitch, where Eric Cantona was stood on the penalty spot facing Peter Schmeichel in the early morning frost. His shot thundered into the bottom left-hand corner of the net.‘Eric,’ Alex Ferguson continued, his tone slightly calmer than it had been a moment before, ‘Eric, he practises every morning, every evening… that’s why he plays, and why he’s so good! Then Ole, if he starts on the bench, look at him, he watches the play and how the passes are connected, how the defenders move and communicate. If Ole became a manager he would be among the best…but you? What do you do that warrants a place in my team?’
‘I…I don’t know,’ I said honestly, ‘but I’ll work hard, I promise you,’ the manager looked at me again.
‘Then Eff off and play your football, me and Brian will be out onto the pitch in half an hour. You want to be a professional footballer? Show me,’ I inhaled a deep breathe of Ferguson’s breathe, ashy and polluted before turning and exiting the small room.I got changed in silence, trying to ignore the inclusive reckless banter that Phil Neville and David May were exchanging, and walked out onto the large pitch at the cliff which the first team used. Down the far end I saw Eric Cantona and Peter Schmeichel embroiled in a series of penalty practise while at the near goal some of the younger guys, Becks, Scholesy, Nicky ****, Jordi Cruyff and Ronny Johnsen were aiming shots at the reserve goalkeeper, a friendly Dutch bloke. Beckham hit a Hollywood pass from across the field to me; I juggled it and crossed it backinto the penalty area where Jordi headed home. The ‘keeper picked up the ball and threw it away from his goal; and straight to my feet. The next thing I knew I was on my back and pain had erupted from my right leg. Ronny Johnsen was overme and the other players rushed over to see what was wrong.
‘I said MY BALL!’ Ronny gesticulated wildly. I pounded the hard ground with my right hand as I clutched my throbbing, ****** leg with the other.‘Get the club doctor,’ Eric said calmly and Nicky **** raced off towards the medical room, ‘Scholesy, go and tell the boss what has happened…’
2.6.2012
‘Hey Jude, Don’t be sad,’ my blackberry emitted for the fortieth time that afternoon. I looked down at the screen, now grubby thanks to my pressed fingerprints. Bruce Buck. I pressed the green button and held the phone to my ear.‘Bruce,’ I answered it.
‘What the ****’s going on downthere!’ He shouted impatiently in his now faint American accent.
‘I don’t know, I’m held up in traffic. I’ve got a question, who knows about this?’ I said calmly as my driver turned down the radio.
‘There’s been a leak,’ Bruce saidin a matter-of-fact tone.
‘How bad?’ I asked the Chelsea chairman.
‘It’s trending on twitter…’ I swore so loudly that the shell shocked driver turned to look at me in a dangerous way.
‘Do you want me to give a statement when I get to the hospital?’ I asked as the club car began to moveagain.
‘No, we keeping silent at themoment, letting the doctors do what they need to do-’
‘-has he gone into theatre?’
‘Yeah, anyway, Zoe will meet younat the hospital, she hasn’t told the kids yet…even though they probably know.’
‘Okay, anything else?’ The lines of parked cars down either side of the street had now turned into Sky Sports vans with a media camp parked next to the entrance of the London chest hospital. Lights were flashing from every direction.
‘Mr Abramovich is on his way from Russia now,’ Bruce hanged up. I thanked the driver and excited the car whilstputting on my coolest sunglasses. The wave of journalists surged towards me,only to be prevented by battle scared members of the metropolitan police. As I began to walk towards the doors of the hospital I felt the glare of thetelevision cameras and I caught questions by some of the louder journalists.
‘Mr Koeman is it true that Roberto Di Matteo broke down due to a serious heart condition in training this afternoon?’ I ignored them, even if they were right…
Chapter 1
29.10.1996,
‘Hello Paul,’ Ole GunnarSolskjaer greeted me as I entered the cliff, ‘Nice day for football?’
'Yeah,’ I said quickly, I didn’t want to get pulled into a discussion with him. I had to speak with the boss. I said my goodbye and strode confidently down the polished corridor to the doormarked with a brass plated emblazoned with the unforgettable words:
Alex Ferguson, Manager
I knocked and waited for the boss to answer it, to my surprise, the door opened and Brian Kidd, Ferguson’s assistant, answered it.‘Hullo Paul,’ the scot appeared like a giant at his desk. His shoulders wide and his aging face full of wisdom and savagery. He looked at me for a moment, inspecting me, and then gestured for me to speak my mind. ‘You wanted to speak to me I believe,’ His eyes boreinto mine and I blurted out,
‘I was just wondering if you were considering me for the starting XI against Chelsea this weekend boss,’ I said quickly. Ferguson’s eyes narrowed but he took a moment before gesturing for Brian Kidd to shut the door. As I heard the wooden mass slam into place Alex got to his feet.
‘Why do you think you should start at Old Trafford on Saturday Paul, what would you bring to the side?’
‘I would think you’d know that sir, especially since I’ve been at this club since 1986,’ I knew instantly itwas the wrong thing to say.
‘AND DONE ABSOLUTELY NOTHIN’!’ He roared furiously, ‘ach! Look at the other strikers! Look at your competition! Look at Eric’ He pointed out the window that faced the training pitch, where Eric Cantona was stood on the penalty spot facing Peter Schmeichel in the early morning frost. His shot thundered into the bottom left-hand corner of the net.‘Eric,’ Alex Ferguson continued, his tone slightly calmer than it had been a moment before, ‘Eric, he practises every morning, every evening… that’s why he plays, and why he’s so good! Then Ole, if he starts on the bench, look at him, he watches the play and how the passes are connected, how the defenders move and communicate. If Ole became a manager he would be among the best…but you? What do you do that warrants a place in my team?’
‘I…I don’t know,’ I said honestly, ‘but I’ll work hard, I promise you,’ the manager looked at me again.
‘Then Eff off and play your football, me and Brian will be out onto the pitch in half an hour. You want to be a professional footballer? Show me,’ I inhaled a deep breathe of Ferguson’s breathe, ashy and polluted before turning and exiting the small room.I got changed in silence, trying to ignore the inclusive reckless banter that Phil Neville and David May were exchanging, and walked out onto the large pitch at the cliff which the first team used. Down the far end I saw Eric Cantona and Peter Schmeichel embroiled in a series of penalty practise while at the near goal some of the younger guys, Becks, Scholesy, Nicky ****, Jordi Cruyff and Ronny Johnsen were aiming shots at the reserve goalkeeper, a friendly Dutch bloke. Beckham hit a Hollywood pass from across the field to me; I juggled it and crossed it backinto the penalty area where Jordi headed home. The ‘keeper picked up the ball and threw it away from his goal; and straight to my feet. The next thing I knew I was on my back and pain had erupted from my right leg. Ronny Johnsen was overme and the other players rushed over to see what was wrong.
‘I said MY BALL!’ Ronny gesticulated wildly. I pounded the hard ground with my right hand as I clutched my throbbing, ****** leg with the other.‘Get the club doctor,’ Eric said calmly and Nicky **** raced off towards the medical room, ‘Scholesy, go and tell the boss what has happened…’
2.6.2012
‘Hey Jude, Don’t be sad,’ my blackberry emitted for the fortieth time that afternoon. I looked down at the screen, now grubby thanks to my pressed fingerprints. Bruce Buck. I pressed the green button and held the phone to my ear.‘Bruce,’ I answered it.
‘What the ****’s going on downthere!’ He shouted impatiently in his now faint American accent.
‘I don’t know, I’m held up in traffic. I’ve got a question, who knows about this?’ I said calmly as my driver turned down the radio.
‘There’s been a leak,’ Bruce saidin a matter-of-fact tone.
‘How bad?’ I asked the Chelsea chairman.
‘It’s trending on twitter…’ I swore so loudly that the shell shocked driver turned to look at me in a dangerous way.
‘Do you want me to give a statement when I get to the hospital?’ I asked as the club car began to moveagain.
‘No, we keeping silent at themoment, letting the doctors do what they need to do-’
‘-has he gone into theatre?’
‘Yeah, anyway, Zoe will meet younat the hospital, she hasn’t told the kids yet…even though they probably know.’
‘Okay, anything else?’ The lines of parked cars down either side of the street had now turned into Sky Sports vans with a media camp parked next to the entrance of the London chest hospital. Lights were flashing from every direction.
‘Mr Abramovich is on his way from Russia now,’ Bruce hanged up. I thanked the driver and excited the car whilstputting on my coolest sunglasses. The wave of journalists surged towards me,only to be prevented by battle scared members of the metropolitan police. As I began to walk towards the doors of the hospital I felt the glare of thetelevision cameras and I caught questions by some of the louder journalists.
‘Mr Koeman is it true that Roberto Di Matteo broke down due to a serious heart condition in training this afternoon?’ I ignored them, even if they were right…
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