The Alfa Romeo Metaphor

Cameron Dummigan, James Loveridge and Mark Tomlinson jumped off the bus as soon as it was back at Kingsmeadow. They all piled into Lover's car, he being the eldest and in possession of the best vehicle, and zoomed out of the parking lot. The rest of us walked at a more normal pace to our vehicles and left as well. The rest of us were in no hurry as, unlike the aforementioned threesome, we weren't going to pick anyone else up or kidnap if need be. The rest of us made our way to one of our usual haunts to get some dinner and celebrate.

Well, sort of celebrate.

Since Danny Boy was leaving us and bringing in a record transfer fee, we figured we figured we'd send him out in style. All the paperwork had been filed already with the FA and the Italy's FIGC. The only items left to take care of was to, first, get Danny extremely drunk, and, secondly, get him to the airport with enough time so that he'd make his flight.

The players who left on free transfers at the end of the season had the end of season party at Kingsmeadow to wrap up their Wimbledon careers. The few others I'd actually transferred, like the few players I sold last summer who were surplus to requirements just left. At least as far as I knew. But sending Danny Boy off was different. He'd been a key member of last season's title-winning side and would have played a key role this season.

A sheepish Danny Boy was pushed into the restaurant by his mates and the room erupted.

"Alright! Alright!" I said as the room calmed down a bit. "As manager, I feel it is my duty to get this party started off right. I'd like to thank Danny on behalf of everyone at the club. Here's a small token of our esteem and all that ****."

Erik Samuelson presented Danny with an away shirt (yellow) that everyone had signed.

"We're all glad your parents ripped you out of Newcastle, erm, I mean Gateshead to bring you down here," I continued. "You're mates are so proud you graduated out of our Academy into the first team. Even though, apparently, you were only in it for ... what ... a year? Nine months? Nine months. Right. Anyhoo, you've kicked some serious *** in the short time you've been with us and we'll attempt to fondly remember you with the few remaining brains that will still be functioning tomorrow morning."

"I hope, truly hope that when you're a regular in the Turkish national team you'll think back fondly on the ****head who made you play central midfield instead of out on the right where you became famous. Anyway, cheers, Daniel. You've been awesome. We'll miss you."

And the room erupted into a horrid, ghastly rendition of For He's a Jolly Good Fellow ...
 
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Wednesday, 2 September 2015 1ish in the PM

"RUN IT OFF, BOYS, RUN IT OFF!" I yelled at my players as they labored to make it round the outer edge of New Malden. It's normally a 20 minute jog. At the rate they were going, it might take weeks.

"You know what we need?" I rhetorically asked my fellow hung-over coaches. "We need hounds. I want to be able to yell Release The Hounds and some dogs would be released to chase these ****s around for a while. That'd get them fit quick."

Nobody even snickered.

"I noticed something in Lil's report on Shrewsbury," Coach Matt Woolley said after a moment. "Most of the goals they concede come from their right, our left flank."

"Good to know cuz Jason's been pretty awesome out on the left flank so far this season," I said. "What else. I haven't read the thing, yet."

"The also concede a lot just before half time and in the final fifteen," Wools continue. "He also said that their defense is a pretty soft bunch and that they don't work very hard for each other off the ball. In other words, their movement isn't good."

"And don't forget they beat us in the FA Cup First Round last year," Assistant Manager Sean Hankin added.
 
League One: Shrewsbury Town FC v. AFC Wimbledon

View attachment 354110Here we are out in the West Midlands, Shropshire. Shrewsbury's new signings, keeper Alex Cisak and winger/forward Josh Murphy will be starting.

On our side of things, Cameron Dummigan gets a rest. I'm playing Mark Tomlinson and Steven Gregory together in the middle to give my back four more protection. To be safe, I asked Mark and Gregs to mark their central midfielders.

My pre-match message was simple: I expect a win. They're playing like ****, we're not. If we're meant to be in this league, we'll need to beat the teams below us.

We created our first real chance in the 5th minute, George Francomb crossed near post and Cisak managed to get an arm on Lover's blast. George hit the corner to Matteo Ricci at the top of the box. Ricci controlled it and sent it right back to George. George heard me yelling and lobbed the ball into the mixer like he should have done the first time. The ball ricocheted amidst the flailing legs for a minute until Gregs trickled a shot just wide.

A minute later and Gregs threaded a through pass into the left channel for Lovers. Lovers dribbled into the box and cut back onto his right foot. The defender completely bought his fake but Lovers didn't use his time well and shot wide of the far post. I could tell he wanted to bend his shot in towards the far post but it had no bend.

We kept creating good chances. Jason Banton shot right at the keeper when free inside the box, Lovers had a second shot blocked and both Ricci and Francomb shot high from good positions.

Our luck finally broke in the 29th minute, George hoofed a 40 yard free kick into the box. Everybody is wrestling with everybody. It's completely going WWF near the penalty spot. As the ball bounces past Lovers who was trying his damnedest to get to the ball but couldn't, the ref pointed to the spot. Defender Joe Jacobsen releases Lovers and and joins the rest of the Salop players who are pleading with the official. Jacobsen is pantomiming that Lovers had hold of his jersey.

Ricci jogs over and grabs the ball. By the time he's done fiddling with the placement, the Shrewsbury players have given up complaining. The ref blows his whistle and Ricci jogs up and shoots left. But neither hard enough nor far enough away from the keeper. Cisak gets a hand to it and directs it wide.

****! And ****!

Shrewsbury race towards our end on the counter attack trying to catch us while we're disorganized. All they can manage is a long-range shot that grazes the bar. Lincoln had it covered.

Suddenly Shrewsbury are on ascendency. They keep the ball in our end but we're well-organized and they only create one bad angle chance that goes wide of the far post.

In the 41st minute, Jim Fenlon chops down their right midfielder. Everyone lines up at the top of the box. Jacobson lobs a ball in. Suddenly, McAllister throws himself to the ground and a second later the ball flies past. Mark Tomlinson watches the ref in horrified agony as he points to the spot.

Everyone is screaming DIVE at the ref. It doesn't matter. No ref has ever reversed a call because they've been conned.

McAllister buries the penalty.

1-0

Ricci and Tomlinson both look despondent for very different reasons. Perfect timing. Now I'll need to get them focused on a comeback for my half time talk. We really should have converted our possession dominance of the first half hour into a goal.

"PICK YOURSELVES UP! IT WAS BAD LUCK! BAD LUCK! PULL YOURSELVES TOGETHER!" I yell.

They do.

Tic, tack toe and we've worked the ball downfield and George's cross is cleared for a throw-in. Fens throws it in to Mark who gives it right back to him. Fens plays the ball down the line to Ricci who plays it back upfield to Gregs. Gregs one-times a pass up to George who one-times a pass inside to Lovers.

Lovers turns with the ball and blasts it near post past the keeper.

1-1

"That sures changes my team talk, dunnit?" I remark to Hanks as we stroll into the changing room.

First thing I do is tell everyone we need to make up for Ricci's bad luck. I repeat it in Italian. Secondly, I ***** about the ref. Then I translate. Thirdly, I tell them that this game is there for us to win. I tell them that they were the better side but just need to finish our chances.

Soon after the restart, Jason Banton raced down the left, beat two defenders and crossed near post into the path of Lovers. Unfortunately, Lover's header was right at the keeper.

Then the game got quiet for a bit.

Another mistake gifted Shrewsbury a second goal at the hour mark. Andrea Sbraga misjudged a cross and the ball fell to left midfielder Bruno Andrade. Andrade had drifted inside and looked as suprised as the Wimbleon players around him. He spun and tapped the ball into the net.

2-1

****! ****! and double ****!

Two mistakes, only two mistakes all match and they score twice. ****!

I get Michael, Leandro and Matteo Nole warming up.

We're still in shock and give the ball away soon after the restart. Thankfully, Lincoln is on top of his game and robs Shrewsbury striker John Rooney. The combination of me and Lincoln yelling wakes them up. We start knocking the ball around well and eventually start creating chances.

But George is too anxious to score and gets caught offside even when the Shrewsbury defensive line are all in front of him. There's no excuse for these kinds of offsides.

In the 68th minute, I get tired of watching chances get wasted. I sent on Leandro for Gregs and Matteo Nole on for George. Jason switched over to the right and Nole slotted into he left wing position.

In the 73rd minute, Brad took a throw in deep into the Shrewsbury half. He heaved it into the box sort of kind of in the direction that Lovers was running. Lovers was surrounded by four defenders and tripped on something. He stumbled and then crashed into the legs of a defender taking down two defenders in a domino-style collision.

The ref stared at the pile-up for a second, then blew his whistle and pointed to the spot. Fkn A. I'll take it. Leandro displatched the penalty and we were all even.

2-2

Then we tried our best to lose the match, but failed. Suddenly, we couldn't complete a pass and resorted to aimless hoofing of the ball. Next we were incapable of marking. Then Lincoln started losing his composure and started flailing at crosses. It's as if Leandro's act of scoring from the spot lobotomized his teammates. There were stretches of Keyston Kops impersonations in our own penalty box. The ref had already called three penalties, I was shocked we didn't cause him to call another.

View attachment 354112I was steaming fkn mad by the time the final whistle blew and I told them calmly that I was displeased with their performance.

I think they could see how steamed I was. The veins on my neck stand out, I've seen this in locker room mirrors, and I'm told I have a couple of blood vessels on the back of my head that pulse when I get really riled up. Also, they must've all realized how poorly they'd played at the end and they knew they'd squandered many opportunities.

"Listen, This wasn't Ricci's fault because he'd missed a PK or Mark's fault because his mark conned the ref with a dive or Sbraga's fault because he misjudged a cross," I said. "**** happens. Bad refs happen. Lovers, Jason and George had missed some gilt-edge chances, too. It's a team game. We live and we die how we play as a unit. We live and we die by how we adapt to the situations we face minute to minute out there. We, as a unit, should have played better today. Let's get showered and get on the bus and get the **** out of here."

At least we're above MK Dons.

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Gwen texted me to pick her up at our flat. So after the bus let's us off at Kingsmeadow, I drive home, find a place to park and walk up to the Wombles Watch who is sitting on a lawn chair. We make some small talk about the match, he'd watched the video feed on his iPad. As always, I thank him for doing this for me. As always and as all of them invariably say, he says it's nothing and that he's glad to do it. Wombles Watch has organized itself into a group of perhaps 50 or 60 supporters to take 4 hour shifts.

Because there is ALWAYS somebody sitting on a lawn chair in front of my building, I leafleted the block explaining in terms as vague and generic as possible what was going on and why. Mainly, it was to prevent any of my neighbors from freaking out. The little old ladies on my little dead end street have taken it upon themselves to keep the Wombles Watch volunteers tanked up on tea or lemonade (depending upon the weather) and biscuits. Often as I greet the volunteer, one of the pensioners is passing the time shooting the **** with the volunteer and the three of us talk for a while.

Seriously, when this all blows over, I'm going to have to throw a block party for my neighbors. I've met a few so far and they're great people.

Anyway, I climb the one flight up to my flat. As I approach our door, I notice that it's slightly ajar. We always keep it locked as you might have guessed.

I don't hear anything, so I give the door a push. It squeaks like it always does. I can't see all that much of the inside, but nothing looks out of the ordinary. At least the place hasn't been trashed or anything. I walk in leaving the door open.

A large man I don't know is lounging on my IKEA sofa. Gwen is sitting rigidly with her hands in her lap in the new chair she'd recently purchased.

"Bout feking time you showed up," he says.

I just look at him. Memorizing his face. To the outside of his left eye, he's got a scar running downward toward his jawline. He's got brown eyes, bushy eyebrows. Brown hair. He's got a goatee. He's got to be in his mid twenties. He's wearing baggy jeans and a oversized black tshirt.

"You are a difficult man to talk to," he continues. I just stand there. Partially, I'm in shock that he's sitting there. Part of me is concerned about Gwen's well-being. Another part of my brain is trying to figure out how he got in.

"You're not answering your mobile which is jes feking rude," he says. He had to have broken in through the back door. I glance over at Gwen. She glances up at me but I can't read her look.

"Are you okay?" I ask her. She nods.

"I'm feking talking to you, here," the man says. "So listen the fek up. I'm just here to send you a message that we can get to you any time we want. Clear?"

I just look at him.

"And we want you to throw a match," he continues.

"Really," I say. "Let me guess. You've got it all lined up in Singapore and you're probably even going to tell me which match."

"I don't like the tone of your voice," he says.

"Really," I reply. "You break into my house, threaten my girlfriend and me and expect me to be polite. Seriously. Do you ****ing live in a comic book reality or a ****ing ... uh ... I don't know ... Grand Theft Auto game?"

"SHUT YER PIEHOLE, ARSEHOLE!" he shouts at me and stands up.

Before I realize what the **** I'm doing I've launched myself at him. I'm a football player. I'm going for a knee high tackle with intent to injure. Not only would I be red carded for a tackle like this, I'd be in front of the FA facing a lengthy suspension. I hear a satisfying crunch as my foot impacts into his knee.

I bounce up off the coffee table which I've landed on and I'm on top of him throwing punches. Several of them land solidly. He's trying to shake me off but I'm straddling his waist and throwing. Someone is screaming. Somebody grabs me from behind and hauls me off. I break the arm lock and throw the person to the floor. It's Mel, from the Wombles Watch downstairs. I was about to jump him thinking he was the intruder's back up.

Everything slows down now. Gwen is screaming. Mel is okay and saying something. I've beaten the intruder to a pulp. The dude is moaning. He's going to need an ambulance. His blood is all over my couch. My right hand really, really hurts. I look at my hand. I've ripped skin off my knuckles pounding on this guy.

I walk over to Gwen to give her a hug. She holds me back.

"You're covered in blood," she says. I look down. She's right.

"Are you okay?" I ask again. She nods.

"God **** it, Mel, I'm terribly terribly sorry," I say and offer him a hand up.

Mel dials the police.
 
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They've taken the intruder away in an ambulance to the hospital. The medics cleaned and taped up my right hand. I've given my statement to a constable. I've taken some ibuprofen to dull the ache. The medic was sure I'd only bruised my knuckles. Gwen's given her statement as well. Mel's gone home. I kept apologizing to Mel until he told me for the umpteenth time that he's fine and added the new wrinkle to his response that I should just shut it. So I stopped apologizing.

Gwen and I are sitting at the kitchen table sipping beers. A policeman with a camera is taking pictures in the living room. He even took pictures of my knuckles.

I've got the shakes now. Gwen does, too. Hence the beer to calm us down.

"Well, you've just about gone and done it," Inspector Jameson says as he makes his entrance into our flat.

"Yeah," I say and take a swig of my beer.

"And do you per chance recall my instructions about what you were to do next time they contacted you?" he asked.

"Go all vigilante on their *****?" I meekly reply. I don't know why I try humor on the Inspector. He just glares at me.

"You've thrown a wrench into our investigation, that's for **** sure," he says after a moment. "Just so you know, we're bringing Frederick Thomson, aka Freddie Five Fingers, to hospital under an assumed name so it will take his mates a while to find him. We'll have to formally book him by Monday for breaking and entering and threatening you. Because you have gone off half-cocked like this we are going to be raiding their drug smuggling operations and the two brothels they operate. We would have liked to learn more about their plans for match-fixing, but ..."

"I'm really sorry," I interject.

"... and I'm sure you are," Jameson continued. "We were getting close learning who their continental contacts were. Do you realize what your little GBH has done? I'm fairly certain we've got enough to send them all away for a decent number of years, but we were this close to having so much more. We've alerted Interpol and the Italian anti-mafia operations and given them what we have and hopefully it's enough that they can shut down the other end of the drug and human trafficking operation with whom Freddie and his associates interacting."

"I'm really sorry I lost it," I said.

"Yes, you did," Jameson said, turned and strode out of our flat with the police photographer in tow.

"I'm just glad he didn't lay a hand on you or anything," I say to Gwen for the umpteenth time once I heard the downstairs door slam shut.

She leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"Let's get something delivered and watch a movie, kay?" she says.
 
Sunday, 6 September 2015 noon

"Listen up!" I said to get everyone's attention in the New Malden locker room before we started our training session. I had to tell them about the bull**** last night. "If you didn't read the newspaper or watch TV or check the news on your mobile, in other words, if you live under a rock, you probably don't know that I'm in the news. I'm in the news for some non-footy related ****. When a reporter asks you questions, tell them to call Erik. Don't answer any questions except about footy."

"A south London gang decided they wanted to force me to throw a match or two," I said. "I'd been in contact with the police for quite some time regarding the matter. Well, last night one of them broke into my house and was sort of holding Gwen against her will. Just so you know, she's fine. The guy was a gentleman, apparently. I wasn't so gentlemanly."

"Don't **** with Don Pucci!" Lovers said.

"Nice hand, boss," Cam added.

"Honestly, I lost it," I said. The room got quiet. "You all would have been proud of the knee high tackle I took him out with as he was getting up. Then I hurt my hand punching him."

"****, yeah!" Michael grunted.

"Well, except what I did was really stupid," I continued. "I was just lucky he didn't have any associates with him. The police raided all those places cuz of me losing my ****. Apparently, they were close to moving up the ladder and getting their suppliers."

"Anyway," I said in conclusion. "I wanted you to hear it from me first. You'll hear plenty more in the news for the next few days. So let's get out their and get loosened up. I would very much like to concentrate on preparing for Bradford next Saturday than all this bull****."
 
League One: Bradford City FC v. AFC Wimbledon

View attachment 352868There were only three reporters to greet me at Valley Parade when we got off the bus. I politely reminded them that I'd already released a statement, that they could just read the charges to find out my involvement and that I would gladly answer any football related questions.

"Do you think all of this publicity will affect your team's performance," one of them asked after pausing for a moment to try and think up a question. Several of the players behind me who were walking into the stadium laughed.

"I can't say it better than they just did," I replied and walked into Valley Parade.

When there's all kinds of bull**** like this swirling around, it's refreshing to get back to doing what's natural: training and matches. So the usual humdrum of driving to Kingsmeadow, riding the bus to the train station, the train ride, all of that is refreshing considering the minor media maelstrom surrounding my life. I enjoyed giving my final instructions and pep talk. The players seemed very focused this week, too.

The stadium seemed empty as both sides marched out onto the pitch for the pre-match ceremonies. The stand behind the benches was partially full and the Wombles were behind one goal. I applauded them as they were making more noise than the Bradford supporters. It goes to figure, though. The Bantams are having an awful start to the season. They weren't supposed to be relegation candidates and the fans are staying away.

I can see why they're staying away once the match starts. Bradford are dreadful. They can't string passes together and they're not particularly organized defensively.

We shred them to tatters in the 12th minute. We're playing some tiki taka football that would make Messi et al proud. We keep the ball starting in the 10th minute. We don't really do anything other than make the Bradford players run in circles. After lulling them to sleep, Mark Tomlinson spotted George Francomb's run inside their left back Kevin Stewart. The pass arrives just as the Stewart lunges in with a tackle. George wins the tackle and bursts into the penalty area. The keeper, Boaz Myhill, blocks the shot and as George winds up for another try, Stewart lunges in with another tackle.

He got all planting foot, no ball. The ref immediately points to the spot.

That one probably stung a lot. George hopes up and limps toward the corner flag as Leandro collects the ball. George signals to the bench that he'll be fine as Leandro fiddles with his ball placement. Leandro shoots low left and goes right.

0-1

The Wombles behind the goal go berserk. Their cheering and chanting and singing echoes around the silent stadium.

You know how players occasionally head a shot driven right at them? Manny Smith deflected a howitzer of a shot in the 14th minute. I was surprised he was still standing. He proved he was fine moment's later with a perfectly timed challenge to deny Steve Morison a goal scoring opportunity.

In the 16th minute, Bradford broke on the counter after Myhill nabbed our free kick into the box. They eventually worked the ball into Gianvito Plasmati who instead of shooting passed across the box. I was surprised by this because Plasmati is the one player in decent form for the team. I'll give him that the angle was the best, but still. Anyway, the ball rolls across the box to our left upper corner where the right midfielder Danny Green was approaching.

This is a perfect opportunity. The ball is rolling across the perfectly groomed pitch. Nobody anywhere near him. Just the keeper to beat. Green caught it perfectly. The ball didn't even spin. Just looked destined for the far upper corner. I thought Lincoln was just desperately flailing away to make it look like he tried, but he nicked it ever so slightly and the ball went just wide of the far post.

0-1

What a save! The Wombles behind far the goal go just as berserk as when Leandro converted the penalty. Then they started chanting:

"Call the Police! Call The Police! You've been robbed by Lincoln!
Lincoln Lincoln, Lincoln!"

Both teams continued to march back and forth across the field. The Bantams chances always fizzled with a blocked shot, a harmless long-range shot or a misplaced pass. Banton was sent in alone twice inside two minutes. He shot far corner both times. The first one was just a wide and Myhill tipped the second round the post.

Around the half hour mark to 35 minute mark, something must have collectively snapped inside the Bradford City player's brains. The last part of the first half, they spent defending free kicks. We didn't manage to take advantage of this, but it also eliminated the rhythm of the first half hour.

At halftime, I reminded the players not to get complacent. I reminded them that the Bantams are fragile. I told them I expected an onslaught to start the half. Survive that and they'll collapse.

I was right.

Only, the onslaught barely lasted six minutes. Then the Bradford players started getting frustrated. Referee began handing out cards like it was Christmas starting in the 51st minute.

I'll be honest, my players play aggressively. I want them playing at the edge of what's legal. Normally, I'm used to my players dishing out the special sauce. But today, I spent most of the second half moaning at the ref and pleading with the fourth official about the ultra-violence the Bantams were dishing out to may players.

It started getting ridiculous after the hour mark. Bradford became unable to pass and just hoofed the ball somewhere when put under any pressure. I felt embarrassed for Paul Jewell. On paper, this was a much much better team than I was seeing today.

I sent on Steven Gregory to provide a calm, veteran head for us out there. Aside from Sbraga and Manny Smith, my starting XI were all twenty or in their early twenties. Also, I switched to the 451 with a holding midfielder, Gregs, sitting in front of the defense. Additionally, I want fragile Leandro on the bench as the match became more and more "agricultural" as the English euphemistically say.

Michael came within inches of ending his goal scoring drought in the 67th minute.

In the 83rd minute, George swung in a near post corner. Andrea Sbraga smashed home a volley from 3 yards out to put the match to bed.

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Well, all except for Bradford going absolutely mental.

At this point I was getting hoarse from yelling at the ref to protect my players. The fourth official was simply ignoring my pleas. Mainly because I never stopped whinging at him during the last quarter hour of the match.

My players did a good job of managing the game, I must say. They knew that the Bradford players were getting dirty and they were just making sure that both feet were in the air when the Bradford player clattered into them.

Poor Jon Whitney. He ran sprint after sprint out onto the pitch to administer to the fallen Dons. Either his freezy spray and magic sponge really were magic today, or my players did a great job of avoiding any serious injury.

As you'll notice, they had 7 bookings which is an automatic fine. The 7th booking was in the 90th minute to Jason Kennedy.

Wimbledon is in a play-off spot and MK Dons are in a relegation fight. It really can't get much better than this for my dear Wombles.

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Sunday, 13 September 2015 a bit before noon

The treatment room is full after yesterday's shin kicking. The players showed up early because they guessed there would be a lot of sore feet, shins, knees and ankles. Anyone with sore feet and ankles got a bucketful of ice. Only a chosen few, the select amongst the sore, the sorest of the sore who got to sit in the two ice baths.

Our physio, Jon Whitney, looked harried already and he had a bunch more sore muscles to massage. There are those days that it looks like a natural disaster hit nearby and this is one of them.

Knock on wood, but Whit's initial reaction when I wandered through was that we don't have any major injuries. After yesterday, I honestly believe that this is not what the Bantams intended.

I wish that I could take it really easy today, but we have Ipswitch Town this coming Wednesday. A rare mid-week match. So we'll have a nice stretch, a slow jog and work on more tactics stuff today.

To distract the players are the tabloids. They're having a field day with my mafia connections. All kinds of lurid and vacuous speculation. I can't wait for this to end.
 
League One: Ipswitch Town FC v. AFC Wimbledon

View attachment 350955Portman Road is less than half full. It stands to reason, though. Their club was depressingly poor last season and their supposed savior, Alex McLeish, failed to do much of anything and didn't feel the need to fall on his own sword. Or at least leave. And apparently, the left overs from last year and the inexpensive replacements haven't been thrilling the fans.

Regardless of all that, these guys are faster, stronger and more talented than us. This match and the next one are tough tests for us. I'd be more than happy with two points from the pair.

I paired Mark Tomlinson and Steven Gregory together for the defensive solidity. Cameron Dummigan needs a rest so he's on the sub's bench.

"Guys!" I said loudly to get everyone's attention so I could start my pre-match talk. "We're huge underdogs tonight. So relax and play our game. We're up in this league for a reason. Ipswitch got relegated for a reason. They haven't been playing all that great so we might have a chance today if we remain calm and take advantage of their mistakes."

And you know what? We played great. We dominated the midfield and dominated possession. I thought that we were going to score; we sure as **** looked the more threatening side. Not even Leandro Depetris' 7th minute injury slowed us down. Ricci stepped right in and kept the passing game purring.

Then inside one mad minute it all fell apart.

Andrea Sbraga let Max Clayton jump up for a header unchallenged. It wasn't a hard cross but Clayton gave it a little extra oomph and aimed it into the upper corner. We promptly gave the ball away and the cross from the other flank baffled us. Mark Tomlinson stepped over to control it at the same time Brad Smith stepped up to clear it. Brad's clearance caromed off Mark and Manny Smith and fell at the feet of Clayton.

2-0

Game, set and match.

We continued to dominate possession in the second half, looked threatening but failed to follow through.

View attachment 350954Even I applauded David Cotterill's goal to make it 3-0. We gave the ball cheaply. Ipswitch got the ball upfield to Clayton who just redirected the pass into the gap behind Manny Smith. He raced onto the ball and headed goalwards. He lost the ball in his feet, but what followed exemplified the kind of day we were having. As everyone caught up with him as he clumsily tried to get control back, he tapped the ball out wide right 5 yards where nobody else was.

Then he ran at the ball, spun as he planted his foot and lofted the most delicate chip that floated over the flailing Daniel Lincoln and nestled into the far side netting just under the crossbar.

Sadly, a delicious goal of the month candidate at our expense.

What the **** do you do? One mad minute and a wonder strike and it looked like we got our ***** kicked.

"That was some rotten ****ing luck," I said in the locker room afterwards, still shaking my head over their three goals and our inability to find the net despite looking more dangerous. "I'm not really concerned about this loss. We were expected to lose but you guys worked your ***** off. We dominated possession. Let's just forget tonight and move on."

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Thursday, 17 September 2015 10:30AM

I just sighed as I sat down with my coaching staff in a conference room at King's College New Malden facility.

"C'mon, boss, cheer up," Assistant Manager Sean Hankin.

"So what's weighing on you?" Coach Matt Woolley asked.

"Scoring," I said and sighed again.

"First, you need some or more caffeine," Coach Alex Inglethorpe added and got up to pour me a cup of coffee.

"I'm wondering if I need to sign a striker," I said. "Michael is ice cold. Lovers looks as threatening as warm milk and Dylan looks promising but he's slow. I could play Jason Banton up front but Nole is incapable of scoring and Francomb's shooting is all over the ****ing place. We're creating plenty of chances but we're not converting them."

"What's our goal this season?" Coach Andy Garner asked. "I know you've agreed with the DTB that primary target is to avoid relegation, but is that really our goal? Can we achieve top 10? Get into the promotion chase?"

"We can't get into the promotion chase if we're unable to score," I replied. "Defensively, we're pretty decent. We've got two good goalkeepers. We can control the middle of the park and dominate possession against most teams in this league. Our midfield will contribute an odd goal here and there. But we're not going to score much from free kicks and corners because we don't have a dead ball specialist."

"I'll get you a list strikers whom we could loan or who are free agents," Chief Scout Lil Fuccillo said.

"Okay," I said nodding my head. "What should we expect from Blackpool?"

"I still think they're getting used to playing with each other," Lil replied. "While they spent 6 mill on new players, they sold off 9 million's worth of players. They're playing the Barcelona formation: holding mid, two central mids, two wingers and a lone striker. They've relied on Man City loan signing Giovanni Simeone for their goals. Don't be fooled, he's Spanish and Argentinian not Italian."

"They are also unbeaten in the league and are on a four game winning streak," Lil continued.

"So no worries then, easy victory this Saturday?" I interjected. "We can just mail this one in?"
 
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