Hristo Stoichkov. A Brief History
A successful player for Barcelona, listed as one of Pele‘s 150 greats - Stoichkov didn‘t quite develop into same calibre manager. “I don't believe in tactics.” Stoichkov announced on taking over at Celta Vigo. He wasn't lying, having started one World Cup qualifier with a 2-4-4 formation that left Bulgaria trailing Malta for half an hour. But it was in man-management that the hot-headed Stoichkov's deficiencies were most apparent. He forced three players (two of them captains) into premature retirement. Running out of people to argue with, he then went for an entire country - accusing Romania of fixing a qualifier. Hugely unpopular at Celta, he was sacked six weeks into this season. Stoichkov had a brief run in managing South African football before returning to his home country of Bulgaria to live out the rest of his life in solitude.
OR SO IT WAS THOUGHT...
The Bulgarian Mafia.
The Legend of Hristo Stoichkov.
The Legend of Hristo Stoichkov.
“ No, don’t do it! ” His pathetic pleads were not going to unseal his inevitable fate.
“ Ebi se v guza! ” I soundly maintained as I unflinchingly caressed my gold plated revolver’s trigger and launched David Newton, Boston United’s chairman, off the pier; releasing him to the deep depths of the small port town’s unforgiving waters. Boston United is the Bulgarian Mafia’s now.
Aptly nicknamed The Pilgrims which describes fully and consolidates exactly to my… premier… plans. A small port town perfect for narcotics dealing within the UK, a perfect guise for my plans and a chance to re-unleash my adroitness as a football manager.
July 2010. Part един.
As I burst into the dressing room for the first time the stench of poor people became apparent. I knew my demanding presence was felt by the pitiful scum which surrounded me. All of them envied me in some way. Perhaps it was my success as a manager? My prestigious Armani suit? My full head of hair? Or perhaps the vast quantities of Spanish cha cha of whom I have had my merry way with over the years.
One thing was for sure it would be a hard task inspiring these worthless peasants.
I have three main rules of which I stick to within my managerial exploits.
“ You and all of your families are filth, mere pieces of dirt on my Bulgarian shoe. Your lives mean about as much to me as the handful of young third world children which crafted my heels. ”
“ You and all of your families are filth, mere pieces of dirt on my Bulgarian shoe. Your lives mean about as much to me as the handful of young third world children which crafted my heels. ”
Rule 1. You must maintain dominance over your players or they will defy you.
“ You are all a pittance. I earn what this dressing room does in mere minutes. Your wives are also filth. You will never be more successful than me as a footballer. ”
Rule 2. Demoralizing your players is the best way to raise morale.
“ Finally my aspirations are leading this club to glory. Those of you who cannot assist me in this task are dead wood and will be sold off. Those of you who defy me will be grinded up, repackaged and marketed as Bulgarian Mafia turtle food.”
Rule 3. Death threats equals performance on the pitch.
I assume my speech had already taken an effect. The lack of cheers were clearly due to the deep thoughts of contemplation and realisation by my dressing room. My face wore a smirk as I turned, lit a cigar and stiffly walked towards my office puffing fine, thick, cuban tobacco smog behind me. A well earned ensconce beckoned me as I proceeded to piece together a financially benefiting pre-season.
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