The Prodigal Son: A Manchester United Story
- Thread starter I7IDanny
- Start date
- Replies 239
- Views 82K
Chapter 8:
3rd March 2005, 20:00,
Royal Salford Hospital.
“He’s coming round, that’s good, it was touch and go for a moment there”
I opened my eyes and instantly shut them again. The blinding lights in the Intensive Care Unit of Royal Salford Hospital glared down as I became aware of a repetitive beeping by my side, and faint movement by the end of my bed. Propping myself up on my elbows, the blurry figure spoke.
“What were you thinking, you mad *******, overdosing like that? All my years at Droylesden, I’ve never seen someone fall so far, so quickly. Now you’re awake, I’m here to get your life back on track. I mean, it pains me to think what would have been if Sylvain hadn’t barged down your door when you didn’t answer.”
My old gaffer’s voice echoed around the ward, damning my actions. Sylvain Ebanks-Blake shifted slightly, leant against the wall in the corner, spoke up.
“Told you we’d go out on the lash again, turns out it saved your life, eh? Didn’t expect to be back here so soon. Seriously though mate, get your head on, Ste here’s gonna offer you a way back”
Ste explained, “All of us at Droylesden know that Tim Anderton, the youth team coach, is leaving next season. I’m here to tell you to sort your life out, get your badges and tell you that you are the only name for the job, what do you say?”
I couldn’t agree fast enough. Thanking him over and over again like a madman, Ste left and placed a card on my table. I picked it up. A name, embossed with the FA logo and a number to call for enrolling for coaching badges. The lifeline was there, and I was going to hang onto it, tooth and nail.
3rd March 2005, 20:00,
Royal Salford Hospital.
“He’s coming round, that’s good, it was touch and go for a moment there”
I opened my eyes and instantly shut them again. The blinding lights in the Intensive Care Unit of Royal Salford Hospital glared down as I became aware of a repetitive beeping by my side, and faint movement by the end of my bed. Propping myself up on my elbows, the blurry figure spoke.
“What were you thinking, you mad *******, overdosing like that? All my years at Droylesden, I’ve never seen someone fall so far, so quickly. Now you’re awake, I’m here to get your life back on track. I mean, it pains me to think what would have been if Sylvain hadn’t barged down your door when you didn’t answer.”
My old gaffer’s voice echoed around the ward, damning my actions. Sylvain Ebanks-Blake shifted slightly, leant against the wall in the corner, spoke up.
“Told you we’d go out on the lash again, turns out it saved your life, eh? Didn’t expect to be back here so soon. Seriously though mate, get your head on, Ste here’s gonna offer you a way back”
Ste explained, “All of us at Droylesden know that Tim Anderton, the youth team coach, is leaving next season. I’m here to tell you to sort your life out, get your badges and tell you that you are the only name for the job, what do you say?”
I couldn’t agree fast enough. Thanking him over and over again like a madman, Ste left and placed a card on my table. I picked it up. A name, embossed with the FA logo and a number to call for enrolling for coaching badges. The lifeline was there, and I was going to hang onto it, tooth and nail.
Chapter 9:
6th August 2011,
Wembley Stadium, North London.
“Knock me right off my feet! Hard to beat! Hard to beat! Hard to beeeeaaattt...”
“Right Steve, music off now” I said, motioning to Steven N’Zonzi.
“This is it lads. May only be the start of the season, but it’s still a derby day and a cup final. City have been spending like no tomorrow, but we have something they don’t. We play for the club. Not our next paycheck and that makes us the better side out there. Now go out there and win the cup for the real Mancurian club, not some Arab billionaire’s plaything!”
A roar of approval came up from the team, with captain Nemanja Vidic providing more encouragement above the din “Come on lads!” Following the team down the tunnel, I was suddenly side by side with Roberto Mancini, who with a snide grin and an outstretched hand proclaimed,
“May the best team win”
“Aye” I replied. “Let’s see that smirk when we win, eh?”
Fighting talk. I headed to the dugout as the squads lined up on the pitch. Signings Erick Torres and Vaclav Kadlec were behind me on the bench, I’d preferred Javier Hernandez upfront on his own in a 4-2-3-1 to combat City’s notorious midfield, with Rooney and Young spreading the play wide, and Hamsik forcing the play in the centre. Ryan Shawcross, signed only the day before from Stoke for £11m, and a former United trainee, partnered Nemanja Vidic at the back, whilst Jack Rodwell and Steven N’Zonzi provided the bite in the centre of the park.
The game took a while to really begin, both teams happy to sit back and observe the play. It all kickstarted, when in the 19th minute, Rooney bombed forward on the right and pulled it square to Hamsik inside the D of the area. His piledriver of a shot smashed the post to groans of both relief and disappointment. After this, the game came to life, with Aguero forcing De Gea into a fantastic stop at his near post. From the resulting corner, Barry swung it in, and Yaya Toure, leading with his elbows, headed into the net from eight yards, whilst simultaneously smashing into the back of Vidic’s head. Cries of “Foul!” screamed out from the United fans behind that goal, who’d blatantly seen it, as Nemanja lay on the floor, dazed.
I glanced toward the assistant referee, hoping for the flag to signal a United free kick. It didn’t come. Instead, he signaled slowly toward the center circle, and the ref blew his whistle, to the joy of the City fans. The goal had counted.
I leapt out of my seat, and began yelling at the linesman.
“You blind *******! How could you not see him use his elbows!” then, as the referee approached, I turned on him. “You had the best view in the ******* house! He should be marching down that tunnel now, not celebrating!”
Safe to say Phil Dowd, the fourth official, did not appreciate this outburst one bit.
“Mr Newton, please return to your seat, or you will be sent to the stands.”
Returning to my seat as Rooney kicked off, I was still fuming. My mood wasn’t improved by, only a couple of minutes later, Vincent Kompany barging into Ashley Young inside the box, only for Martin Atkinson to wave away the protests, even going as far as booking Ashley for simulation. Not too impressed, I watched on as with a new found energy, possibly from feeling hard-done by, my United team pushed on.
Then, in the 42nd minute, that man Wayne Rooney again, turned Aleksander Kolarov like he didn’t exist and blazed an effort from 30 yards toward the far top corner. Joe Hart produced a magnificent diving stop to tip it just over the bar. Ashley Young ran over to take the corner kick, whilst Nemanja Vidic and Ryan Shawcross came up from the back. The corner came in, a high, inswinging ball that lingered in the air, which was met by the head of Shawcross at the back post, and flew straight into the roof of the net.
Turning back, Ryan ran the 4 short yards to Toure with a triumphant look on his face, spread his arms, and kissed the United badge, right in the face of the opposing player.
The referee instantly blew his whistle frantically as both red and blue shirts ran into the mix, then, without warning, Atkinson’s red card flew up, to the utter confusion of both myself and the fans in the ground. I feared the worst, that he’d sent Ryan off for provoking an opposition player, but only when Steve N’Zonzi threw Yaya Toure out of the way I saw Shawcross clutching his face on the floor.
The linesman escorted Toure off to the touchline, whilst the ref tried to retake control of the game. Therefore it was a blessing when the whistle for the end of the 1st half went, and the teams retreated to their respective dressing rooms.
It was only now, with the replays playing on the dressing room TV, I could see what had happened. As Ryan celebrated, and subsequently surrounded, Yaya Toure had blatently headbutted the centre-back in the face, which was what the ref had spotted and sent him off for. Turning back to the team, I pointed first at Ashley Young, “You’ve played well Ashley, but I don’t want you to pick up another yellow from this ref.” Then to Vaclav Kadlec. “You’ve got your chance now mate, you’re on.”
“There have been some seriously terrible decisions so far, but they’re now a man down in midfield and that will show. They’ll tire, and that’s when we can break and nick this game. We will win this trophy!”
The players emerged to a cacophony of noise, the fans eager for this battle to continue. From the off, Kadlec looked bright, beating Richards a few times down the wing but struggling to really make an impact with the tiring Hernandez in the centre. I looked up, and motioned to Erick Torres to begin to warm up.
As Erick made his way to the touchline, a cheer went up from the crowd. Wearing the number 8 shirt, recently vacated by the outgoing Anderson, he applauded the fans as the board went up. Almost instantly, he made an impact, firing just wide of the post from a Rooney lay-off.
Dominating as we were, we just could not break down a resilient City side, and with penalties looming, it seemed like it just would not be our day, with Rodwell hitting the bar and Shawcross coming within inches of his second as it was cleared off the line by Kompany. The ref checked his watch, and blew for full time. 1-1, and penalties would settle this Community Shield.
Nemanja won the toss, and Marek Hamsik stepped up to take the first penalty kick, which he drove in low with aplomb. Up stepped Aguero, who replied for City, sending De Gea the wrong way.
Next up, Wayne Rooney, who advanced to the spot and placed the ball down. We’d seen him do it countless times in training. The one man you’d expect to score.
BAM.
His standing leg gave way on his final step and the ball screwed high and around 10 yards wide. Not a single man in red could believe it. It got worse when Milner coolly slotted it past De Gea in response.
Erick Torres nominated himself to go next. I could barely watch as the 18-year old took a 2 step run-up and launched the ball clean into the top corner, a perfect penalty, whilst Vaclav Kadlec stroked home his penalty inbetween two fantastic saves from De Gea to put us in the driving seat.
Next up came Steve N’Zonzi, who took one step, two steps back. A goal here from the former Rovers midfielder would win us the cup. A shrill blast on the whistle, two steps, and a clean connection from the right boot of the midfielder, who sent the ball past Hart, into his opposite corner.
Leaping up and celebrating, I ran to join the mob of red shirts around the French international, glancing over my shoulder at the figure of Mancini, who had his head in his hands. It may have been ugly, it may have been late. But it was still my first silverware as Manchester United boss.
6th August 2011,
Wembley Stadium, North London.
“Knock me right off my feet! Hard to beat! Hard to beat! Hard to beeeeaaattt...”
“Right Steve, music off now” I said, motioning to Steven N’Zonzi.
“This is it lads. May only be the start of the season, but it’s still a derby day and a cup final. City have been spending like no tomorrow, but we have something they don’t. We play for the club. Not our next paycheck and that makes us the better side out there. Now go out there and win the cup for the real Mancurian club, not some Arab billionaire’s plaything!”
A roar of approval came up from the team, with captain Nemanja Vidic providing more encouragement above the din “Come on lads!” Following the team down the tunnel, I was suddenly side by side with Roberto Mancini, who with a snide grin and an outstretched hand proclaimed,
“May the best team win”
“Aye” I replied. “Let’s see that smirk when we win, eh?”
Fighting talk. I headed to the dugout as the squads lined up on the pitch. Signings Erick Torres and Vaclav Kadlec were behind me on the bench, I’d preferred Javier Hernandez upfront on his own in a 4-2-3-1 to combat City’s notorious midfield, with Rooney and Young spreading the play wide, and Hamsik forcing the play in the centre. Ryan Shawcross, signed only the day before from Stoke for £11m, and a former United trainee, partnered Nemanja Vidic at the back, whilst Jack Rodwell and Steven N’Zonzi provided the bite in the centre of the park.
The game took a while to really begin, both teams happy to sit back and observe the play. It all kickstarted, when in the 19th minute, Rooney bombed forward on the right and pulled it square to Hamsik inside the D of the area. His piledriver of a shot smashed the post to groans of both relief and disappointment. After this, the game came to life, with Aguero forcing De Gea into a fantastic stop at his near post. From the resulting corner, Barry swung it in, and Yaya Toure, leading with his elbows, headed into the net from eight yards, whilst simultaneously smashing into the back of Vidic’s head. Cries of “Foul!” screamed out from the United fans behind that goal, who’d blatantly seen it, as Nemanja lay on the floor, dazed.
I glanced toward the assistant referee, hoping for the flag to signal a United free kick. It didn’t come. Instead, he signaled slowly toward the center circle, and the ref blew his whistle, to the joy of the City fans. The goal had counted.
I leapt out of my seat, and began yelling at the linesman.
“You blind *******! How could you not see him use his elbows!” then, as the referee approached, I turned on him. “You had the best view in the ******* house! He should be marching down that tunnel now, not celebrating!”
Safe to say Phil Dowd, the fourth official, did not appreciate this outburst one bit.
“Mr Newton, please return to your seat, or you will be sent to the stands.”
Returning to my seat as Rooney kicked off, I was still fuming. My mood wasn’t improved by, only a couple of minutes later, Vincent Kompany barging into Ashley Young inside the box, only for Martin Atkinson to wave away the protests, even going as far as booking Ashley for simulation. Not too impressed, I watched on as with a new found energy, possibly from feeling hard-done by, my United team pushed on.
Then, in the 42nd minute, that man Wayne Rooney again, turned Aleksander Kolarov like he didn’t exist and blazed an effort from 30 yards toward the far top corner. Joe Hart produced a magnificent diving stop to tip it just over the bar. Ashley Young ran over to take the corner kick, whilst Nemanja Vidic and Ryan Shawcross came up from the back. The corner came in, a high, inswinging ball that lingered in the air, which was met by the head of Shawcross at the back post, and flew straight into the roof of the net.
Turning back, Ryan ran the 4 short yards to Toure with a triumphant look on his face, spread his arms, and kissed the United badge, right in the face of the opposing player.
The referee instantly blew his whistle frantically as both red and blue shirts ran into the mix, then, without warning, Atkinson’s red card flew up, to the utter confusion of both myself and the fans in the ground. I feared the worst, that he’d sent Ryan off for provoking an opposition player, but only when Steve N’Zonzi threw Yaya Toure out of the way I saw Shawcross clutching his face on the floor.
The linesman escorted Toure off to the touchline, whilst the ref tried to retake control of the game. Therefore it was a blessing when the whistle for the end of the 1st half went, and the teams retreated to their respective dressing rooms.
It was only now, with the replays playing on the dressing room TV, I could see what had happened. As Ryan celebrated, and subsequently surrounded, Yaya Toure had blatently headbutted the centre-back in the face, which was what the ref had spotted and sent him off for. Turning back to the team, I pointed first at Ashley Young, “You’ve played well Ashley, but I don’t want you to pick up another yellow from this ref.” Then to Vaclav Kadlec. “You’ve got your chance now mate, you’re on.”
“There have been some seriously terrible decisions so far, but they’re now a man down in midfield and that will show. They’ll tire, and that’s when we can break and nick this game. We will win this trophy!”
The players emerged to a cacophony of noise, the fans eager for this battle to continue. From the off, Kadlec looked bright, beating Richards a few times down the wing but struggling to really make an impact with the tiring Hernandez in the centre. I looked up, and motioned to Erick Torres to begin to warm up.
As Erick made his way to the touchline, a cheer went up from the crowd. Wearing the number 8 shirt, recently vacated by the outgoing Anderson, he applauded the fans as the board went up. Almost instantly, he made an impact, firing just wide of the post from a Rooney lay-off.
Dominating as we were, we just could not break down a resilient City side, and with penalties looming, it seemed like it just would not be our day, with Rodwell hitting the bar and Shawcross coming within inches of his second as it was cleared off the line by Kompany. The ref checked his watch, and blew for full time. 1-1, and penalties would settle this Community Shield.
Nemanja won the toss, and Marek Hamsik stepped up to take the first penalty kick, which he drove in low with aplomb. Up stepped Aguero, who replied for City, sending De Gea the wrong way.
Next up, Wayne Rooney, who advanced to the spot and placed the ball down. We’d seen him do it countless times in training. The one man you’d expect to score.
BAM.
His standing leg gave way on his final step and the ball screwed high and around 10 yards wide. Not a single man in red could believe it. It got worse when Milner coolly slotted it past De Gea in response.
Erick Torres nominated himself to go next. I could barely watch as the 18-year old took a 2 step run-up and launched the ball clean into the top corner, a perfect penalty, whilst Vaclav Kadlec stroked home his penalty inbetween two fantastic saves from De Gea to put us in the driving seat.
Next up came Steve N’Zonzi, who took one step, two steps back. A goal here from the former Rovers midfielder would win us the cup. A shrill blast on the whistle, two steps, and a clean connection from the right boot of the midfielder, who sent the ball past Hart, into his opposite corner.
Leaping up and celebrating, I ran to join the mob of red shirts around the French international, glancing over my shoulder at the figure of Mancini, who had his head in his hands. It may have been ugly, it may have been late. But it was still my first silverware as Manchester United boss.
Chapter 10:
13th November 2007,
Butcher’s Arms Ground, Droylsden.
Go on Atkins, get stuck in! You’ve just let him breeze past you!
Only 3 months had passed since I’d gained my badges and I was now the Droylsden 1st team coach at the tender age of 23. And I loved it. Officially, I was the man in charge of the training of the first team, but unofficially, I was managing the U19’s, deriving the bosses’ tactics for him, and basically being the Assistant Manager to Steve Kirkwell.
So it came as a shock when the gaffer came up to me during the training session and said “Dan, apparently the chairman wants to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“How urgent?” I replied.
“Urgent enough to interrupt training and you know what that means.”
I certainly did. Bob Lowcroft wasn’t one to get involved in team affairs, even pulling a coach out of training was unprecedented for him. I marched up to the Chairman’s office and knocked.
“Come in, Danny.” Bob Lowcroft was an old man, well into his 70’s. He’d earnt his money in groceries after the war, and was a lifelong Bloods fan.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Lowcroft?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. You see, There’s been a managerial problem.”
“How?” I replied. “Steve’s just signed a new deal, and we’re well on course for promotion.”
“Not here. Down the road, at a little place called Bury. Alan Knill’s resigned due to family issues, and the board rung this morning. They specifically asked for you.”
“They what?!?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But I haven’t really had any experience, only U18’s matches!”
“They claimed they want someone young, a fresh face. Someone who has learnt from some of the best, trained at a top club. Someone willing to experiment. I’ve seen some of Steve’s tactics this year, and no way did he come up with them without your help. For what they want, you top a very, very short list. They want you to ring them back, see how you feel about it. Personally, I feel you should take it. You’re a good coach, but you could make a **** fine manager.”
He wrote down the number on a notepad and handed the sheet of paper to me.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Lowcroft. I’ll get back to them as soon as possible.”
I walked out of the office in disbelief. The rest of the session passed in a blur. Why me? Of all the managers out there, why an inexperienced 23 year old former goalkeeper? I pondered over it all the way back to my Salford flat, only 5 minutes from Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams. As I picked up the phone and began to dial, Lowcroft’s words echoed in my head.
You’re a good coach, but you could make a **** fine manager...
13th November 2007,
Butcher’s Arms Ground, Droylsden.
Go on Atkins, get stuck in! You’ve just let him breeze past you!
Only 3 months had passed since I’d gained my badges and I was now the Droylsden 1st team coach at the tender age of 23. And I loved it. Officially, I was the man in charge of the training of the first team, but unofficially, I was managing the U19’s, deriving the bosses’ tactics for him, and basically being the Assistant Manager to Steve Kirkwell.
So it came as a shock when the gaffer came up to me during the training session and said “Dan, apparently the chairman wants to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“How urgent?” I replied.
“Urgent enough to interrupt training and you know what that means.”
I certainly did. Bob Lowcroft wasn’t one to get involved in team affairs, even pulling a coach out of training was unprecedented for him. I marched up to the Chairman’s office and knocked.
“Come in, Danny.” Bob Lowcroft was an old man, well into his 70’s. He’d earnt his money in groceries after the war, and was a lifelong Bloods fan.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Lowcroft?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. You see, There’s been a managerial problem.”
“How?” I replied. “Steve’s just signed a new deal, and we’re well on course for promotion.”
“Not here. Down the road, at a little place called Bury. Alan Knill’s resigned due to family issues, and the board rung this morning. They specifically asked for you.”
“They what?!?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But I haven’t really had any experience, only U18’s matches!”
“They claimed they want someone young, a fresh face. Someone who has learnt from some of the best, trained at a top club. Someone willing to experiment. I’ve seen some of Steve’s tactics this year, and no way did he come up with them without your help. For what they want, you top a very, very short list. They want you to ring them back, see how you feel about it. Personally, I feel you should take it. You’re a good coach, but you could make a **** fine manager.”
He wrote down the number on a notepad and handed the sheet of paper to me.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Lowcroft. I’ll get back to them as soon as possible.”
I walked out of the office in disbelief. The rest of the session passed in a blur. Why me? Of all the managers out there, why an inexperienced 23 year old former goalkeeper? I pondered over it all the way back to my Salford flat, only 5 minutes from Old Trafford, the Theatre of Dreams. As I picked up the phone and began to dial, Lowcroft’s words echoed in my head.
You’re a good coach, but you could make a **** fine manager...
Last edited:
Chapter 11:
25th August, 2011
Grimaldi Forum, Monaco.
We shall now commence the draw for the 2011-12 UEFA Champions League Group Stages. Group A, we have...
I sat in the large theatre room of the Grimaldi Forum alongside David Gill, and listened silently as Michel Platini announced the teams being drawn. I already had an idea who I wanted to get and who we wanted to miss. I had high hopes, the season had started brightly, after the penalty win at Wembley, the 1st game of the season was against City, this time at Old Trafford. An early Wayne Rooney finish had settled that at 1-0, and last Saturday’s game was a resounding success, a 5-0 thrashing of Stoke at the Britannia Stadium. I snapped back as I heard us being drawn out.
Group C, we have, Manchester United of England!
Group C. Not that it meant anything yet, each pot had a team to avoid, especially Napoli of Pot 4. The Italian team were a force to be reckoned with; however Bayer Leverkusen in Pot 3 would be a difficult draw also.
That concludes the draw for Pot 1. We shall now move on to Pot 2...
I listened closely as both Chelsea and Real Madrid were drawn into Group A and B. The team next out was who we’d be playing.
Group C, the second team is... SL Benfica of Portugal!
Not too bad. We’d avoided a group stage clash against Inter Milan or Real, which would have been ridiculously hard to progress from. I winced slightly as Barcelona got a rather easy draw in the form of the French runners-up Marseille, but that’s all luck, isn’t it?
There was a slight murmur as the third Pot was opened and mixed, then silence as Platini reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. Group A had Basle added to it and Group B got Lille. Our turn.
Group C – Bayer Leverkusen of Germany!
I groaned. One of the main teams I’d wanted to avoid had just lobbed itself via the hand of the UEFA president right into the middle of the busy November/December Premier League schedule. Looking up, I saw Jorge Jesus looking similarly unhappy, shifting in his seat nervously. The draw couldn’t get much worse, could it?
That’s the end of the 3rd Pot. The last Pot will be drawn shortly, then managers will be asked questions by the press...
I could see the headlines already: “New manager receives Group of Death” and “New United Boss has Baptism of Fire” I listened as Otelul were placed in Group B. Not Napoli, I thought to myself. Be kind to us, give us APOEL or someone...
Group C is finished by... Napoli of Italy!
My head hit the desk in front of me. Why? One of the most difficult groups in the last decade and it happened to me. I could see Pep Guardiola about two rows down rubbing his hands with glee; Barcelona had been drawn with Marseille, Olympiakos and Romanian minnows Plzen.
If draws keep going this way against me I could be out of a job by February. At least there was a new signing coming in for this Saturday’s game.
25th August, 2011
Grimaldi Forum, Monaco.
We shall now commence the draw for the 2011-12 UEFA Champions League Group Stages. Group A, we have...
I sat in the large theatre room of the Grimaldi Forum alongside David Gill, and listened silently as Michel Platini announced the teams being drawn. I already had an idea who I wanted to get and who we wanted to miss. I had high hopes, the season had started brightly, after the penalty win at Wembley, the 1st game of the season was against City, this time at Old Trafford. An early Wayne Rooney finish had settled that at 1-0, and last Saturday’s game was a resounding success, a 5-0 thrashing of Stoke at the Britannia Stadium. I snapped back as I heard us being drawn out.
Group C, we have, Manchester United of England!
Group C. Not that it meant anything yet, each pot had a team to avoid, especially Napoli of Pot 4. The Italian team were a force to be reckoned with; however Bayer Leverkusen in Pot 3 would be a difficult draw also.
That concludes the draw for Pot 1. We shall now move on to Pot 2...
I listened closely as both Chelsea and Real Madrid were drawn into Group A and B. The team next out was who we’d be playing.
Group C, the second team is... SL Benfica of Portugal!
Not too bad. We’d avoided a group stage clash against Inter Milan or Real, which would have been ridiculously hard to progress from. I winced slightly as Barcelona got a rather easy draw in the form of the French runners-up Marseille, but that’s all luck, isn’t it?
There was a slight murmur as the third Pot was opened and mixed, then silence as Platini reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. Group A had Basle added to it and Group B got Lille. Our turn.
Group C – Bayer Leverkusen of Germany!
I groaned. One of the main teams I’d wanted to avoid had just lobbed itself via the hand of the UEFA president right into the middle of the busy November/December Premier League schedule. Looking up, I saw Jorge Jesus looking similarly unhappy, shifting in his seat nervously. The draw couldn’t get much worse, could it?
That’s the end of the 3rd Pot. The last Pot will be drawn shortly, then managers will be asked questions by the press...
I could see the headlines already: “New manager receives Group of Death” and “New United Boss has Baptism of Fire” I listened as Otelul were placed in Group B. Not Napoli, I thought to myself. Be kind to us, give us APOEL or someone...
Group C is finished by... Napoli of Italy!
My head hit the desk in front of me. Why? One of the most difficult groups in the last decade and it happened to me. I could see Pep Guardiola about two rows down rubbing his hands with glee; Barcelona had been drawn with Marseille, Olympiakos and Romanian minnows Plzen.
If draws keep going this way against me I could be out of a job by February. At least there was a new signing coming in for this Saturday’s game.
Awwww ****. thats a tough group
Whos the signing???
Someone I've worked with before in my career... and you'll have to wait for the next update
Gonna get the next update done tonight - New signing is revealed and an old flame returns...
Sylvan Ebanks-Blake will be a great signing mate! ;D
Chapter 12:
26th August, 2011,
Salford, Manchester.
Standing in line to see the show tonight and there’s a light on, heavy glow...
I placed my iPod into the dock and pressed play. Anthony Kiedis’ lyrics filled my apartment as I wandered to get changed. Nothing like the Red Hot Chilis after a stressful day of press shoot after press shoot. My day had began at 8:30 as I drove to Manchester International to pick up Jesus Navas, the man who had almost singlehandedly drove my Sevilla team to 2nd in the Liga BBVA last season, and one of my main targets.
He’d cost the club a cool £30m, but the initial reaction was one of joy from the fans. By 11 we’d been accosted by the photographers outside OT, after which we moved into my office to sign the contract. With a beaming smile when he put pen to paper, Jesus said to me.
“It’ll be nice to work with you again, amigo”
“Your English is getting good now, Jesus. Good work!”
“Gracias, boss”
I crashed onto the sofa with a ice cold bottle of San Miguel, and switched on Sky Sports News. All the talk was about Jesus and him signing for us, although a small note mentioned the sacking of Steve Bruce by Sunderland. That dulled my mood a bit, Steve was a good manager and a good boss, and the Black Cats should be proud of what he’d done for them.
I wandered back to the fridge for another beer when I noticed a message on my apartment phone. It was a personal line, so it couldn’t be some reporter wanting another “exclusive” interview. I picked it up.
“Hey Dan, its Alice. I thought I’d give you a call, see how you are. If you ain’t busy with all your managing stuff, fancy coming for a drink tonight? Just for old times’ sake? Give me a ring back if you’re up to it. See you soon!”
I stood there thinking. Yeah, she’d walked out on me, but she’d mentioned when I was in hospital that she’d broken up with Rhys Bowell, the player who she’d left me for.
I decided I needed a break from football for the day and called her back.
“Hello?” She sounded a bit breathless.
“Hey, Alice, its Dan. Got your message about catching up, yeah I ain’t too busy, where’d you want to go?”
“Hey, yeah cool! How about the Old Dog Inn, 8 tonight? You just caught me actually, just got back in from a run. Maybe we can catch up, I mean, I know all about your work, being the youngest manager, like, ever for Manchester Rovers...”
“Manchester United.” I corrected her. She’d never really been good with teams.
“Yeah, them! Ha-ha. Anyway, loads of stuff’s happened since we last spoke! See you there!”
I put the phone down and headed to the kitchen. I’d have another beer then start getting ready, I reckoned. Deep down I knew it would be a good idea to meet up. If anything, it’ll put some old ghosts to bed.
26th August, 2011,
Salford, Manchester.
Standing in line to see the show tonight and there’s a light on, heavy glow...
I placed my iPod into the dock and pressed play. Anthony Kiedis’ lyrics filled my apartment as I wandered to get changed. Nothing like the Red Hot Chilis after a stressful day of press shoot after press shoot. My day had began at 8:30 as I drove to Manchester International to pick up Jesus Navas, the man who had almost singlehandedly drove my Sevilla team to 2nd in the Liga BBVA last season, and one of my main targets.
He’d cost the club a cool £30m, but the initial reaction was one of joy from the fans. By 11 we’d been accosted by the photographers outside OT, after which we moved into my office to sign the contract. With a beaming smile when he put pen to paper, Jesus said to me.
“It’ll be nice to work with you again, amigo”
“Your English is getting good now, Jesus. Good work!”
“Gracias, boss”
I crashed onto the sofa with a ice cold bottle of San Miguel, and switched on Sky Sports News. All the talk was about Jesus and him signing for us, although a small note mentioned the sacking of Steve Bruce by Sunderland. That dulled my mood a bit, Steve was a good manager and a good boss, and the Black Cats should be proud of what he’d done for them.
I wandered back to the fridge for another beer when I noticed a message on my apartment phone. It was a personal line, so it couldn’t be some reporter wanting another “exclusive” interview. I picked it up.
“Hey Dan, its Alice. I thought I’d give you a call, see how you are. If you ain’t busy with all your managing stuff, fancy coming for a drink tonight? Just for old times’ sake? Give me a ring back if you’re up to it. See you soon!”
I stood there thinking. Yeah, she’d walked out on me, but she’d mentioned when I was in hospital that she’d broken up with Rhys Bowell, the player who she’d left me for.
I decided I needed a break from football for the day and called her back.
“Hello?” She sounded a bit breathless.
“Hey, Alice, its Dan. Got your message about catching up, yeah I ain’t too busy, where’d you want to go?”
“Hey, yeah cool! How about the Old Dog Inn, 8 tonight? You just caught me actually, just got back in from a run. Maybe we can catch up, I mean, I know all about your work, being the youngest manager, like, ever for Manchester Rovers...”
“Manchester United.” I corrected her. She’d never really been good with teams.
“Yeah, them! Ha-ha. Anyway, loads of stuff’s happened since we last spoke! See you there!”
I put the phone down and headed to the kitchen. I’d have another beer then start getting ready, I reckoned. Deep down I knew it would be a good idea to meet up. If anything, it’ll put some old ghosts to bed.