I've often wondered what it would be like, as a football fan, to be given the opportunity to manage your team. It would be great wouldn't it? No more putting up with decisions you don't agree with, you're in charge! Your team, your tactics, your signings. But why would someone give you that chance when you have no prior experience of managing a football club? Would it be your dream job, or your worst nightmare? How would the players respond to your appointment, when they have no idea who you are? How would your fellow fans react? How would the press cover the story? They can make and break a manager of course.
Well, here follows the first three chapters of 'One Club Man', my imagining of that very situation as mild-mannered accountant Dan Shaw is suddenly thrust from the terraces to the dugouts, facing the desperate task of keeping his beloved Yeldon Town in the Conference.
If you
like what you read then the full story is available on Amazon here:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/One-Club-Man-Neil-Simms-ebook/dp/B00KK2CWPY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1401130075&sr=8-1&keywords=neil+simms
'One Club Man'
Chapter
One
Yeldon
Town Supporters Forum
February
2
danshaw:
Where do we go from here?
That performance today was a shambles, we're sinking fast and I can't
see these players mustering enough effort to stay up in this league.
Bottom of the league, still skint, with no decent players any more
(how is Williams a 'professional' footballer?) and I'm afraid this
once optimistic fan has lost his hope. We need a miracle....
Townandout:
Agreed, Dan. Very sad times for the club. We're doomed!
I
sat in our spare room in front of the computer, the glow from the
screen the only light in the room, gripping a mug of hot chocolate as
I looked vacantly out of the window to a chilly, damp February night.
It was around 10 o'clock and thoughts of the game were still running
in my mind, as was often the case on a Saturday evening, even though
it had ended more than 5 hours ago. Did we even have a shot today, I
thought. Where was our next point coming from? And would this
seemingly endless downward spiral of form ever stop?
Football
can be a cruel mistress. For almost 25 years now I have supported
Yeldon Town. Through thin and thinner, you might say. 'Twenty
five years, that's more than you get for murder!', 'Oh well, someone
has to', 'I thought you said you liked football?',
I've heard them all. Recent seasons have felt like a relentless
ordeal and I have patiently waited and hoped for better times ahead,
despite all evidence to the contrary, as the club have lurched from
one crisis to another. It wasn't always that way though. Granted
we're never going to be troubling the elite of the game but it has
been enjoyable following Town in the past. Those amongst our faithful
following will always revel in the memory of big Jim McGarry rising
to head home our 80th
minute winner against Redham that sealed our promotion to the third
tier in 1998. I was 16 that year and, aside from a brief dalliance
with a dental assistant named Tracey in a nightclub in August that
was the best thing that happened to me all year. That was all well
before I became a happily married man with a young son, though I can
still get misty-eyed when thinking of big Jim. Whereas in many ways
I'm still unnerved by that night with Tracey.
Recent
times have been tough to Town, with the club still reeling from being
forced into administration five years ago due to outlandish debts.
George Hamblin, our battle-weary chairman, filled with a hitherto
unseen and completely unfounded optimism one pre-season that the
forthcoming campaign could be our best yet, decided to dole out
salaries and transfer fees we couldn't afford, set against an
expectation that immediate success would surely follow. I have
watched Town for too long to not know that was a foolhardy plan. Give
us a gun and we will shoot ourselves in the foot, it was ever thus.
Only on rare occasions do things happen as we fans might dare to
dream and there was too much positivity around that season for it not
to end in calamity.
After
administration the club have slumped to the lowest league position in
our 120 year history, currently propping up the fifth tier of
professional football, and we find ourselves comfortably being beaten
by teams that never seem to have to play particularly well to beat
us, or even try all that hard. I know full well that our players are
rubbish. Buy cheap, buy twice as the saying goes. The trouble is our
second purchase is often worse than the first.
I
also know that our manager, Andy Palmer, is hardly going to be a
tactical maestro. That's why he's our manager and not managing in the
Premier League. Furthermore, I know that with little money comes
little glory. Which may be a saying, or I may have made it up. But
that doesn't stop me getting frustrated and down-hearted by the
situation and in those moments I sometimes vent my disappointment on
our unofficial fans message board. It's group therapy without the
awkwardness, it's men and women talking about their feelings without
fear of being mocked and though I have sensible, rational people in
my life who can tell me that it's just a game, including my wife,
mum, boss, friends and several supermarket checkout assistants in the
local store, who mistakenly ask how my day has been whilst I'm
packing bags of shopping on a Saturday night, it is sometimes helpful
to me to know that it is not only me feeling deflated after a defeat,
even if I should have known it would happen.
Mid-message
board rant the spare room door nudged open and my wife, Jenny, bleary
eyed and wearing pyjamas, stood in the doorway. She smiled.
“Honestly,
you and that message board! I'm going to bed now, are you switching
off soon?”
“Yeah,
I'll be there in a few minutes. I'll just finish this post and sign
off.”
“Over
and out is it?”
“Yeah,
something like that. That sounds like our season.”
She
rolled her eyes, yawned in an exaggerated way as if I were boring
her, smiled and pulled the door to.
“Night,
Tom” she called to our 10-year-old son in his bedroom, as she
walked down the landing.
“Night,
Mum,” he replied, quietly.
I
often wonder whether I am doing a wise thing taking Tom to the
football on a regular basis, especially as being a Town fan is always
going to be a difficult confession to make in a high school
classroom, when that comes around for him next year. Still, it's our
little father and son adventure and I want to hang on to that as long
as I can, it's lovely just spending some time with him before the
hormones kick in and he's ditched Dad for Debbie or Donna, or
whatever the case may be.
On
Monday morning at breakfast Tom briefly glanced up from his bowl of
cereal, gave me a serious look and said: “Are Town ever going to
get better, Dad?”
“Of
course we are, things will change. I heard we've got some players
coming back from injury soon, they'll get a few goals and we'll be
out of this mess soon, don't worry.”
He
seemed content with that answer, slurped up the rest of his cereal
and wandered off to the lounge to flick the telly on.
Jenny
walked in to the room, having briefly stopped at the front door first
to collect the post. She sifted through the various letters and
dropped some in front of me.
“Oh,
thanks. Bills, bills, bills!” I said.
“You're
the numbers guy, Dan.”
“You
mean accountant.”
“Same
difference.”
I
laughed, “No, it's not. An accountant is a professional, a numbers
guy is someone that can, I don't know, times 42 by 20 really quickly
and get the right answer.”
“Can't
you do that?”
“Of
course I can. But I can also provide a strategic and structured
approach to resolving personal finance issues and managing incomings
and outgoings.”
“Which
is why you'll find the bills in front of you. Be strategic and
structured with them! Anyway, its 820, save you working it out....”
“I
know,” I said, sarcastically. “Actually, no it's not, it's 840.”
“Oh
yeah, whatever. Anyway, what are you up to today? Are you finished
moping about the football now?”
“Yeah,
I guess so. Actually, I had a text from Harry earlier. He's not well,
got a touch of the flu apparently, so he's asked me to meet his
client today.”
“Oh
right.”
“Yeah,
neither of us have met him yet actually. He's a Ukrainian chap, I'm
meeting him around lunch time in the Ukrainian social club in Lower
Heath.”
She
lifted her eyebrows. “The Ukrainian social club, hey? I didn't know
there was one.”
“Why
would you? You're not Ukrainian and we don't live in Lower Heath.”
Jenny
laughed. “Very true! So, how come he's not coming to your offices?”
“He's
pretty new to the area and doesn't know his way around yet, so Harry
made arrangements to meet him somewhere familiar.”
“What's
his background then? Does he have family here or something?”
“I'm
not sure. I guess he must have. I don't know though really, Harry's
the one that spoke to him initially, I suppose I'll find out later
on.”
I
found the Ukrainian club quite easily, I knew the area pretty well,
it's only a few miles from Yeldon and besides there's only one
Ukrainian flag flying in Lower Heath, which was a big give-away.
There was a buzzer on the front door of the club, so I pressed it and
someone responded pretty quickly in a foreign language, most probably
Ukrainian.
“Oh,
hi, I'm here to see Yevgeny Kornikov,” I said.
“Ah,
you must be Harry, we've been expecting you,” came the reply.
A
brief image of a Bond villain stroking a cat came to mind but was
quickly shut out when I heard a buzzing noise and realised I should
push the door open. A pretty blonde haired woman in her early 40's
stood on the other side and extended her hand for me to shake.
“Hello,
I'm Dan actually. Harry's not well I'm afraid, so I'm here to meet
with Mr Kornikov instead,” I said, shaking her hand.
“Ok,
hello, Dan Actually, very nice to meet you. Yevgeny is in the room on
the left,” she said pointing over her shoulder, “can I get you
tea, coffee?”
She
had a strong Eastern European accent and it occurred to me I must
have spoken too quickly, so as to make the word actually sound like
my surname.
“Tea
would be great, thanks. And my surname is Shaw, by the way.”
“Shaw?”
“Yes,
always has been!” I said, trying to joke, although if anything I
was unsure whether I was successfully negotiating the language
barrier.
“Your
name is Dan Shaw?” she said, checking.
“Yes.”
“That
sounds like damn sure,” she said, laughing.
“Well,
I'm damn sure I'm Dan Shaw!”
She
laughed loudly, “Well, my name is Natalia......I think!” she said
and I joined in with the laughter.
The
door to the room Yevgeny Kornikov was in was ajar, so when I knocked
it started to swing open. I walked in to the room to find possibly
the broadest man I had ever seen. He wasn't particularly overweight
but his frame was that of two of me and his face looked like he had
spent many hours of his life walking in the wind and rain, weather
beaten and with many lines circling below his eyes. He stood, smiled
and shook my hand. He was older than I thought he would be. I don't
know why, all I had was a brief text message from Harry to go off,
but I imagined he would be in his thirties like me, perhaps a young
business man. In reality he was in his mid to late sixties.
“I'm
Dan,” I said. “From Lloyd and Shaw. Harry isn't too well I'm
afraid, so I'm here instead.”
Yevgeny
smiled. “I heard you say in the corridor. Please, sit down, I would
like to discuss my mother's financial matters with you.”
Over
the next 20 minutes, I explained how myself and Harry could work with
Yevgeny, how we could provide tailored personal finance plans for his
mother and a review of all incomings and outgoings, Yevgeny listening
intently whilst I spoke and replying in somewhat broken English in a
soft, low voice, before he held his hand up, shrugged, leaned forward
in his seat and smiled.
“Enough
business now,” he said. “I like business but business does not
makes the sun come up, or the sky blue you understand?”
He
started instead to tell me about his background: “You know, my
mother she came here three year ago to care for my sister. My sister
marry English man in 1990's and move here, but she suffer terminal
cancer and she died last year. It's so sad, so young. My mother stay
here with Jeffrey, the English man, my brother-in-law, but she is not
used to language or culture, so I visit when I can, to help her. We
often spend time here in social club, with fellow Ukrainians, and
drink and eat food from home. I am happy, Dan, you know what to do
and you will help my mother. I will trust you. I live a crazy life, I
have business interests in many, many countries and very little time
to stay in one place. My family is most important part of my life but
I always travel, always try to make money to send here. I would like
to settle. Natalia would like me to. I am 62 and I keep moving, all
the time, always from one country to another!”
“That
sounds quite a life,” I said.
“It's
not, I sell toilet rolls. Everybody needs toilet rolls, hey? I'm
always talking about toilet rolls. I could talk about toilet rolls in
four languages. I also sell shower gel and soap. We are one of the
biggest companies in Ukraine.”
“Wow,”
I said. “It sounds like you've got the bathroom market covered.”
“Tell
me, Dan, do you have a family?”
I
told him about Jenny and Tom and he smiled.
“I
see you also a good man, you provide for family.”
“I
try to,” I said.
“Good.
Tell me, then what else is there to do in local area? I am here for
three days, a long break for me! What would you do if you were here
for just three days?”
I
puffed out my cheeks. “Gosh, well, I've lived in the area all my
life, so I should have some idea but I can't think of much right
now.” A familiar thought popped in to my mind. “Err, do you like
football?”
He
smiled, a big open smile, making him suddenly look a lot younger. “I
love football. I am big Dynamo Kiev fan. We win many, many
championships. Are you Manchester United fan?”
“No!”
I said, surprised at how quickly I dismissed that idea as a crazy
notion. “I'm a Yeldon Town fan.” Knowing really that instead was
the crazy notion.
“I
see road sign for Yeldon Town stadium.”
“Yes,
that's right, it's not far from here. We have a home game on Tuesday
against Guile United - that might be something for you to do? Take in
an English game. It won't be very good mind you, we are really
struggling at the moment and we are in the fifth
league.”
“Ok,
maybe I will do that.”
Before
I knew it I was giving him chapter and verse on our failings as a
club in the last few years, explaining all about how the club was
struggling financially, how we had lost almost two thousand fans
since our heyday in the 90's and why Ryan Williams was one of the
worst players I had ever seen in a Yeldon shirt. He listened, keenly
I thought, though after about ten minutes
I started to wonder
whether I should curtail what I was rambling about. He was only being
polite, after all.
“Anyway,”
I said, standing, smiling and extending my hand for Yevgeny to shake,
“thank you for letting me get that off my chest, it's been most
useful!”
“I
see you care deeply for your club. We have a saying in our family –
he who cares, wins.”
I
laughed, reminded of Del Boy in Only Fools and Horses and wondered
whether Yevgeny had misappropriated his catchphrase, or just
developed his own. He who cares, wins had quite a ring to it though,
I might pass that on to Tom, tell him that before an exam one day.
I
bade my farewell to Yevgeny and Natalia, collected my paperwork and
briefcase and wandered back to my car.
Chapter
Two
yeldonman:
I have a feeling we might win tonight, keep the faith!
danshaw:
I'd love to believe that yeldonman but one win in the last 16 is
hardly inspiring.....
John1:
I'd take a 0-0 draw now to stop the rot
Myself
and Tom always walk to the games. It's only a 10 minute walk from our
house and as we turn the corner from Reeve Street on to Trelton Road
one of us will always ask the other what score they predict for the
game ahead. It's a little habit we have been in for 4 years now, ever
since I took an excited 6-year-old Tom to his first game. He was
enamoured by the sights and sounds of the ground immediately; tightly
holding my hand for reassurance but pointing enthusiastically and
endearingly at fans proudly bearing home colours, the club badge
above the player’s entrance and the broken scoreboard behind the
goal, with his other hand.
“When
can we go again, Dad?” he asked when we got back home that night.
“How
about next Saturday, they're at home again then?”
And
so it began. We haven't missed a Saturday match since then, Tom's
enthusiasm seemingly undimmed despite our all-encompassing lack of
any consistently good form in the subsequent seasons. Tuesday night
games were a different matter though, especially considering it was a
school night and Jenny and I didn't want to take his focus off doing
well at school. There were usually around eight Tuesday night home
games a season, so a compromise we had struck this season with a
'determined-to-seek-a-deal' Tom was to let him attend half of those
games. Whether that suggestion originated from his Dad or not shall
never be spoken of. That was part of separate discussions involving
Messrs Shaw and Shaw only.
“I'm
going for a 2-1 win tonight,” Tom confidently exclaimed.
“Hang
on a minute,” I said, twisting my head in an exaggerated manner in
either direction back down the street. “I seem to have lost the son
I came to the game with on Saturday.”
Tom
laughed. “That was then, this is a different game.”
“So
what, it's the same team and manager.”
“True
but Guile aren't very good. In fact they are only two places above
us. We'll win, I bet we do.”
“Ok,
whatever you say, Tom. I tell you what, if we win I'll clean your
room for you. If we lose, you clean it.”
“Actually,
Dad, I'd take a draw tonight.”
“Ha!
Me too.”
Considering
it was a cold, damp evening there was a reasonably good crowd in
Trelton Park, especially given our recent form. We might be reduced
to around 1800 die-hard fans but they were darned resilient and their
loyal support had remained steady through the many lean periods.
Recently, though, I had detected an undercurrent of frustration and
despair at the club amongst the fans. We had reached a pivotal point
in the season when the importance of points gathered in a relegation
battle we knew we were in, despite the season still having almost
four months remaining, far outweighed the desire to see an attractive
passing style displayed by Yeldon or even a solid, resolute
performance. Frankly I didn't care too much whether we got outplayed
for 89 minutes and won with a dodgy last minute penalty, I just
wanted to see a win as we hadn't seen one at home since September and
that was one of only three for the season so far.
The
decisions of the manager and the 'quality', or apparent lack of, of
the players had been debated endlessly on the Town supporter’s
forum and I, along with many others, was of the opinion that Andy
Palmer's time at the club was nearing an end.
I
do love a night match though and when the players ran out at 7.40pm,
the floodlights lighting the grey skies above, I temporarily lost my
sense of doom about the forthcoming match and just enjoyed taking it
all in: the smells of the meat pies drifting from the tea hut, the
older gents in the row in front laughing at one of their number
because he had chosen to wear a hat with a bobble, and two teams of
players undertaking last minute rituals before the game started –
tucking and re-tucking their shirts into their shorts, fiddling with
their boot laces, nervous little ticks like jumping on the spot,
sometimes occasionally pretending to head a ball or instead just
landing on their toes and sprinting for three or four paces to warm
their legs up. This was what I loved about live sport. Despite all my
predictions beforehand, no-one could tell me for certain what would
play out in front of us for the next 90 minutes plus injury time, or,
indeed, whether this might be the best game I would ever witness.
It
wasn't. In fact, it wasn't even the best game I had witnessed all
week, let alone all-time. We slumped to a 4-0 defeat to a team only
two places better off in the league, conceding an own goal and a
penalty to boot, and Tom and I trudged home, feeling dejected and
cold.
The
following day Tom came bounding down the stairs into the lounge:
“Dad, it's on the local news that Palmer has been sacked,” he
said, excitedly, interrupting a property programme myself and Jenny
were watching.
“Oh
right, ok,” I replied, slightly surprised.
Despite
broadly agreeing with the decision, I had expected Palmer to be given
another three to five games to try and sort the problems out. After
all, he had only been in charge for nine months and most rational
fans knew that the issues at the club cut deeper than the management
and playing staff. They were the public front of the club but the
fundamental problem of a chronic lack of money at the club was the
real issue. I hadn't really explained this too greatly to Tom, I just
hoped that somehow the club would magically land on a playing squad
that would make things better and enable us to all enjoy going to
games a bit more. I knew that was illogical, I knew we would forever
go backwards without any investment, but the childhood voice inside
my mind providing the thinking and sometimes I preferred what he had
to say.
Jenny
ruffled Tom's floppy hair as he sat down on the settee next to her.
“It's
only a game, Tom. Don't worry about it too much,” she said,
wrapping her arm around him and pulling him in to her side for a
cuddle.
Tom
gave me a quick look as if to say 'Mum, hey? It's only a game? Pfft!'
and at that moment I felt simultaneously proud and ashamed. I was
creating a mini-me.
That
night I logged on to the supporters message board to find that the
general conversation was less about Andy Palmer and more about
rumours that were gaining more credence the more people commented on
them. The nature of these forums is that some people posting on them
claim to be 'in the know', usually owing to a contact they have at
the club that they can extract information from, and they then use
that position to generate discussion about issues that others had
little to no prior knowledge of. As I read on I saw that one fan in
particular, a familiar poster using the pseudonym 'Towntastic', was
suggesting that his mum, who hoovered in the club shop before and
after every game (which I assume she was employed to do) had seen a
man and woman in smart suits walking with the club chairman across
the small car park in front of the shop to his office at around 10pm
last night. She knew that the function room wasn't booked that night,
because Janice who organises the bookings was off sick and hadn't
booked anyone in, so they weren't going there, and the only other
room that way was the chairman's office, so that meant they would
have to be going there. He could only assume therefore that these
guests of the club would be accountants working on behalf of
administrators, and that within days we would be hearing news of the
club going into administration for a second time. That seemed
somewhat of a leap to me, could they not have been friends or family
of the chairman, or someone from the sponsors that didn't want a
post-match drink in the function room, I thought.
Further
down the page, one of the postings caught my eye and made me laugh
involuntarily.
'There's
a local accountants firm, Lloyd & Shaw, maybe they were meeting
George?' someone had
written.
As
I settled into bed that night next to Jenny I nudged her arm with my
elbow.
“Hey,
guess what? Myself and Harry were being talked about on the message
board tonight.”
“You
and Harry? Why?”
“Someone
reckons a man and woman representing Lloyd & Shaw met with the
chairman after the game on Tuesday.”
She
laughed. “Why would your firm meet with the club? And besides,
which one of you is the woman?”
“I
know, it's people putting two and two together and getting five
really. They think we're checking the books at the club.”
“Ha!
It sounds like people just make stuff up for the heck of it on that
site.”
“Yep,
sometimes they are on to something, other times they think two hunks
of manhood are a man and a woman!”
“Hunks
of manhood? You with your receding hairline and Harry with his flu?
That shows what little they know about Lloyd & Shaw!”
I
laughed. “Anyway, speaking of which, he's back tomorrow, Harry. I
won't see him until mid-afternoon though – he sent me an email
saying he'd been asked to see a client somewhere at a motorway
services.”
“A
services? That's a bit odd isn't it?”
“I
thought so too. I've not known him do that before. Perhaps he's
adding a new line of work to the company – drug dealing!”
Jenny
laughed. “Who, Harry? Night Nurse with him maybe, nothing else!”
Chapter
Three
Townandout:
If the club are to go into administration, do you think we might
fold?
Yeldonman:
Hard to say really, Townandout. All we are hearing is rumour and
counter rumour. Who knows what the future will bring?
Towntastic:
Whether we go into administration or not I can say for certain that
this team is going to get relegated, absolutely no doubt about that.
Yeldonman:
Fair point, can't
argue with that!
My
room at work is quite sparse really. I'm not one for executive toys,
mainly because I'm 31, a rational man, and I also don't envisage ever
being of the frame of mind that decides a picture on the wall of a
pebble or a bare tree is a good idea. Instead it's a basic set-up of
a table, a computer screen with a family portrait to one side and a
chair on wheels, with cupboards behind my seated position groaning
under the weight of files dating back nine years, ever since I
started working with my dad's friend Harry Lloyd and we named the
company Lloyd and Shaw.
Harry
is like everyone's favourite father or grandfather, a real gentleman
who speaks in a soft, low voice but has an uproarious laugh that
seems to burst out of him in an impromptu way. He used to pop round
to our house on a regular basis when I was growing up to play Dad at
card games in our back room and I remember pouring him drinks of
whisky and taking them to him, sitting on my dad's lap as a young
child, whilst he explained the rules of whichever game they were
playing to me. Back then I would never have imagined still knowing
Harry, let alone working with him at our own business.
My
father died of a heart-attack when I was just 22 and at that point
Harry became more than a family friend, he became a mentor and like a
surrogate father in many ways to me, helping me make the transition
from struggling graduate to a working accountant. He was looking for
a new business venture, having previously worked in purchasing roles
at various companies, and put the idea to me one day that we should
start our own accountancy firm in Yeldon.
I
was so raw in the first few months we worked together, often making
foolish errors, but Harry would dismiss them as all being part of the
learning curve. 'As long as we're not losing anyone's money, we'll
tick along all right and make a living out of this', he said. He was
right, we had been fine for nine years now, always retaining a
healthy list of clients and keeping busy without pushing ourselves to
onerous levels. 'One day, son, all this will be yours...' Harry
regularly said in a wistful and playful tone, although personally I
wasn't looking forward to his retirement as much as he was.
I
had been working quite diligently all day, not really paying much
attention to the time at all, when I heard our front office door
swing open and Harry bustle in.
“Hi,
Harry,” I called, not looking up from the client file I was
reading. “Are you alright?”
“We
need to talk,” he said, leaning against the door to my room. He was
a lot closer than I realised and I had been so wrapped up in what I
was reading that his presence made me jump.
“Jesus,
Harry,” I said, smiling and holding a hand to my chest. “It's a
good job that scenario wasn't the other way around at your age! You
nearly gave me a heart attack then, sneaking in.”
He
sat down, looking distracted. Something didn't seem right.
“What's
up?” I asked. “Are you feeling any better now?”
“Oh,
I'm alright, son, just a touch of the flu.”
“Ok,
good, good. What do we need to talk about? Have you found somebody
else, is that it? I can change, Harry, I can!” I said, jokingly,
trying to lighten Harry's mood.
“I've
been to meet Yevgeny.”
“Oh,
Yevgeny, I liked him. I bet you got on like a house on fire, swapping
stories.”
“It
wasn't much of a social occasion. He wanted to ask me something.”
“Ok
then, spill the beans would you, I can tell something is up.”
Harry
took a deep breath and slowly exhaled through puffed out cheeks.
“He's buying Yeldon Town and he wants you to work for him.”
“What?”
I spluttered.
“He's
buying Yeldon Town and he wants you to work for him. That's why he
wanted to meet with me, see what my thoughts on it were.”
I
felt like I was listening to another language, I couldn't process the
words quickly enough for them to make sense.
“Oh
my god,”
I mustered.
“I
know.”
“That's
unbelievable. He's going to save Yeldon?”
“Yep,
that's what he said. Him and his wife met with the chairman the other
night, apparently he was very receptive and agreed a deal within 30
minutes.”
“Oh,
he would, Hamblin. He's been looking for investment for a while. I
bet he couldn't shake his hand fast enough.”
“I
know, I've heard you say.”
“Blimey.
So is Yevgeny a rich man?”
“Fairly.
His wife is well off too. You might have met her the other day
actually. Natalia.”
I
thought back to the glamorous woman that opened the door to me. “That
was his wife? She's about 25 years younger than him!”
“Well,
shared interests and all that. They have businesses all over the
world. He's made most of his money from toilet roll believe it or
not.”
“I
know, that's a recession proof line of work if ever there was one!”
“Yep,
sure is. Hey, do you want a brew?” Harry said as he stood, turned
and walked out of the room towards the kettle in our small kitchen
area. It was always kept well topped up, so he just flicked the
switch on and waited for it to boil.
I
nodded, leaning back on my chair and puffing my cheeks out. I wasn't
sure if I was more excited that Yeldon Town would be taken over, or
whether I would be their accountant, a role I had always hankered
after. It was probably a mixture of the two, happiness that the club
would have a better future ahead and intrigue at the opportunity to
see the incomings and outgoings, players wages – what were we
paying Williams? I suddenly thought – transfer dealings, match day
revenue, the chance to steer Yeldon's finances on a straighter
course.
Harry
returned, holding two steaming mugs of tea in his hands.
“Yevgeny
wants to speak with you tonight,” he said. “I don't know what
this means for us though, I mean you're hardly going to turn the job
down are you?”
“Well,
no...” I conceded. “But the likelihood is that the club
accountant at our level would only be an ad-hoc role, probably 10
hours a week or something at most.”
I
have a real sense of loyalty to Harry and the idea of leaving the
company had very rarely crossed my mind. Sure, everyone has the odd
moment when they think about working elsewhere but, as sad as it may
sound, I love being an accountant, I always have done, and although
my dream role had come along it didn't feel right to leave Harry in
the lurch.
“I'll
do the work at home, Harry. Hell, you know me, it will be a
pleasure!”
“Are
you sure?”
“Yes,
absolutely. Let me speak to Yevgeny tonight, see what he has in mind,
but I can't imagine it would be a full-time role. Perhaps a lot of
work initially during the takeover but it will reduce over time. I'm
sure it would be manageable. You can lose that serious expression you
have on your face you know, I'll stick around here don't worry!”
Harry
laughed. “Oh, good, I'm glad about that. I could see my chances of
an early retirement being under threat!”
I
hadn't spoken with Yevgeny since we had met three days prior, Harry
had been his contact at our company since. He had asked for a call
around 7.30pm, so that gave myself and Jenny plenty of time for an
evening meal, which we prepared together. Tom was out at the cinema
with his friend James and James' father - I couldn't wait to tell him
the news when he got in. Something positive out of the club for the
first time in a long time!
Jenny
had been equally thrilled, she was more excited about the prospect of
more money coming into the house than the club being taken over, but
we all had our own little victories to celebrate.
“How
do you feel?” she asked, just before 7.30pm.
“I'm
really nervous now to be honest,” I replied, absent minded,
spinning the cordless phone around my left hand, holding a scrap of
paper with Yevgeny's number on in the other. “I feel like I'm about
to ring a girl to ask her out!”
Jenny
laughed. “As if! I seem to remember I did all the ringing.”
“Actually,
yeah, you couldn't stop ringing me, it was like being in a call
centre sometimes!”
She
threw a cushion at me, which bounced off my head and landed at my
feet. “I suppose I best call him,” I said, as the clock ticked
round to the half hour mark.
“I
tell you what, I'll go and watch the telly in the other room, give
you a bit of peace and quiet whilst you do.”
Almost
an hour later Jenny carefully pulled down the handle of the lounge
door, pushed it open slightly and peeked through the small gap she
had created. When she could see that I was no longer on the phone she
walked in and sat besides me.
“Jees,
Dan, you look pale,” she said.
“Do
I?” I asked, though I wasn't surprised.
“Yeah,
what's up? What did he have to say?”
“He
wants me to be the manager.”
As
I said the words out loud they still didn't sound real.
“The
manager? What do you mean? The accounts manager?”
“No,
the actual manager! The player’s
manager. The club
manager. Picking the team,
making signings.”
“What?”
she said, her eyes widening.
“I
know!”
“You?”
“Yes,
me!”
“Why?”
“Because
he said he wants to employ a manager with passion for the club. You
are very passionate Yeldon man,” I said, imitating Yevgeny's
accent.
“But
you can't do that, there must be a mix-up. Why would you be the
manager?”
“He
said he had been reading about our recent run of managers and how
none of them had brought success to the club, despite doing quite
well elsewhere. He said he thought a fan would show more passion for
the job and communicate that to the players.”
Jenny
ran her fingers through her hair and puffed out her cheeks. She
giggled nervously.
“This
is crazy, I thought he wanted you to be the accountant?”
“Apparently
not.”
