The Spooky and Mysterious Diary of Reginal van Grescht. Volume 1.

You know, I don't quite know what to make of Tord Grip.

It's strange. I still remember the rain on that typically humid British evening in June as I was chauffered to Meadow Lane for my unveiling, my nerves unsettled and my limbs shaking like railings after a car crash. Stood at the entrance, in front of the light from the foyer, were two short silhouettes, hunched beneath an umbrella. As the car slowed my eyes focussed on Sven Goran Eriksson, my new boss. I clamboured out of the car, assisted by my driver offering an umbrella. I took the stairs up to the entrance, deciding not to run for fear of my first impression. I remained calm, shook the hands of the men I greeted. With a firm hand and a wise countenance, Mr. Grip struck me as the definition of professionalism. My attentions shifted to his superior:

"Welcome to Notts County, Mr. Van Grescht! Please, we have cool drinks and uh, air conditioning in the Director's Office. Let us make our way there now."

I smiled, looked across at Tord Grip. He seemed aloof, yet not pompous; mysterious, but reliable; old, so old, but sharper still than a fresh Oxbridge graduate. I cannot be sure to this day if the first words my aged scout (a scout! Bless my soul that came as a shock. Still, it seemed to me any job in our beautiful game would struggle to find a better suitor than the illustrious Swede) uttered to me were real, if that makes sense, or from some far off fantasy land I visited in a dream. The words I shall come to in a moment.

After a week at Notts County my players and I were enjoying our initial camaraderie before the start of the new season, our tentions fading and my confidence bubbling. In the corridor of the training-ground dressing room my arm came into contact with a boney shoulder as I turned the corner. And there he stood. Still. My smile, lasting as it had from the early morning cone-drills to that very moment, died instantly.

"Mr. Grip." (Ha! van Grescht you old fool, your powers of observation never cease to... but anyway...)

He stared. So cold. I could do nothing but look upon his forehead, being as it was my eye-level. Each wrinkle a testament, a gospel. Valleys of experience and football knowledge, weathered into his face. Gouged into his head.

"Mr. Grip... What... what exactly do you do... uh... here, at Notts County?"

Silence. Like Odin he stood. As still as a tree. His mouth opened, lips parted from the centre outwards like the unzipping of some odd pencil-case. After a short intake of breath he spoke in a holy, immortal tone:

"Tell me. Are you familiar with a young man, plies his footballing trade just three hundred yards away, a young, Nottingham Forest player, that goes by the name... Nathan Tyson?"

Bewildered, I replied shakily, "No."

"Then let me", he coughed, three... four times. "Then let me enlighten you my dear boy".

If this is a story, it's best off posted in the stories forum:

http://community.sigames.com/forumdisplay.php?f=22

Thankyou! I'll do that right away

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