On the Silk Road, In the Shadow of Elbrus (FGC)

My name is Vladimir Ivanovich Varzugin and I am searching for inspiration, as I have been for the previous twenty-eight years of my existence. I do not know if I have ever been close, nor am I sure it even exists. But still I search, for what other purpose does a man possess?

I am a man of few possessions, yet my existence is comfortable. My parents raised me in what many would deem ‘luxury’ in the wealthy suburbs of Moscow – my father met my mother whilst studying international law in Paris, and despite the objections of her parents, brought her back to his homeland a bride.

Lawyers move in a particular type of social circle, from an early age I remember the weekend visits from an abundance of unpleasant ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ who, days after lavishing the finest of gifts on their equally affluent friends, would return to work, defending the latest corrupt corporate executive to line their pockets with silver. Such is life in the new Russia.

With lies, sleaze and suspicion being the order of day at home, I decided to get out, despite the protestations of my loving father. Tempted by the bright lights and fresh sea air I left for St. Petersburg, beginning my degree a year early, such was my eagerness to rid myself of my Muscovites beginnings. Philosophy and literature, rather than law, was my calling.

Ridiculed for my youth, I retreated into my studies. Pushkin and Rousseau, Lermontov and Wordsworth became my closest friends as I shunned the typical ‘student’ lifestyle which my peers followed mindlessly. Rather than join in the structured debates which were clogged up with their bourgeois politics, I wrote my own musings, leaving them scattered around the university and trying to stimulate a higher level of discussion, but to no avail.

I graduated with strong marks, but only after a lengthy appeals process. The board of assessors were convinced that my final assignment was ‘too complex’ to have been my own work. I proved them wrong, explaining the principles of my argument in front of a stunned board, and they granted me the right to graduate. I left the city and gave in to the one aspect of student life that had always fascinated me: travel.

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Author's Note: Played on 01/02 with a large modern database, with the English, Spanish and Italian leagues loaded alongside the Russian ones. Whilst this is a challenge save, I've attempted to explore the character a little more, so there are times when the football will become secondary to the story. It may move a little slowly at first, but I hope you see fit to bear with me. Enjoy!

But it was not to the sprawling metropolises of London, Paris or Munich that I turned my eye. My experiences at home and at university had brought me to detest the rapid pace of life that I had foolishly enticed me to St. Petersburg. Nor did I feel the need to patronise the peoples of sub-Saharan Africa or Latin America. It was to the mountains that I took flight, the backdrop of my heroes and a chance to sample a purer lifestyle.

I set off to the Himalayas, but the atmosphere sickened me. The locals have sold their soul and their homeland for American dollars, and there is nothing real left of the place. Disillusioned, I headed to Shelley’s Alps, only to find myself constantly under attack from adrenaline junkies and their masses of carbon fibre, and I grew angry at myself for believing in the existence of the idyllic escape. Reluctantly, I made my way back to the land of my father. I could not escape the everyday monotony of ‘work’ forever, much as I took it upon myself to try.

With the spectre of empty employment looming over me, I decided that I would not yet return to the city. Putting my faith in my instincts, I headed south to the bastion of beauty that my country so sadly neglects: the Caucasus. Within hours of arriving, I knew that my intuition had been rewarded. Everything appeared to fall into place, my mind finally satiated and my soul at rest. I was home.

Much to my chagrin, I came to realise that one cannot easily forge a home amongst the golden fringes and nameless streams, and so I scoured the foothills of those glorious mountains for a dwelling. Inevitably, that required me to work – on my travels around Europe I had taken on a plethora of ill-paid, menial tasks to fund my travels, and so my resumé was as ‘impressive’ as anyone else’s. My problem lied in the Caucasus themselves: everything was already taken.

I came across a school in the provincial city of Vladikavkaz, the capital of North Ossetia and proudly proclaiming itself to be ‘Ruler of the Caucasus.’ Volunteering myself as a teacher of French (one of few things for which I must thank my mother), I was quickly granted paid employment and initially enjoyed my work, enriching my pupils with tales lifted from literature and using their newly-found language skills to delve far deeper than their curriculum suggested. One thing which I struck about every single one of them, irrespective of age or intellect, was fear.

North Ossetia lies on the edge of a war for which there is little hope of peace. The independence of Ingushetia and the fighting which followed left deep scars in Vladikavkaz, and the Beslan school atrocities less than a half a decade ago still resonate amongst the native Ossetians. Trapped between Chechen rebels and heavy-handed Russian troops, they have suffered at the hands of both for an eternity through no fault of their own. Beneath the ominous blue peaks and fiery crags, they were helpless. I tried to ease my students’ fears, to give them confidence and strength, but my words were empty. I left, disappointed in my own ability but beginning to understand the depth of the wounds and their impact on the local psyche.

Their sole consolation came in the shape of a humble football club. I remember hearing their story many a time upon my arrival – how their team had wrested the title from the clutches of the evil Moscow clubs in the glorious November of 1995. Some had even showed me the newsreel of the celebrations. Unfortunately the fairytale too had ceased to exist, the mastermind of the title victory lured away by Muscovite money, and the famous Alania relegated. The team was forced to disband after financial problems, but the Alania name soon returned to give hope to Vladikavkaz.

Sport as a whole was never something which I engaged in – on the few occasions my slim physique stood up to the test, I became easily frustrated at my teammates’ lack of intelligence, which often led to confrontation and expulsion from the field. I excelled at the mental rigours of chess, but accusations of cheating from jealous opponents soured my trophies and I eventually ended my association with all competitive activity.

My father on the other hand was fascinated by the game, and particularly his beloved Dynamo. Perhaps wisely given their past affiliations with the KGB, my father regularly spent his ill-gotten roubles on trips to the Dynamo Stadium, spending many an evening lamenting the lack of success in recent years. It was this way I came to know the game well – I would stare vacantly as he would recall the brilliance of Yashin in goal, Gazzaev’s golden boot and the numerous victories over their city rivals. He would spend hours discussing (with himself, naturally) the merits of various formations, advocating anything from an apparently standard 4-4-2 to tactics which sounded to me as if they’d been consigned to the 1950s. I took a curious interest in this aspect of the game – I found it frankly unthinkable that such gifted athletes could win or lose depending on where they stood on the pitch.

A well written start, EvilDave. Looking forward to more.

Best of luck with the challenge, nice start, and if you're managing in Russia then this will be an interesting story I am sure

Cracking start to the story Dave and good luck with the challenge

Thanks all of you - good to have you on board, although I can see my challenge progress being slow at best I'm really enjoying this save.

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This, it appears now, is how I ended up spending my Sunday mornings watching 14-year olds chase a ball around a field. The side, many of whom I had previously taught, had been abandoned by their previous coach for a well-paid job in the local construction industry and, feeling an obligation to my former pupils, I stepped in.

The team was a shambles. The outgoing coach had insisted on defensive tactics with just a single attacking outlet, and the talent in the squad was minimal at best. Rash decisions and wayward passes saw us hover around in the lower reaches of our league table, their positional sense costing us valuable points. My father’s tactical ramblings may have been worthwhile after all.

In the off-season I drilled them, hard. Not one of them appreciated my discipline, my outbursts at signs of weakness - but they certainly improved. I wrote letter after letter to the first-team manager, arguing a case for loaning us one of his coaches for the summer. When he arrived, he was able to focus on technique whilst I hammered home my tactical philosophy. We would play 3-5-2 in the Hungarian style to take advantage of their youthful energy. The coach disagreed, but I calmly reminded him of my position and argued my decision. He left for the first team, by this time he was becoming superfluous.

I had watched his technical training and soon was able to lead it myself, my own ball skills ignored by the determination of my players to hone their skills. When the league season began we shot to the top of the table, and we stayed there all year. I followed my players into the next age group where once again we dismissed all challengers, suffering only two defeats in league play and a third to a touring side from St. Petersburg.

By now my players were beginning to be spotted for their ‘talent’ and called into higher age groups. The oldest, usually deployed as a left-sided midfielder, began to train with the first team. After being granted a handful of games at the end of another mediocre season for the senior side, his manager fled for pastures anew. Somehow, I was mentioned as a candidate.

It was explained to me that finances were tight, and that this season’s flirtation with relegation would not be tolerated again. In return, I turned to the book of footballing clichés – my research since taking the youth team post was extensive, and so I was well equipped – reminding them of the ‘potential’ of the side, reassuring them that the ‘structure was already in place’ for success, and dropping in references to the 1995 title-winning side on a regular basis. The other applicants needn’t have bothered, judging by the grin emerging on the face of Chairman Dziohyev.

The wage packet is small, and looking at the team it is no surprise that one of my youth players broke straight into it. In my first training session I stalked up and down as coaches and players alike tried to impress. The satisfaction I felt with the youngsters began to evaporate as I realised the lack of enjoyment on the faces of the players – this was no longer something they enjoyed doing in their spare time, this was a job which some of them visibly loathed. They would be the first to go.

After initially trying to press the players into my 3-5-2 formation, I successfully rid them of their bland 4-4-2 and watched as they got to grips with the famous Metodo formation. Two centre-backs protected by a pair of wing-backs and a holding midfielder. Ahead of them sat my three most creative players in support of two centre-forwards. One of these playmakers was intended to become a third striker, but my options dictated otherwise. My training match went on for two whole hours and I patrolled the touchline, blowing my whistle every time a player drifted out of formation. Discipline had to come before success.

Before nightfall I arranged two warm-up matches against touring non-league sides, who were thrilled to have the opportunity to show their ‘skills’ against a professional side. Olimpia Krasnodar and Rotor Volgograd, a side who once competed at the top end of the Premier League, would both visit the Spartak stadium before the start of league play. If we failed to beat either team, I would begin as a failure.

I left the stadium in darkness, retreating to my home beneath the silent snowcaps. As I lie awake, the incessant calls of promiscuous owls made my suddenly aware of my own loneliness – my parents had found no problems sending me money after taking up my teaching post, but I had seen none of my family for years. The youth players at Alania were the closest thing I had to friends in all of Russia, and even then I saw them as minds to be nurtured. I decided to use my appointment would engage me in the local community - I would not be forgotten when I left.

The days flew by, and the day before our opening league game I gathered the team on the training ground. The two friendly had shown their strengths in a 3-1 win over Olimpia, but more importantly their weakness as they proved utterly hopeless in a 2-0 defeat to Rotor. With the league only allowing three non-Russians in the squad, I had finally made my decisions.

In goal, Ukrainian Mykola Tsygan would get the nod ahead of the local Alan Khaimanov. With limited foreign player slots and a distinct lack of talent, Moldovan Sergei Pashchenko was the first player I placed on the transfer list. In a testament to his skills, I received no interest.

Protecting Tsygan in central defence would be the second of our foreign contingent, well-travelled Brazilian Alan Kardek, and the imposing figure of Khamlutdin Akhmedov. The 22-year old had shown himself to be one of the more enthusiastic members of the squad, and I enjoyed watching his childish delight on the field. Backing up those two would be versatile youngster Vadim Gagloev and Alex Kukanos. Mikhail Onischenko was a useful reserve, and 36-year old Alan Agaev had already left the club – his complete lack of pace and short temperament seeing him sold to Kristall Smolensk for just over a quarter of a million roubles.

Kukanos also found himself a valuable substitute in the left wing-back position, waiting for Eugeny Kaleshin to make a mistake. The youngster was contracted to Krylja Sovetov, but was loaned to my predecessor for first-team experience. I intended to give him it.

On the right, 21-year Mikhail Bakaev held down the defensive role, with only Gagloev and the useless Tamerlan Varziev also able to fill the position. Varziev’s lack of ability was the only black mark on his record however, and he was spared the transfer list for lack of alternatives.

In the central holding position, first-choice would belong to club captain and final foreign player, Ukrainian Andrey Proshin. Gagloev could play here as well, but primary back-up came in the form of 27-year old Oumar Karsanov, a workhorse with endless stamina but limited talent.

For our three playmaking roles, one had to go to Djambulad Bazaev. The 29-year old had proved himself to be the most gifted player at the club, and his natural connection with his brother would be a valuable asset. Vladimir Leshonok would occupy the central role, and the remaining position would be fought over between Robert Bitarov and Amzor Ailarov, who would start the first match. In case of injury, Valerjan Bestaev and Lokomotiv loanee Georgy Gabulov would provide adequate substitutes, with Arthur Kulumbagov acting as last resort.

That left the strikers. Prior to my arrival, Romanian Christian Tudor had been the primary threat, but from the outset he proved himself a major annoyance. His high wage paid for a lavish lifestyle, and his treatment of the younger players was beyond demeaning. When he demanded the captaincy his days were numbered, and FC Vaslui were more than happy to pay the twelve million rouble asking price. Similarly, Brazilian journeyman Xavier Gomes had seen Alania as an easy pay-day, and put in precisely zero effort. When Bangu, a non-league side from his homeland, expressed an interest, he was gone. The lack of a fee did not trouble me.

That left me to choose between three strikers to partner Djambulad’s brother Georgy Bazaev up front. In the end I made my decision in favour of another loan player, Spartak Nalchik’s Yury Rodenkov, leaving the dimunitive Ruslan Alborov and another Sovetov player in Ivan Shpakov on reserve. My scouts had too little time to scour the country before the transfer window slammed shut, and so I would start with the same squad I inherited, minus the departures. Dinamo Bryansk were calling, and my team were under firm instruction to face them blow for blow. They have never been one of the stronger teams in the league, and the fans would be expecting a win. So was I.

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Author's Note: This may be the last post for a while, as I have exams the next couple of days, then go away for the weekend before moving out of university halls into my house for next year. I'll back before long though, there's plenty more to come!

Good luck with the move, Dave, I have no doubt we will probably meet at some point!