The Open Window.

[mametz1536]

It was Monday the start of term, and the school gate and playground were thronging with activity. The sight of so many children made Sophie shudder. She had a terrifying picture of Christian and Isabella making friends with every one of them and inviting them all home to tea. But looking downs at Isabella’s petrified face, and the grim set of Christian’s jaw, it looked more likely they wouldn’t make a single friend. They’d be lucky to survive, never mind socialise.

It had been agreed during dinner yesterday that the job of taking the children to school for the first day would fall to mummy. Sophie, while doling out yet another child-friendly meal of healthy spaghetti bolognaise, had suggested that since it was their ‘special day’ they should choose who took them.

“Both mummy and daddy could both go, if you like.”

“I can’t, I’m afraid,” Steven had added. “Got to see an agent first thing, just got the text.”

Stirring her plate of food, without looking up, Isabella said, “That’s all right daddy, we understand. Mummy can take us.”

They were greeted in the noisy corridor by a tall, elegant woman who claimed to be Christian’s teacher, Mrs Ammann. Amidst the kafuffle of screeching children and gossiping mothers, they were shown where to hang Christian’s PE bag, then pointed in the direction of Isabella’s classroom further down the corridor. It was probably for the best, but there was no appropriate moment to say good bye. Mrs Ammann swept Christian away with her and there was nothing else for it but to get the next bit over and done with. Isabella was going to cry; Sophie just knew it. And she had no way to stop it.

There were lots of small children milling around outside Isabella’s classroom; Sophie noted that one or two faces were not dissimilar from Isabella’s. Presumably they were in the same boat. Others, the confident, cocky ones who were charging on ahead to the classroom were, she imagined, old hands. They’d probably already sized up the potential losers who could be bullied into drug-running for them.

Not funny, she told herself.

There were one or two mothers who looked in bad shape, their faces hanging grimly onto what they doubtless thought was an encouraging smile.

Feeling the pressure of Isabella’s hand in hers Sophie glanced down at her. Her eyes were pools of tear-filled wretchedness.

All the other children had disappeared inside the classroom, and now the corridor was empty. Sophie spotted Isabella’s name above a coat peg.

“Here,” she said, “we’d better hang up your PE bag, darling?”

She shook her head and pressed the bag to her chest.

“Come on darling, give it to mummy or we’ll be late and in trouble before we’ve even started.”

Sophie bent down to her and Isabella dropped the bag and flung her arms around her neck. With a shock of tenderness, she felt the trembling within her small body and held her tightly.

“Hello there. I’m Miss Ridmer and you must be Isabella Allen. I was wondering what had happened to you.”

Disentangling herself from Isabella’s vice-like grip, Sophie stood up to greet her daughter’s teacher.

“I’m afraid she’s a little nervous, “she explained, at the same time taking in the woman or rather the girl. Miss Ridmer looked no older than a school-leaver. With her wide grin, her hair in high bunches, her gingham, puff-sleeved top, denim skirt and black PVC boots, she resembled one of those overactive children’s television presenters.

“Is this yours, Isabella?” Miss Ridmer asked, picking up her PE bag. “Why don’t you come and meet all your new friends? Everyone’s waiting to meet you?”

Her head moved up and down and she started to inch forward.

Sophie looked on as she handed her daughter over to a total stranger.

Passing Christians classroom on her way out, she took a moment to glance through the glass panes of the door. She spotted her son straight away. He was the one chewing the end of his pencil and staring absently out of the window. It could have been Sophie sitting there at the same age. She had a feeling that he would need constant stimulation and hoped that he would find it there. He was a bright boy who could quickly get bored.

[mametz1536]

The sound of the bells of St. Agatha’s ringing floated across the warm late morning air to me as I watched Ian preside over the closing jog. The gently slope up from the back of the Main Stand to the industrial park was a nice exertion and one that kept the fitness levels high.

As Alain approached me I became conscious of the smell of fried bacon. The door of the Caretaker’s room now stood open and Thomas Mann carrying corner flags walked in a wandering path near me.

“Hello, Thomas,” I said. “What on earth have you been up to?”

“Had a bit of bother,” Thomas told me breathlessly, his eyes roaming round the training ground.

“Come again.”

“I thought I would bring in my camping stove and do myself a pan of bacon, you know,” He said, nodding towards his confined cupboard. “But the dust was a bit thick and when I started I nearly burnt the place down.”

“Did anyone…..”

“Not as I know, but I can’t get rid of the smell,” he said. “Any ideas?”

I shook my head, in disbelief, “I’m afraid not.”

“Thought as much, I just have to burn some rubbish close by to disguise it.”

Alain was now within whispering distance and with a shifty glance the caretaker slunk away.

“Everything Okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I replied. “The training went really well?”

“Excellent, they’re just finishing up and I’ve got the couple of extra sessions going.”

“I’ll take Sutter and Ferranti over the dribbling routine and you will sort out Konak and Verlorenhoek volleying against Konig.”

“That leaves Ian in the gym with the rest of the lads.”

“He can cope,” I said, casting my eyes over the group. “They need the extra conditioning if Remy’s report is anything to go by.”

I had received the detailed email that morning and by all accounts Winterthur were a tough physical team.

“I watched them play Yverdon last year and in my opinion the best word to describe Winterthur is “Steam Roller,” he rubbed his hand over his chin. “They certainly play a hard, fast physical game and have a lot of new faces.”

“They spent loads of cash, that’s for sure,” I agreed.

“All ways have promotion dreams but there’ll never up to it. Winterthur are a bit of a running joke.” He laughed out loud, “Wimbledon.”

“Wimbledon?”

“Yeap, Wimbledon, it will be like the old days, up against Vinny Jones’ lads.”

“My God, Alain those were the days. That quarter final in the pouring rain, tackles flying everywhere and Ian getting sent-off.”

“If I remember correctly, you missed a penalty but we still won.”

“A bit of Samedan magic.”

Alain chuckled, “Nothing beats a bit of magic.”

“On a different note, you and Ian still up for the Martin’s extravaganza tomorrow night?”

“Suppose so, remind me whose coming.”

“God your hopeless, your head has been in the clouds lately! Sophie and I, Heinz, Seigbert and their wives and you and Ian.”

“Ah, I think I can be tempted, the beautiful Nicole.”

“Alain…..”

He slapped his hand on my shoulder, “You’re so easy to wind up, I just can’t resist.” He smiled and started to sniff, “By the way, I can smell…..bacon, is it me?”

“It’s not you and don’t ask?”

“This place gets more surreal by the minute,” He added.

[mametz1536]

I was late. I had spent longer than I intended in the bath, with a large brandy and the water had gone could for a second time. I wrapped my bathrobe about me and I wandered aimlessly into the bedroom, where my suit and tie were laid out perfectly for me.

I was delighted to hear the faint strains of James Blunt drifting from the lounge. It was not my choice of music, but I could live with Sophie’s easy listening tastes. Certainly it was better than some of the mindless thumping drone that filled most airwaves.

I eventually dressed, wandered downstairs, opened the conservatory door and let in the cool evening air. The air inside the hot house was warm and as thick a syrup with flies buzzing wearily against the smeared glass. In this warmth I began to feel light headed.

I went back inside and was greeted by a vision of loveliness.

“First impressions, then!” She said, twirling around.

She looked too good to be true, in a scoped neck, sleeveless, short but not too short, slim fitting, silver sequined dress, finished off with high heeled strappy sandals. Her blonde hair was up with tendrils cascading down over large silver earrings.

“I am married to the most gorgeous girl on this planet.”

“Yes, I think I am,” she said. “Not bad for thirty six and after two kids.”

“Darling, I think I’m going to have to watch you tonight.”

She took a moment to consider my answer and smiled, “That’s no bad thing, keeps you on your toes.”

With each day that passed I was more conscious of a deep sense of assurance that I had made the correct decision of uprooting my family and bringing them here to Switzerland. I had had my reservations and nobody knew of the uncertainty in the back of my mind. There was no one to suggest that I had been too hasty in my acceptance of the job offered to me, I simply had taken the bull by the horns and thrown all my hopes and dreams into a new start.

I had already in my managerial career experienced every great trauma and I knew I could not pretend anymore. I had cried gulping, great tears alone at night, lying awake in bed at night.

But I felt that the past was behind me and as I smiled at my wife I had come to realise at that moment I had all I needed.

I shut the door behind me, locking it following Sophie down the driveway to the car.

I stood on the pavement and looked across the open fields, towards ‘The Boll’ and the mountains beyond.

I felt like a small child who had just been given a surprise present. I wanted to rip off the paper and see what was inside, eager to find out if I had been given a trick or a treat.

[mametz1536]

Nicole Schneider opened the door to us.

“Sophie!” she cried out, as though her best friend was the last person on earth she had been expecting to see that evening.

“Nicole!” my wife replied, I think she found it difficult to reply in any other way. They almost made contact as they leaned towards each other for a perfunctory kiss.

“Martin’s on the telephone, he won’t be long. You look wonderful.”

“You always say that.”

“Well, you do and I’m so jealous of you.” She said a little flustered. “And hello Steven,” she added almost as an after thought.

We walked into the sitting room, following behind the hostess.

“Look, everybody, look who’s here,” Nicole said, in a loud voice. It came over like an over-rehearsed line from a play.

“Steven and Sophie!” Siegbert said with obvious delight. He levered himself out of a florid armchair and came towards us, spilling a few drops of wine as he did.

“Great to see you tonight, my favourite niece. Marie’s in the kitchen, fussing as usual.”

He hugged Sophie warmly. She was always pleased to see her uncle, with his familiar Toby jug appearance – stout and highly coloured.

“I’m sure Aunt Marie has everything under control,” Sophie replied. “You look great Uncle Siegbert. The new diet’s going well then?”

He smiled at her and at the same time, with great effort, he pulled in his stomach. Lowering his voice as to exclude everybody from their conversation, he asked her, “You okay?”

Sophie nodded, and smiled back at him, “Yes, thank you. And how is life at the club, Steven tells me he’s lining up a new defender for your acquisitions committee?”

“It would seem so. More work, more wining and dinning.”

Sophie rested a hand on his arm, “Uncle Siegbert, you love it really.”

He chuckled, “You’ve seen right though me, I absolutely revel in it.”

I watched the close exchange between them, for all his bluster and buffoonery it was blatantly obvious of his love for his niece.

I looked for Heinz and Martin but there was no sign of either. Staring straight at me was Heinz’s wife Heidi an over tanned, slim woman with a perfect bob of blonde hair, looking for the entire world like a candidate for a ballroom dancing competition. And there making an appearance by the hi-fi was Martin, a dead ringer for Phil Collins if ever there was one.

“Steven, you’re here a last.” He said, offering me a glass of some sparkling, orangey drink. “I think you know everyone. That was Alain in the phone by the way. Poor man, he called to say he got stuck in traffic just outside Zurich, but he would be with us as soon as he can.”

Martin met me eye to eye and I was convinced I could smell gin.

“Now come on everyone, sit down, make yourselves at home,” gasped Nicole slightly flustered. “Anyone for chiken tikka-flavoured nuts?”

“Someone mention food? I’m starving.” It was Heinz with a large tray of nibbles, which he started to offer around. “Steven and Sophie, you’ve arrived. Good to see you. Everything all right back in Fislisbach?”

“Yes thanks, Heinz, just as Nicole said it would be.”

Rubbing his hands together, he came over and kissed Sophie, “This isn’t on,” he said. “You’re the only one without a drink. Let me get you something?”

“Only something soft,” she replied, “I’m the one driving tonight.”

The doorbell rang.

[mametz1536]

“I’ll get that.” Nicole almost barged past Heinz in her hurry to get to the front door. “It’ll be Alain.”

The rest of the guests sat in an awkward silence, listening to the front door being pulled open and the sound of Nicole’s voice carrying from the hall. “Oh, Alain, how kind, but you shouldn’t have. Really, I don’t deserve them.”

You’re right, I thought, you don’t deserve them, whatever they are, you’re playing with fire lady.

The sound of Nicole’s voice grew louder until she stood in the doorway, a sparkling smile on her face, bouquet of gysophila and pink carnations in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“Sorry I’m late, everybody,” said a familiar voice behind Nicole. Alain Samedan made his appearance. “I hope I haven’t kept you all waiting.”

Smooth, very smooth I thought.

“No, no of course you haven’t,” fawned Nicole. “Think nothing of it. We’re just delighted you are here.”

“Ian sends his apologies. He had to deal with some domestic crisis over the phone. You know how it is.”

“Never mind, I’m sure everything will be okay, what are you drinking?” Asked Martin manoeuvring himself towards the kitchen.

“A coke, thanks,” he responded, then, smiling, he placed a hand on his heart and said, “I promise to be a good citizen and not to drink and drive.”

“What a shame,” Martin said, offering a small smile. “I was hoping to get you drunk and find out what really happened under Roy Hodgson in America.”

“Now that would be telling, still there are a lot juicier stories to be told during the Tottenham days, eh Steven?”

I was suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes boring into me.

“Nothing that would interest this cultured crowd,” I blustered out.

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Nicole. “Now if you could all go through I’ll just put these lovely flowers in water and then follow you on in a moment.”

We made our way slowly into the dinning room and found ourselves with a table laid with rigid military precision: glasses standing to attention, cutlery lined up in ranks, napkins with knife-edge creases and flowery name plates pushed to the front of each place setting ….and just as I suspected, I had been positioned next to Martin.

“What an interesting painting, Martin,” I said. “Is it new?”

And while everyone predictably turned to admire a rather nondescript watercolour above the sideboard, I switched Martin’s name for Alain’s.

[mametz1536]

At the head of the table, Nicole was doing her level best to steer the conversation on a straight course. She was obviously put out by something, I felt a little guilty that I had sabotaged her carefully made seating plan. From all her facial movements, I suspected that she thought it was Alain, but she would never let on.

Sophie was whispering and tittering with her, like two naughty schoolgirls. Lord knows what Heinz makes of it all.

A sideways look at Heinz’s wife, Heidi told me that she was obviously bored and, by the way she was poking at her chocolate mousse, she was not going to finish it.

I felt delighted.

Siegbert had barely opened his mouth all evening, and had only said anything when he was spoken to.

Alain, bless him, had tried several times to talk to him, but Martin was making it exceptionally difficult, monopolising my poor assistant manager with all his talk of his vision for the club and of fast cars.

Martin was predictably drunk now and telling another of his Motor Owners Club jokes.

“What’s the difference between a Skoda and Sepp Blatter?”

“Not now, Martin.” Nicole said warmly, knowing the punch line only too well. She got to her feet and started to gather up the dishes. “Bring these out for me will you?”

“Right you are, my little sweetie pie,” he said jumping smartly to his feet and managing to pull part of the tablecloth with him. Glasses crashed against the plates and red wine bled on to the white damask cloth.

“Don’t worry, everyone,” shrieked Nicole, who seem to be the only one who was worried. “A bit of salt rubbed in and a cold soak overnight will do the trick?”

“And that’s just for Martin,” giggled Sophie.

Everyone laughed and started to clear up the mess, dabbing the table with their napkins, while Nicole disappeared into the kitchen.

“Bit of a boob that, old man,” said Siegbert, the only one not bothering to help.

“Sorry mate, though personally I’m not a boob man,” quipped Martin, on his knees.

I couldn’t help but laugh, Alain followed and everyone soon joined in, except Heidi.

Martin looked up round the table. “Nothing wrong in that, is there?”

Siegbert shook his head and poured himself another glass of wine. Taking the bottle from him, Martin filled his own glass and then Sophie’s. “What about you Alain?”

“No thanks.”

Martin laughed, “No, not the wine. Are you a boob man?”

“Martin!” whispered Heidi.

“No, let the man speak.”

“I prefer the whole body.”

I chuckled, smooth all right, I thought.

“Cheese and biscuits,” said Nicole, reappearing with a large plate. “Heidi, dip in first before it all disappears.”

“No, really I couldn’t, that was all quite delicious.”

Nicole looked put out.

“Is that a piece of Geneva Brie?” intervened Alain.

Nicole smiled gratefully at Alain and passed him the plate.

“Very smooth,” I muttered.

“What did you say darling?” asked my wife.

“I was just saying how smooth this red wine is.”

I looked at Nicole. I had the most awful feeling that this moment was the lull before the storm. Something terrible was about to happen.

“Martin,” I said, in an effort to divert his attention, “Is that a bottle of fine French cognac I spy?”

“The best Steven,”

“A nice cognac would hit the spot,” piped up Heinz.

[mametz1536]

Getting slowly and very cautiously to his feet, Martin reached for a near empty bottle of fine cognac on the sideboard, along with a tray of glasses, and for those who wanted Cognac; he poured it out as sparingly as Communion wine.

Separate conversations began springing up around the table; I eavesdropped on what was being said.

“…….you know, Nicole, Anna is such a godsend to me,” Sophie was saying. “I don’t know how I ever managed without her. She’s wonderful with the children, nothing too much trouble for her.”

“Really, I never thought your sister could cope. It’s hard to believe, she is so disorganised.”

“ ……So Alain, you’re still into getting into the public eye, are you? I think your media profile is rising all the time. What’s it like with all those show biz types?”

“I’m not so sure it’s all that glamorous, Heidi, there’s a lot of wasted time, but I can tell you a few stories.”

Alain turned away from Heidi and nudged me.

“What plans have you got up your sleeve, for this Fridays game?” Heinz asked, across the table.

“Plans?” I repeated. “Some of the same, Heinz. Keep up the pressure and hit them hard.”

“I just wondered; don’t want to lose the momentum.”

“You know me, one game at a time, Winterthur are a different outfit to Vaduz.”

“It won’t be easy, Steven,” Interrupted Seigbert. “They’re at home and they always say the Winterthur faithful act as an extra player.”

An uncomfortable silence fell round the table. It was Martin who broke in.

“I’m sure Steven knows what he’s doing,” he said. “I bet he and Alain have hatched up a cunning plan.”

“Coffee?” snapped Nicole.

Hauling himself out of his chair once more, Martin looked pie-eyed round the table, “Coffee for nine?”

“What can we do to counter attack there physical approach?” asked Seigbert, sounding like a pundit.

I silently screamed to myself. Why couldn’t the buffoon just shut up and leave the subject alone? “We’re working on it, can’t give away all my secrets.”

“Come on give us a little taster,” he said, with a hidden smile.

Enough was enough; I slowly pushed back my chair and rose to my feet. I picked up my glass of cognac and in a loud voice said, “To Nicole that was a wonderful dinner. Thank you for a wonderful evening, it has been very enjoyable.”

I sat down to a chorus of murmured compliments.

A crescendo of activity followed with Alain offering to help Nicole clear up. Heinz and Heidi quickly joined them.

I turned to Sophie, “Let’s make a move,” she said. “I’m tired and I want to go home.”

“No problem,” I replied. “Let’s say our goodbyes.”

I took her hand and we made our way to the hall, “Goodnight, everyone,” I said. “Time to relieve our faithful babysitter and I could do with some fresh air.”

[mametz1536]

“This doesn’t feel at all right,” I said, studying the team sheet for the millionth time.

Alain looked across at me briefly, lifting his eyes from his laptop. We were on E41 just outside Linadu, with the motorway stretching ahead. For most of the journey neither of us had said anything.

I was worried, when I had first played with the team selection I had been intrigued with how to deal with an overload in midfield. I was becoming more convinced that it was important to keep Mikari quiet.

The names were being to blur before my eyes:

Between the sticks - 17. Swen Konig.

Right back 2. Orazio Ferranti.

Left back 23. Sebastien Pocognoli

Centre back 4. Giuseppe Mazzarelli.

Centre back 5. Joao Manuel Pinto.

Holding midfield and Destroyer 6. Stefano Seedorf

Right midfield 26. Albert Kaci.

Left Midfield and Outlet 18. David Grondin.

Centre Midfield 29. Marc Sutter.

Midfield Lnk 16. Paulinho.

Striker 8. Deniz Konak.

Subs

1. Paterick Abatangelo.

12. Markus Meier.

22. Gregory Scattone

10. Jan Verlorenhoek.

30. Pascal Bader.”

“I’m dropping Seedorf deeper and reining in Sutter to a less attacking role, more of a 4-1-3-1-1, going for a more methodical passing game, and compressing midfield.”

“It will give them a battle in midfield, but reduces our attacking options,” Alain said toying with my pen in his hand. “A bit negative.”

“I know, but it doesn’t feel right without the change. None of our midfielders are passengers, all are hard-working and with a bit extra in the middle, I think we can come away with a decent result.”

“You’re the boss, mate. I agree it would be nice to dominate from early on. Let’s go for it.”

[mametz1536]

I tried to block out my anxiety for the game, the last thing I wanted was to come away licking my wounds. I gazed at the mountain range in the distance. It was lovely I hoped my defense and midfield could stand that strong this evening.

We had deliberately arrived early, before the home team arrived to set ourselves up. At least this way it gave me a chance to explain the small change in the team formation and run through the training and warm up with Ian.

It seemed a dreadful shame to me to change my formation to cater for the opposition. But I knew the fact that they would come at us hard and we needed to be ready for them.

We were greeted nosily by our traveling supporters as we took the pitch for the warm up a full 45 minutes before the kick-off.

The weather forecast was to the effect that the evening would be fine and now a pale sun was peaking through the clouds before it descended over the horizon.

Winterthur supporters were all ready pouring into the ground and the tight ground felt very intimidating.

We would play be our changed kit of all white, Winterthur like us played in bright red.

“I hope you’ve got your lucky trainers on Ian,” I said.

“Better than that, I’ve got us lucky boxers on as well. We’re gonna beat these jokers, I can feel it in my water.”

“Yeap, let’s show this lot that we’re up for it.”

The few seconds while the refreee was looking at his watch before the kick-off seemed to last an age. We had won the toss and Giuseppe had given Winterthur the kick off.

They went at us with a rush, Mikari going through with his forwards in a movement that had evidently been well rehearsed. The ball switched from man to man and none of our players had touched it when it finally reached Beili and he crashed a shot in on target from fifteen yards.

Konig took it comfortably and played it out to his left. The ball dropped and reached an unmarked Grondin , with room to move he flew down the flank. He was greeted by Meier who left us in no doubt of Winterthur’s intent when he went in with both feet.

It was a ridiculous challenge made to intimidate our left winger. The referee had no hesitation and flashed the yellow card at the defender.

Winterthur started to pile on the early pressure. Seedorf did a great job, just in front of the back four. Thanks to his dominating influence, our defenders didn’t get rattled and Konig was not overworked. When we attacked, Muller was tracking Paulinho very closely and the Brazilian was finding him a tough man to beat.

“They’ve targeted Grondin and Paulinho,” I said to Alain. “We might have an opportunity here.”

He looked as Seedorf took the ball out of defence, “Perhaps we need to release Sutter, give him some freedom,” he said.

Kaci and Konak worked the ball nicely down the right, but Paulinho spoiled the movement by getting offside. From the kick, Mikari put the ball well downfield. Grondin picked it up and released Pocognoli down the left with a very determined run which took him into the corner of the penalty area. He tried a shot that the keeper turned over the bar and conceded the corner.

Grondin whipped in the corner to the far post, Konak flicked the ball back for Sutter and Meier flew at him pole-axing him with a raised foot.

The referee had no hesitation; he gave a long, sinister blast and pointed to the spot.

Meier looked astonished and raised his hands in a gesture of protest. The referee reached into his pocket and produced a yellow card, followed by a red card.

The Winterthur players looked dumfounded. Their players surrounded the Referee, but he was not in an arguing mood.

Giuseppe Mazzarelli put the ball on the spot. The whistle blew and he drove the ball law and hard towards the right hand corner. The keeper leapt like a tiger and his left hand pushed the ball onto the upright and bounced into the net. 0-1.

Now playing 11 men against 10 we gradually gained more space. Minutes later, Seedorf burst through the halfway line to launch a shot that the keeper was right behind.

A couple of minutes before the interval we made the numerical advantage count. Grondin hit a glorious long-range cross field pass to the feet of Kaci. His perfect first-time control, then reverse pass to Sutter, gave the attacking midfielder the space to cross with his left foot where Paulinho was lurking at the far post. The ball bounced off the Brazilian’s chest and he couldn’t miss from such close range. 0-2.

The game was immediately restarted and Winterthur gave us the direct approach in an effort to salvage something before the break. But our defence was up to an aerial bombardment and was not prepared to wilt.

We went in 2-0 up with the opposition players still arguing as we descended down the tunnel.

[mametz1536]

Ruthless, was the key word in my half-time talk, I wanted this game finished off without any mercy shown.

Soon after the second half began, Kaci beat the full-back and streaked for the corner flag. Paulinho was once again being tightly marked but Konak had run free, the cross was lobbed to Konak, who flicked it towards the far corner of the goal. It was frantically cleared by Discerens, the big centre back slid at it and the ball reared up onto his body. In an instant the ball brushed his outstretched arm and he conceded the corner.

I knew what was coming; sure enough the referee pointed to the spot and gave us our second penalty.

The Winterthur players were incensed. I had some sympathy with them, it was accidental but it had certainly helped him to clear the ball away.

David Grondin stepped up take the kick. The whistle blew and he rifled the ball into the top right hand corner of the net. The perfect Penalty kick. 0-3.

Alain gave me an approving smile as I rubbed my hands in glee. Three goals up it was time for a couple of substitutions. David Grondin would make way for Gregory Scattone on the left and Jan Verlorenhoek would replace Deniz Konak up front.

“Well played, David,” I chuckled. “You played your socks off out there. Great effort, lad!”

He blurted out some indistinguishable garlic phrase at me and smiled.

The two Belgian’s had an immediate impact, on the left Scattone found a bit of space to work in and made a dash downfield. He took the ball to the touchline as two defenders converged on him and stopped him from turning inside. All the way down the line he was shadowed by the two Winterthur players and he did not appear to have the faintest chance of getting away from them. He then gave the ball a prod with his toe. I watched it strike the bottom of the corner flag and flash off between the two players.

Scattone darted between them and with a magic, last minute side step he fainted left and jigged to the right. He flashed the ball across the face of goal and it was met full on by a diving Verlorenhoek, who flashed it into the back of the net. 0-4.

It was terrific stuff and was just reward for our dominance.

We were in full flight now, Sutter managed to hit the outside of the post and Paulinho was denied a second went his last minute effort cracked over the bar from point blank range.

I had entered this game with trepidation but thanks to Winterthur pushing their own self-destruct button, we had come away with a convincing win.

I could see the headlines of the newspapers, making the sending-off as the critical factor. I smiled with deep satisfaction, as I entered the dressing room joining in with snatches of song and general jubilation.

I sat down between Ian and Alain as the players entered the showers.

“That was an amazing fourth goal,” Ian said shaking his head. “Not seen dribbling like that since Chrissy Waddle.”

I laughed out loud, “It reminded me a bit of you Gunstone, in the glory days.”

He put his hand firmly on my shoulder, “Steven, Boss we’re living those days again.”

“What are you talking about, you great fat Geordie, some of us never stopped,” added Alain. “We just kept on going.”

I just sat and prayed that somehow we could keep it going, at least for a little while longer.

[mametz1536]

I was fooling myself that I was working. Or rather, I was trying to fool myself that I was working.

Sitting with my head bent over a pad of foolscap and sucking pensively on the end of a pencil, I was giving an impressive performance of a football manager. Only trouble was, the paper was blank and the pencil, completely unused, was as sharp as a pin.

My attempt at putting the final details for my Assistant Manager was not going well.

In fact, it was going depressingly badly. Not a word had been written that morning. It was now ten thirty and the great football manager had yet to get to training, give the team talk and have a one to one with the Chairman before I left for the airport tomorrow to fulfil my television commitment.

The worry was, perhaps I had nothing original left to impart.

I flung down my pencil. It bounced off the desk, hit the corner of the laptop and broke its sharp point clean off.

“Serves you right,” I said with childish satisfaction.

Giving orders and writing down detailed instructions in the past had never been a problem for me. In fact, I had invariably enjoyed the anticipatory element of staring at a blank piece of paper and waiting for instructions to start to flow. It was at this stage, before I progressed to the face to face cosy chat, that I had the most fun. So long as I didn’t have a single instruction written I could kid myself that the next match would be another triumph. It would win me plaudits, the like of which would become the talking point of every magazine and TV programme.

But that was the stuff of dreams. It was not to be taken seriously.

I stood up. It was time for another cup of coffee. My sixth of the day so far.

Not that I was counting.

Not that I was becoming paranoid.

While I waited for the coffee percolator to do its business, I thought of my phone call with my agent yesterday afternoon – another timely reminder that I should be getting my mind in gear for the joys of live television. Fresh from her holiday, Carol had met with the ITV production team over the weekend and had phoned me to confirm the arrangements for Wednesday’s international.

“It’s all arranged, Steven, you’re be in your element.”

“Thank you, Carol, I presume I’m sharing the spotlight with the great Irish wit.”

“Arghh…the wonderful Andy Nelson.”

We’d both laughed, “Better the devil you know.”

“They’re planning to introduce another new name, someone a bit younger, to sex it up a bit. Le-Saux and Seaman were being mentioned, but neither had committed themselves. Any thoughts?”

“I’ll rather not say, Carol. It should spice it up.”

“That’s fine, Steven, don’t worry about it. I can always trust you to come up with something good.”

Thinking of Carol’s praise now, as I dunked my digestive biscuit into my coffee while staring at the wipe board, I suddenly felt riddled with worry - ‘we can always trust you to some up with something good’. Well supposing I couldn’t do it this time?

What a wimp I was!

I dunked another digestive into my cup and seeing it disintegrate into my coffee, I decided I needed shaking up.

The best thing to do that was Georges Bregy and his review of the weekend’s action. I wondered what gems he had in store this time.

[ScottleeSV]

Good stuff. Enjoyed the development of Lucie on Page 2 very much.

[mametz1536]

Thanks ScottleeSV, you must have a secret spy camera on my writing, spotting my future twists.

---------------------------------------------

August 13, 2005

Super League, Round 4

A wild shootout at the top, as Basel and Grasshopper fought it out at St. Jakobspark. Basel’s defense this season has been especially stingy, only a allowing a single goal. But with the double paring of strikers, Eduardo & Romulo the favourites seem to have a combination no other team can contain.

Young Boys finally came good and showed they are real contenders with an emphatic four – nil victory over promoted Yverdon. They clobbered their opponents in front of a respectable crowd, most observers believe that the former giants will push for the title and this is just the type of result everyone has been waiting for.

Zurich remained unbeaten in a boring draw with bottom St.Gallen. Perhaps the hosts were exhausted from their recent escapades and a highly respected second place.

Aarau got their first win of the season, a surprise home win over a poor Schaffhausen.

Lastly, Xamax got their second win of the season away at Thun, which didn’t seem to hold much interest for the fans or either club.

Team of the Week: Young Boys

Bore of the Weak: Zurich (A very uninspiring draw)

Super League Pts

1.FC Basel 12

2.FC Zürich 10

3.BSC Young Boys Bern 7

4.Grasshopper-Club Zürich 7

5.Neuchâtel Xamax 6

6 FC Aarau 4

7.Yverdon-Sport 4

8. FC Thun 3

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

9. FC Schaffhausen 3 Relgation Playoff

-------------------------------------------------

10. FC St Gallen 1

Round 4

Aarau – Schaffhausen 2:1 (1:0)

6,490 (Figoli, Simo - Melunovic)

Basel - Grasshopper 2:0 (1:0)

33,294 (Eduardo, Romulo)

Thun – Neuchâtel Xamax 0:2 (0:2)

5,831 (Xhafa, Rey)

Young Boys - Yverdon 4:0 (3:0)

7,083 (Aziawonou, Pogrebnyak 3)

Zurich – St. Gallen 1:1 (0:1)

15,458 (Stanic – Fabinho)

Leading Scorers

5 - Keita – Zurich

5 – Romulo – Basel

4 – Muff – Grasshopper

[mametz1536]

August 13, 2005

Challenge League, Round 4

Lots of surprises this week!

Vaduz suffered another defeat, their second of the season, as they were upended by an inspired Sion. Winterthur stunningly lost at home to the wildly free scoring Baden. Lugano followed up their last outing with a one – nil at Concordia. Luzern finally came good to record a victory over bottom club Wil and newly promoted Locarno continue to impress with an emphatic win over Lausanne.

Although Vaduz's defeat seems shocking, Sion has always been a very tough to beat, and Vaduz has looked vulnerable. Patrick Gedeon dismissal for a professional foul certainly helped the visitor’s but they still managed to find the net twice and outplayed the Liechtensteiner’s for long periods.

Keeping themselves in front are the surprise leaders and the often maligned Baden, who won away at Winterthur. Baden usually chokes in important matches, so actually winning and holding the lead (even if it is only after 4 matches) is quite an accomplishment. So far they seem to avoided the predicted collapse flouted by most pundits. The Brazilian striker, Paulinho is the new hero, proudly heading the goal scoring table.

Lugano look menacing in second place, after their win over Luzern last week they managed a respectable win at Concordia Basel in a game they dominated. Luzern returned to winning ways with a sound trashing of promotion hopeful’s Wil.

Promoted Locarno is still raising a few eyebrows, their attacking brand of football is certainly livening up the league and nine goals from 4 games in any other season would be very creditable. Unfortunately, this seasons the leaders Baden have scored an amazing 16 goals in four games, with Paulinho outscoring the total tally of second place Lugano.

One thing is sure in the Challenge League that is nothing is surprising.

Team of the Week: Locarno

Bore of the Weak: Wohlen (Now firmly rooted at the bottom)

League Pts.

1. FC Baden 10 Promoted

-----------------------------------------------------

2. AC Lugano 10

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

3. FC La Chaux-de-Fonds 9

4. FC Sion 9

5. FC Lausanne-Sport 9

6. FC Locarno 9

7. AC Bellizona 7

8. FC Luzern 6

9. FC Concordia 6

10. FC Meyrin 6

11. SC Kriens 5

12. FC Winterthur 5

13. FC Vaduz 4

14. FC Chiasso 3

15. FC Baulmes 1

16. FC Wil 1

17. SC Young Fellows Juventus 1

-----------------------------------------------------

18. FC Wohlen 0 relegated

Round 4

Bellizona – Wohlen 2: 0 (2:0)

1,901 (Ianu, Egli (OG))

Concordia - Lugano 0:1 (0:1)

1,355 (Ganz)

Kriens – Chiasso 1:1 (0:1)

647 (Nocita - Beck)

La Chaux-de-Fonds - Meyrin 3:0 (2:0)

1,149 (Toure, Valente, Boughanem)

Locarno - Lausanne 3:0 (2:0)

804 (Gigante, Arnold, Kombate)

Luzern – Wil 2:0 (1:0)

5,659 (Keita, Tchouga)

Vaduz– Sion 0:2 (0:1)

909 (Thurre, Parra)

Winterthur – Baden 0:4 (0:2)

660 (Mazzarelli, Paulinho, Grondin, Verlorenhoek)

YF Juventus – Baulmes 2:2 (1:2)

230 (Bernjashi, Pittet – Langlet 2)

Leading Scorers

6 – Paulinho – Baden

5 – Kombate – Locarno

5 – de Souza Lausanne

3 – Konak – Baden

3 – Tchouga – Luzern

3 – Boughanem – La Chaux-de-Fonds

[mametz1536]

I was pleasantly amused, for Bregy to say we have been misrepresented was almost a softening.

As I walked out of my office along the back of the Main Stand I tried not to think about the fruitless morning spent over a blank sheet of paper.

“Damn you, Steven Allen!” I said out loud. A startled sparrow flew out of a bus shelter and disappeared into the distance.

And what’s more, I thought as I stomped my way towards the training ground, Bellinzona were one of those teams that were incredibly difficult to beat. We should be the favourites for Friday’s home match, but form and consistency went out the window with the Southern Swiss side, they always had the knack of frustrating the good teams and losing to the bad teams. I had faith in Alain’s ability to get the team ready but I still needed to be in total control, of every eventuality.

By the time I reached Thomas’s caretakers broom cupboard, my frustration was just waiting to unleash itself.

I found Thomas unpacking a bright red bin out of its shrink wrap.

“Oh hell,” muttered Thomas, I saw the look of fuming anger on the caretaker’s face. “I’d hoped to have the bloody things sorted an hour ago.”

“I bet you did,” I joked, going over to the bin and pushing the lining down from the enormous rim. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“I would have thought that was quite obvious.”

I struggled with the bin, then I pitched it into a wheelbarrow that Thomas had positioned next to me. The barrow shuddered and nearly toppled over under the weight of its cargo.

“In heaven’s name, couldn’t they have ordered something smaller?”

Thomas smiled, “The others are.”

“Other!” I cried, now following behind Thomas, who was staggering behind the barrow and pushing it to the front of the Stand.

“They’ve got to be in place for Bellinzona visit,” Thomas said over his shoulder.

“I don’t believe this!” I said when I stood looking at a perfectly good bin that had to be replaced. “What’s wrong with the old ones?”

“Oh, they’re not contemporary, not the right image.”

“Well, it comes to something when we start to worry about the image of the rubbish bins.”

“Steven, if they want new bins, let them have new bins.”

I frowned, why couldn’t they have nice new bright rubbish bins? “What is Heinz thinking, letting you do this? I thought he would have more sense?”

“Look, Steven, I know you mean well, but do you think you could ease up a bit? And for your information, Heinz wasn’t around when these things got delivered. So don’t go blaming him. Here just help me tip the barrow over; I’m not totally incapable of doing my job.”

I did as Thomas asked. “I’m sorry,” I said, when the bin had been replaced. “It’s just that I can’t help but worry about you, your old sod.”

“Thank you Steven, its nice know someone is concerned, but really I’m all right. Any way what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing, Thomas.”

“Rubbish, like these awful red bins, you can’t fool a kidder.”

“I can’t,” I sighed. “Get my thoughts down for Friday’s game, without being condescending. “

Thomas carried on fiddling with the bin, “You mean you don’t want to tell Alain how to manage, but you’re afraid he won’t.”

“Something like that.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Post-it notes!” he said, prodding the bin.

“Post-it notes!” I repeated.

“You’ve heard me. Post-it notes are the answer. Just note down your thoughts and paste them on the wipe board. Unobtrusive and random, just up Alain’s street.”

“All right,” I said, with a smile. “Now that’s a plan. Thomas, you old sod you’re a genius.”

He smiled, “I am the voice of reason.”

I decided that there was no time like the present, I turned round and rushed back to my office to act on a most sensible idea.

[mametz1536]

The flight had been delayed by nearly an hour and I hoped that Ian wouldn’t be worrying. I had tried feeding him countless cups of espresso coffee in Zurich airport, but that just set him off twitching and fidgeting. He had to make the Sky studio in central London, whilst I needed to catch the train at Euston to get to Manchester.

I tried calling my mother when I’d landed, just to let her know everything was all right, but there was no reply from her home in Rottingdean. I had fought against the rapidly forming image in my mind of my mother lying prostrate on the floor, her hand inches away from the phone. Instead I forced myself to picture my mother doing some early morning weeding in her immaculate garden, happily ignorant of the time or of the ringing telephone inside the house.

Now, as I sat in the back of a taxi driving at snail’s pace through the English countryside on the wonderful orbital car park named theM25 and with an imminent train journey north, I chided myself for my stupidity. My mother had managed just fine all these years without having anyone fretting over her, especially the kind of fretting that would make me out to be an idiot of a son.

“Been on holiday, then?” the taxi driver asked, opening to speak for the first time.

“Yes,” I said, not wanting to explain yet again why I was making this fleeting visit to England. The pair of chatty young lads sitting next to us on the plane, with their scalped heads, nose rings and bulging carrier bags of duty free, had been full of a thousand questions.

“Give me the life of a footballer, all sex and booze, any day,” one of them had said.

“Somewhere nice and hot?” the driver asked me.

“Hot and very nice,” I said truthfully.

“Ah well, it’ll be back to normal and the real world now, won’t it? That’s the thing about holidays, there’s nothing lasting about them, just a few out-of-focus photographs.”

Too tired to add anything of any worth to the conversation, I let the man ramble on with his personal philosophy and anxiously watched the road.

In the early afternoon rain, Euston station looked the great Victorian bustling paradise of train-spotters dreams.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked, with my fine collection of overstuffed holdalls gathered round my feet.

“Call it forty-five.”

I’d sooner call it highway robbery, I thought as I watched the taxi disappear.

[mametz1536]

Thanks to Richard Branson, I thought as my train pulled into Manchester precisely on time, the journey from hell was over.

The fat business man in the seat directly opposite me – the case of two hours and fifteen minutes of purgatory – closed his laptop and began tidying away his portable office, which, as the train had hurtled its way through Middle England, had steadily encroached further and further towards the small space that I had tried in vain to claim as my own.

As far as I was concerned journeys had a peculiar tendency to bring out the territorial, if not the killer instinct in the most passive of people. Motorways were bad enough with every driver seeing himself as king of the road, but there was nothing like a train journey really to threaten somebody’s personal space. Especially if the latest in high-tech weaponry was being employed – the mobile phone.

And the fat man opposite me must have been a top gun in his use of his.

Of course, I should have known better than to occupy a seat in the same compartment as Porky, never mind sit barely three feet away, but it had been a choice between him or a screaming baby further down the train.

Once I’d made up my mind where to sit I had offered up a smile at least setting up on the right foot. But he had ignored me. Fine by me, I had thought, settling into my seat and sorting where to put my holdall, which was loaded with the latest football magazines for the journey.

But it was clear from the word go that nobody but Porky was going to get a moment’s peace all the way to Manchester. If he wasn’t shuffling though sheaves of paper or rattling the keys on his laptop, he was on the phone. And there was nothing discreet about Porky’s manner of conducting business.

“Yah!” he would holler into the small phone pressed into the pudgy flesh on his face. “Yah. Yah. Yah. Yah. Yah, just do it. Yah, thanks. Let me know how you get on. Speak to you soon.”

By the time the train reached Crewe, my fellow passengers and I had had enough. One or two people shook their newspapers, hoping this might be enough to shame Porky into quietening down. Someone even tutted. But I decided it was time to take action when the horrible specimen heaved himself out of his seat and headed towards the buffet car. When he was completely out of sight, I leaned forward, reached for one of his yellow post-it notes and wrote in large letters – One more noise from you Porky, and you’re DEAD! – I stuck it to the screen of his laptop, my immediate neighbours read what I’d written and smiled their thanks and support.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said a tiny grey haired old lady who had been sucking Polo mints all the way from Birmingham.

Porky returned with several paper carrier bags of food and drink. He squeezed his bulky frame into his seat. But just as he’d levelled off he saw the note. He snatched it off the laptop and held it up.

“Who’s responsible for this?” he demanded, glaring round at the compartment like a teacher with a class of fifth-form pranksters.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody even looked at him.

It was as if he didn’t exist.

The remaining half an hour of the journey was wonderfully quiet.

As soon as I could, I squeezed past Porky and bolted off the train. I made my way along the busy platform towards the trams. I was in luck, a tram had just pulled in and I found myself a space jammed up against an Amy Winehouse look alike, extraordinary hair-style and all. She smelt amazing and was very good looking, but then after two joyful hours of Porky, Ann Widdecombe would have scored a ten-out-of-ten rating on my passenger-o-meter.

[mametz1536]

I got out at Piccadilly and began the short walk to the TV studio. It was now as I made my way through the late afternoon holiday makers that I began to get my mind in focus – at least the awful train journey had taken my mind of the impending prattling of Andy Nelson.

By the time a reached the glass-fronted building I was ready for something to eat.

I pressed the button and when the doors opened I stepped into the mirror-lined lift and hunted through my holdall for a strip of pain-killers. But all I could find was a couple of loose Paracetamol’s, chipped and coated in fluff. I gave them a rub and put them in my mouth and swallowed. One went down, but the other one stuck to my tongue and at the foul taste my face twisted into the kind of distorted shape a champion gurner would have been proud of. The lift came to a sudden halt, the doors opened and in front of me lounging on the counter stood a casually attired production manager, whose light blue shirt and navy trousers blended in nicely with the navy-blue carpet at his feet.

“Ah…Les Dawson, I presume,” he said, when he saw my grimacing face.

It was the nearest I’d ever heard Richard Winter get to making a joke.

“I need a glass of water,” I croaked. The tablet was firmly lodged at the back of my throat and now my taste-buds were sending out emergency distress signals. Mayday! Mayday! Poison Alert! Perpare to abandon ship. Which was a smart way for my body to say that if something wasn’t done soon, ITV would have a revolting mess on their studio carpet.

Sarah, Richard’s assistant, was sent for and was given the task of sorting me out, and when I finally emerged from the toilet I composed myself and allowed Sarah to escort me to the production office. Richard was waiting for me.

“Sorry, about that,” I said. “It must be the air up here in the north, it doesn’t agree with me.”

He gave me a look as if to say, are you quite finished? Then said, “You look a though you need something to eat, let’s get to the canteen and we can run through the final details.”

[mametz1536]

The most worrying object for me was what Miles, the producer of the programme, called a monitor. It was this that he kept his critical eye glued to throughout the game pre-amble. Miles was obviously a man who loved his work because he wanted to go over the same thing again and again.

He was getting on far too well with Andy Nelson for my liking – the two of them were acting like a regular pair of old buddies.

Simon Rider, the programme’s host was busy checking the sound volumes and checking the live link and Miles and his assistant, a young girl called Donna, were crouched over the monitor screen and the rest of the film crew flew and surfed in front of us in the studio.

“Look Donna,” cried an animated Miles as he replayed the last bit of Simon Rider’s interview they’d just spent twenty minutes filming. “Do you see how David Seaman’s eyes were darting about when he answered that question? That’ll be dreadful if it was live, he’d look like Marty Feldman.”

Donna made a note on her clipboard and Andy Nelson said, “He always does that with his eyes when he’s nervous, he did it before all the big games for Arsenal and sometimes he got caught on camera.”

“Thanks, Andy,” David said, getting up from his chair he’d been sitting on.

The cameraman smiled at me knowingly and the soundman took off his headphones, “Pundits, who’d have ’em?”

“Who indeed.” I replied.

“Something’s not right,” Miles declared, casting another eye over the studio.

“The clothes are wrong, Steven’s shirt,” Donna said smugly.

“Steven, you look to severe in that pin strip shirt, could you change it, plain pale blue.”

“Change!” I swarked. Didn’t this man have any idea that all I had was a couple of holdalls with me meagre travel clothes?

“Yes,” he carried on undaunted. “You look odd; we need you to blend in. Donna go with him and make sure he gets it right.”

We took the short journey to my luggage. I opened up my holdall and produced my only pale blue shirt that I was keeping for my brother’s engagement party, tomorrow night.

“It needs an Iron, hang on here. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Donna said.

Fifteen minutes later, suitably attired I was back in the studio.

Eventually the match went live.

And the fun started.

The match was analysed in every shape, form and manner that we could come up with. England completely dominated the game and goals from Michael Owen, Steven Gerrard and Wayne Rooney sealed a win. A woeful Denmark could only reply with a lone strike from Jon Dahl Tomasson.

After all the avenues of Denmark’s 3-1 humiliation had been thoroughly explored, it was time to sum up before the final commercial break.

“It was Michael Owens’s goal that once again set us on our way?” asked Simon Rider.

Before I had a chance to open my mouth, Andy Nelson was in like Flynn, “When you’ve got someone like Michael Owen, he wins you the game, no doubt about that,” he said.

“Owens got this brilliant knack of being in the right place at the right time,” agreed David Seaman.

“You need a predator in the box, there’s no doubt,” added Andy Nelson.

It was time I put in my contribution, “It’s all about making the right decisions,” I started. “Owen is a master at making those decisions. It also showed in the way England defended generally well and played good football through out the ninety minutes.”

Simon Rider moved uncomfortably in his chair, “One last comment on a great night for English football, David?”

“This is a significant result .The role of Wayne Rooney was key with his movement was the difference between the two teams,” commented Seaman.

“Andy?”

“The manager has built a team which puts in this kind of performance. Keeping Owen and Rooney fit will be the key but things are starting to look good for England,” He moved forward to press home his point. “There is real character amongst all of the players and I am absolutely delighted. The players have done their job and if you do the right things in games like this then you do get the results.”

“And finally, Steven?”

“I thought Denmark were sloppy with their passing and decision making, they needed telling,” I tried to be constructive. “I think England have got a decent squad together, they have been a credit so far but obviously this is a friendly, so they will just have to keep the momentum going for the qualifiers away at Wales and Northern Ireland next month. This result obviously gives them more confidence although I suppose the flip side is that sometimes you can get a bit complacent or a bit lazy, they need keeping on their toes.”

“Thank you Steven,” Simon Rider said quickly before Nelson had a chance to say anything. “Let’s hope this excellent result gives us the momentum for the qualifiers next month. We leave you with the goals and the happy faces of the fans.”

After the production crew had finished, I packed up my things and walked the short journey to my overnight hotel.

It was nearly midnight when I finally opened up the mini bar and poured myself a Leffe.

“I’m shattered,” I said out loud and switched on the TV to be greeted by Michael McIntyre telling me about the contents of my man drawer.

I turned the sound down and slowly drifted off.

[mametz1536]

I was stuck on the train and the bloke opposite was giving us strangers the value of his world wise opinions. After whipping through the condition of the government, the state of education and the upward march of property prices down in his street in Brighton, he turned his attention to football. It is, he says, an absolute disgrace. A joke.

“Money!” he says. “Too much money, too many Prima Donnas’ full of parasites, who can’t do a decent days work.”

“Well, as a matter of fact……” I try to say.

“Seriously,” he insists. “It’s tantamount of exploitation of the masses.”

“Actually, I …..”

“You’re a bloke, an educated man, aren’t you? You ought to see what’s going on.”

“Well the thing is……”

But there was no stopping him. Off he goes about how he took his lad to see Chelsea and how the whole thing was a bloody scandal. The facilities were dirty, the drinks watered down, the chips over-priced and getting to the seats was a war zone.

“I think I should tell you…..” I say, but it is like trying to stop a charging bull with a red cape. His head of steam is up and now at full verbal charge.

“I mean, how can any responsible company let a disorganised chaotic mess and then make you pay through the nose.”

The match was, he claims, exploitation of the working classes. The rich using there power to fund over the overpaid foreign imports that nobody wanted.

By now, we are in way too deep for me to reveal that I am one of those people who make my living in the twilight realm of working class exploitation. Instead, I nod and say something like, “Poor people have always been exploited.”

“Exactly,” he says and pauses. And I think, phew, that must be the end of it. I might just have got away with that. But no……

“Actually,” he starts up again, “I think it worse than poor people syndrome. It all those mega rich billionaires trying to make a name for themselves by taking our hard earned cash.”

“I don’t know about that, do you really…..”

“Oh come on, there are tons of stories all over the newspapers with their pictures pasted over them. You have to think they’re getting some ort of kick out of it. Why else do it? Honestly, got to be dodgy, haven’t they? You really have to examine the motives of anyone involved in football.”

I’ve had enough. At this point I try to move the subject on to something less personally contentious – the performance of Virgin trains, perhaps, or the pointlessness of the Dave channel on Sky.

At this point an attractive teenage girl pushes her way past us and sits in the aisle seat opposite. Within seconds, she makes eye contact with me and smiles. My heart sinks, I instantly know it’s not a fatal attraction but she has to my dismay recognised me.

“Excuse me,” she says with a broad grin. “You’re that footballer chap, I saw you on TV last night with David Seaman. Its…..don’t help me, it’s …..Steven Allen.”

I return the smile, Oh dear. Why did you have to recognise me? “You’re right young lady, I am, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, my God. Wait till I text my friends, they are not going to believe it. You’re a legend.”

There is a pause.

“So you are a footballer?” he asks.

“Ex-footballer, I do some TV work and manage at club in Switzerland.”

“Yeah,” she says. “You were awesome last night and I loved that shirt you were wearing. My dad says your’e the only one that talks any sense. My mum says she wouldn’t say no, if she was stuck in a lift with you.”

The information hangs in the air for a moment.

The bloke looks at me for a moment, long enough for me to catch the distain in his eye, then he turns to the girl.

“What car do you drive, I bet it’s a Corsa,” he says. “No, a bright thing like you would be more a home with a Mini.”

No one says anything to me for what seems an age. Will anyone, I wonder as I listen to him loudly complaining about pushy salesmen and the ridiculous cost of an annual service, ever speak to me again?

Then, as the train finally arrives at Brighton station, I come face to face with the bloke over getting our luggage.

“I, er, I ……that’s mine there,” I say, pointing at my holdall.

“Look,” he says. “I didn’t mean to suggest……”

“No…..”

“I mean, I’m sure your’e not…..”

“No, course you…”

“I expect your’e exemplary.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly…..”

“One thing, though,” he says as he hands me my holdall. “Just let me ask you a question. Who do you it for? Is it all about your ego?”

[mametz1536]

I thought of ringing Sophie to let her know that I was on my way, but I was in such a hurry to see her I didn’t want to do anything that might slow me down, so I rushed through the Airport, threw my holdalls into the rear of my car, put on the radio and headed for home along the E60 going west.

It was strange to be back on this familiar stretch of road out of Zurich, leaving behind the wide avenues of Limmatpromenade. Alain’s apartment in the heart of cosmopolitan Zurich was a minimalist dream and ideal place for my friend to live out his dreams. Alain hadn’t enjoyed the best of times during his years in Madrid, so much had happened to both of us that I was convinced that no matter how predictable I thought life was, it was anything but. I for one never imagined Alain sharing his flat with Ian here.

Alain had never been one for putting down roots; he was always on the move. Whilst Alain would admit that his sparkling career with Tottenham and Athletico Madrid were wonderful, the highlight was his performance in the World Cup in 94, he had lived off his goal since. I had always had enough common ground with him to keep us close through the years. There had been the usual conflicts that life bestowed so generously on any friendship especially a friendship from two totally different cultures, but I had accepted his easy-going attitude and his charismatic appeal. However, recently the flash façade had started to show signs of flaking; he had become increasingly detached, unnervingly withdrawn. I had a first thought he might had fallen in love, but this was Alain Samedan, he was immune to commitment and I put it down to the inevitable fact that he was being drawn away into a maelstrom of media stardom.

Or was it the strain of having to share with the bizarre self-destructive life and mind of Ian Gunstone? Looking back on my strange association with the insecure Geordie, perhaps I have been too passive with him, to incline to remember Ian’s vows of starting anew, believing his easy promises and had simply gone along with things. But now at least Ian was making a good go of it. Ian had in the past always seen to fit to give up on what he referred to as a bad job. Ian had often likened his life to a rather tedious book that one is told to read because it’s a classic and never mind the boring bits, one must stick with it and see it through. Occasionally, he had told me that he’d grown tired of wading through the same book, and he wanted something new to read. Sophie was convinced; Ian needed someone to make him feel good about himself. Her pragmatic approach to Ian’s dilemma had at least a stabilising factor about it. I prayed that we kept winning games and the momentum of hard work and success would keep Ian focussed.

But wining games and meeting expectations I knew only to well, were ultimately in the lap of the Gods. No matter how much I planned and plotted, organised and encouraged all my meticulous plans could be undone by a badly-timed back pass or a freak 30 yard net-breaker. I had had the shock that had rendered me unable to comprehend a life without football, when, one wet and miserable Christmas Eve evening I was sacked unceremoniously by an exasperated Southampton chairman.

That was the thing about management, I was businesslike, organised and very together and now I prided myself that nothing fazed me.

No. That was not quite true. I had been floored one, completely. It was meeting with Heinz and taking on this position at Baden.

I smiled, turned off the main road and drove through the small town of Fislisbach, towards the boll.

“Oh yes, Rupert Lowe,” I said out loud, a triumphant note to my voice, “there’s something now more worthwhile than you’ll ever know.”

I parked the car in front of the house and through the kitchen window that faced outward I caught sight of Sophie. She must have just taken a shower for I could see she was wearing her white towelling bathrobe and had a towel wrapped around her head.

I let myself in and placing my holdalls at the foot of the stairs I called out jokingly in true Hollywood style, “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

She came and wrapped her arms around me, “So you are.”

I held her tightly, pressed her slight body against my own and kissed her slender neck. I breathed in the perfume of her fragrant skin, “You smell wonderful.”

“So does lunch, I hope. It’s nearly ready.”

I kissed her and began loosening the bathrobe, “Can it wait?”

“Can you?”

I pulled the towel away from her head and let her blonde hair fall down. “No,” I said and took her upstairs.

[mametz1536]

Later, when we sat down to eat, I poured out some wine and handed Sophie a glass.

“A toast,” I said. “To us and coming back to our new home.”

We clinked our glasses and smiled happily at each other in the warm sun-light.

“I love it here, eating in the conservatory, it feels so natural,” Sophie said. I loved the fact that Sophie had gone to great lengths to make everything just right for us in the conservatory, setting the table perfectly: napkins, candles and even a few flowers from the fields opposite.

“It’s just perfect,” I laughed. “This is wonderful. I don’t know how you managed to get the kids ready and off to school and get all this prepared. The house looks fantastic. You’re a marvel, you are really.” I leant over and kissed her.

“So what was your trip like?” she asked, basking in my praise.

“Busy. England won and I had to endure the inane comments of that sad Irishman. Still Paul’s engagement party went off without a hitch and mother enjoyed having me stay. I’ll have to go to the ground this afternoon and see what Alain’s been up to, before tomorrow nights game.”

“Can’t it wait?” She said. “I know it’s silly but I’m sure Alain can cope.”

“He could, but it’s not him I’m worried about?”

“Ian?”

“And Heinz.”

“Anyway, I also have some news,” she said with a hidden smile.

“Go on then.”

“Well, you remember Sarah Reid; well she’s been in contact with me after all these years.”

“How could I forget Sarah, you ‘best-friend’ studying art at Freiberg. It was her I had to thank for getting us together.”

“Well now you can thank her properly, she’s coming here to stay for a sabbatical.”

“A sabbatical, I thought she was a teacher in some prep school.”

“She was, but apparently they had to make some cuts and in the current climate Art teachers were hardly a high priority. She was told that any old fool could teach the little dears to cut and paste.”

I frowned guilty. I knew what it was like to sit at home and read the times while waiting for my agent to phone. It might even be for the best, given to help Sophie whilst see waited for her friends to pull their fingers out.

“I thought she married the pretentious Andrew, the human encyclopaedia.”

“He went off with another woman, something about the natural evolution of a relationship,” She smiled. “Okay, you were right he was a pretentious pratt.”

“A well educated pratt, “I added. “When can we expect her?”

“Next week and she is staying in the spare room.”

[gavrenwick]

You're trotting along very nicely here, mametz. Some very nice writing, and good coverage of Swiss football.

[mametz1536]

Thanks Gav, i enjoying writing it. I did write another section to this, but i just wasn't happy with it, so i spent two weeks re-writing it!

-----------

“Hello, not interrupting, am I?”

Heinz’s arrival, crashing into my compact office in the bowels of the Main Stand so unexpectedly, blasted away any effect that Alain’s team update had just created in the warm, soft sunlight of the training ground. His entrance was marked by a confusion of noise and activity, with the coffee percolator gurgling and the phone ringing - I hoped it was the long awaited call from the agent, Knup – eventually clicking on the answering machine.

“Of course, you’re not interrupting,” I said, grateful that my Chairman had saved me from the headache of tomorrow’s team selection. What made me say such a thing? I would normally be realising the challenge of organising my team, but I was only too aware that I had to choose carefully, to ensure I had no slip-ups that, would only open up the floodgates of conceding and losing.

I looked at Heinz’s advancing figure and watched him gingerly lower himself onto the couch.

“Anything to drink, Heinz?” I asked, getting to my feet.

Heinz looked at the coffee percolator, “A coffee would be nice, thanks.”

I poured the coffee, “So Heinz, what’s on your mind?”

“If you must know, I’ve had it up to here,” he pointed to his unshaved chin. “Thomas has got one on him today. I think it’s got to do with the new bins,” he paused and took a fortifying sip of his coffee. “Well Jacqueline’s not talking to him; it was her idea, originally.”

“But you know Thomas, all bluster. You don’t believe any of it, do you, Heinz?”

“Good heavens, no!” Heinz said, stretching his legs out in front of him and resting his hands on his slightly domed stomach. “Anyway, to the business in hand and Ian.”

“Ready to tempt fate?” I raised my eyebrows.

“I know Steven. I’ve watched him, getting overheated and overexcited, with his shouty red face and his jabby figure. But if he’s up for it I think he’s the perfect choice.”

“You realise that I will have to take an active role in this. I can’t let him get too stressed-out. Ian thinks it’s appropriate to stalk the pitch side. He was like a caged tiger during those months managing Margate.”

“Steven, I have complete faith in you, all you have to do is keep a watchful eye on him. I’m confident he will rise to the challenge.”

I pulled a face, “I pray you’re right.”

“I’m convinced,” Heinz said. “Giving Ian the under 19’s to manage will keep him focussed. He’s a great coach and it solves the problem since the previous coach walked out.”

“And why did the previous coach walk?”

“Well, to be blunt, the lads give 100 per cent but they need organising, ordering. There’s a lot of ball hunting, but not much coherence.”

“Well you certainly get organisation with Ian, one might even describe him as ritualistic.”

“Good, the under 19’s need a good hand to guide them.”

“Okay. Heinz. Let’s get Ian in here and put it to him. But be prepared for the barrage of choice expletives that will come your way.”

“He will say……”

“Don’t worry, once he’s blown-off he’ll calm down and you’ll be home and dry. Life has just become even more interesting.”

[mametz1536]

Poor old Heinz Gassman became aware after just a few minutes that talking Ian into any kind of managerial role had about as much chance of success as striking a match on a jelly.

Ian used all the illustrations, explanations, revelations and exhortations that he could think of to motive the under 19’s into a mean, footballing machine. He was right out of ‘-ations.’ The day fast approached when his patience began to fade.

I was the crashing service ace, coming at the end of a long succession of schoolgirl lobs, that finally totally wrong-footed the lads and made some sense of the whole bizarre experience.

Breaking all the rules, I emerged as a lone ‘Clint Eastwood’ six-gun at the ready.

I walked onto the training ground hidden under a 1980’s baseball cap carrying a brown paper package under my arm.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Ian said.

I sat down and took off my cap.

“Have you got them playing each other in teams?” I asked.

“Whites against blues. First team forwards against first team defence,” he said.

I tossed my jacket on the floor and pulled out a pair of old trainers from the brown paper parcel that had seen long service. The toes were grazed and scarred; the uppers had the suppleness and deep tan of age, these took a minute to put on.

Ian lined with the reserve halves and backs behind us.

I blew the whistle, with the air of a man who was going to enjoy himself and for the next hour things started at last to come together.

Ian welcomed my decision to join him with the Under 19’s and it was evident that organising this bunch had aroused his curiosity.

But I was puzzled why he finally decided to yes and the process he had gone through to get there.

I was neither The Inquisition nor the Nazi party so I wasn’t going to enthusiastically interrogate him. I decided to maintain an air of indifference and investigate as casually as I could.

[mametz1536]

I took a long hard look at the youngsters we had acquired. Baden FC under 19’s was a satisfactory bunch that lacked quality but made up for it with ample enthusiasm and work ethic. We presided over good natured group of individuals Ian’s task was to get them to play as a team.

As with all football teams, the under19’s was no exception, there was the goalkeeper problem.

There is always a goalkeeper problem in academy football. It sits there, squatting over every match you play, the great unspoken, the elephant in the goalmouth. Actually, it would be great if there really was an elephant in the goalmouth. At least it might get in the way of the odd shot. Unlike some of the keepers I’ve known and played with.

The best of our bunch was a Patrick Rama a 16 year old local boy. Patrick was neither agile nor fast, but he had one great thing in his favour, he was built like a steam-roller. When he came rushing out it blocked out the goal and most of the natural sun-light.

Just behind him was another 16 year old Oliver Zimmerman. Now Oliver had certain attributes that would work in his favour. Firstly, he could jump and secondly he was always in the right place at the right time. But that was about it, the first sight of any distraction took his concentration away and he was always the last to finish the cross-country. He would be lucky to last 15 minutes out of the 90.

If that wasn’t depressing enough, we had a plethora of defenders whose idea of marking was something found in their books at school.

At right back, Claudio Pichonnaz was our star defensive player. His enthusiasm and his work rate was only matched with his mouth. He lead by example and made the ideal captain.

Following on from him was Paul Rama, Patrick’s twin brother. Paul had his good points, he was fast and brave, but on the debit side he was not good at tackling or heading. Defensively he was as good as an Italian tank better in retreat than going forward.

Over the other side at left back we have Drazan Juric a 19 year old. A little gem of a player, not the fastest player but more reliable than a Swiss train with a heart the size of Canada.

Jasko Badak, the name strikes fear into all who utter it. Jasko was the King Arthur to our knights of the table. He was everything you think a centre back should be and he ran like a cart-horse. The heart and soul of the team. The choice to play along side Jasko fell to two kids.

First choice was Raphael Dorsaz a talented 19 year old, who had bravery and aggression in equal properties. He would throw himself into any challenge and invariably get himself booked. Still when the chips were down Raphael was the sort of player you needed.

Stephane Meier had all the qualities of a head-less chicken. He had talent but panicked if the ball came anywhere near him. He swaggered his way through the defence with all the grace of a mercy killer, much to his embarrassment and Ian’s misery.

[mametz1536]

Who needs Paul Scholes? That was the question that echoed round my head. It haunted me in countless defeats through the troubled times at Southampton. I recalled the chairman taking me to one side, “Get a young Paul Scholes in your team.”

I didn’t and as I look around it is unlikely to happen here. Now the under 19’s midfield is more a bunch of whinger’s than a bunch of gingers.

But there are a few ‘gooduns’ that might make a decent triangle in the centre of the park.

Firstly there was Paolo Ponte a pacey left hand sided winger. He could run like a gazelle but had the control of a performing seal. He had the ability to break from midfield and arrive like a Baden bus, late in the box. At 19 he had a decent future in front of him and I prayed they might have been saved for us.

If skill could be measured by sand castles on Brighton beach Andreas Imbach would be beach sculptors dream. Flair and tricks were his party piece; training sessions were a series of extravagant air kicks, turns and shimmies, followed by the occasional well placed free-kick. He was blessed with a lovely touch but ran like a tank.

The ‘third musketeer’ in our triangle was Christophe Schwegler. Christophe enjoys a rich imaginative life, which occasionally gets in the way of his application; he mistakes thinking he has done something for actually doing it. He patrols centre midfield like a Jack Russell marking his territory, frequently barking, and often growling. Full of muscular effort and jaw-clenching resolve.

Now that leaves me with the rest of our midfield.

On the left hand side I have two possible options. Firstly, is the 16 year old Partick Magnin, he can run all day up and down the wing, unfortunately he often does it without the ball and too little effect.

And Christian Remyl. A 17 year old and Baden’s answer to the new Alain Samedan. He has all the good looks, can pass a ball, but runs like Kenneth Williams being chased by a fusilier.

*****

Killer instinct, there is no substitute for having a striker with killer instinct in front of goal.

A decent striker is worth his weight in gold when the chance arrives you want your player to take it and to hell with elegant manoeuvres.

Jerome Luyet was our answer to Stephane Chapuisat but without the deadly finishing. Totally lacking in any artistic or creative flair, he had a vulture’s instinct for goal and blinkered vision. He thought ‘pass’ was something you said on Mastermind. He could cut defences to pieces and all our meagre hopes fatefully centred on his killer instinct.

Along side him was Andreas Hertoz. Andreas has all the attributes of a hyena. He’s great at hanging out around the box but needs someone else to make the kill for him so he can pick up the pieces and all the poaching qualities of a free-range egg

If jinking his way up field was a qualification of securing a win, Christian Muller would be a match winner. Training sessions are a series of instructions, ‘look left’, ‘look right’ ‘shoot!’

[mametz1536]

The next morning dawned with a beauty common in August. Fluffy pink clouds reflected the rising sun and Baden was bathed in rosy light.

After a spell of grey weather in England it was wonderfully cheering to see the sun again and prudent gardeners determined to get out in force with the sound of lawn mowers.

At the training ground I chose a short, sharp seven a side game for the focus of the morning session, thus confusing several of the visiting agents and reporters, who misheard my final instructions and were expecting some ‘pig-in-the-middle’ routines. Alain needed a lengthy explanation just when Ian was trying to fathom out the ‘floating pressing’ method, just who the piggy’s were and why we weren’t using them.

The fine weather meant that the gym work could be put on hold and Alain had time to remark on the latest affair with the infuriating agent Karl Knup.

“I’m afraid I foresaw this sort of thing happening,” he told me, shaking his head.

“Knup’s insistent. Holdvic will only come if the offer too good for him to refuse. The accountant’s working on it now. You know what these Super League player’s are like, they think they can hold the small boys to ransom.”

“My sources,” announced Alain, glancing towards the queue of journalists. “Say he is surplus to requirements at Thun and they are eager to get rid. Be all right for us.”

“He’ll have to take a wage cut.”

“Welcome, to the real world,” replied Alain, drifting back towards the action.

“The team looks in good shape,” I said to Alain’s retreating back.

“Did you doubt it?”

“Of course not, but with Bellizona you’re never sure what your going to get. They can be brilliant or dire.”

“Too much Italian blood!”

“I like Luca Perazzi, good honest manager, just a bit ‘head in the clouds’.

“Too flash, for my liking. Thinks he’s the ‘bees-knees’.”

I laughed out loud, “Pot…..Kettle.”

Surmise and conjecture were thick in the air in the dressing room all day, but nobody was shocked when I posted the team sheet.

Between the sticks - 17. Swen Konig.

Right back 2. Orazio Ferranti.

Left back 23. Sebastien Pocognoli

Centre back 4. Giuseppe Mazzarelli.

Centre back 5. Joao Manuel Pinto.

Holding midfield and Destroyer 6. Stefano Seedorf

Right midfield 26. Albert Kaci.

Left Midfield and Outlet 18. David Grondin.

Centre Midfield 29. Marc Sutter.

Midfield Lnk 16. Paulinho.

Striker 8. Deniz Konak.

Subs

1. Paterick Abatangelo.

12. Markus Meier.

22. Gregory Scattone

10. Jan Verlorenhoek.

30. Pascal Bader.”

[ScottleeSV]

I see Chapuisat getting another mention there. I was thirteen during USA 94 and I seem to remember him playing well when the Swiss hammered Romania. Did he score 2 goals? I vaguely think he might have done.

A mysterious young woman is coming to stay in the spare room? Smells like impending trouble to me.

[mametz1536]

Thanks ScottleeSV, the trouble with Swiss football is there is a lot of good defenders and midfielders but very few good forwards, Chapuisat is the only well known, world class one they have produced over the last decade!!

-------------

The sun was fading and the ground was beginning to fill up, the supporters revelled in the brief span of early evening brightness. Even watching the Bellinzona lads warm up could not dampen our hopes amidst the sunshine.

The early sunset was as spectacular as the dawn, but in tones of amethyst rather than rose, with a hint of mist rising along the valley and veiling the ancient Alps.

Time was up.

Ian closed the door behind us, I watched him ritually cross himself with habitual spontaneity.

I surveyed the ground with a doubtful eye. It was buzzing with expectation and I knew from experience that the pressure would be on.

It was on the tip of my tongue to hail the opposing manager with some hearty exuberance. But, today with dignity still pulsating its somewhat bewildered way through my veins, I decided, generously, to shake his hand and wish him well.

Giving a tug to my maddeningly tight sweatshirt I approached the technical area.

We did not start well.

We had become obsessed by the idea of getting the ball out to Grondin and he was very closely marked. Not only did Paulo Bruno shadow him, but Ivan Burta also must have received orders not to be far away.

Bellinzona were quicker at finding their touch and our defence had to fight hard to keep then out. It looked like a goal when Christian Ianu met a centre from Salvador Mira and put in a terrific shot. Swen Konig jumped, pushed the ball over the bar and doubled up holding his left hand.

Thomas Zeller jumped up from the bench; back in hand he rushed onto the pitch. I watched him grab Swen’s hand and give it a tug. The keeper uttered a sharp cry and then drew a deep breath.

“That’s better,” Alain commented.

I winced it all looked a bit primitive to me.

“He dislocated his little finger,” Zeller told me as he past. “I think it will be all right. I’ve put a strapping on it.”

I nodded and Alain looked round and got Andreas Steiner ready,

The corner kick was drilled in as close to the goal as possible, but it went behind. Konig took three strides, kicked and the ball came towards Deniz Konak on the half-way and he was off like a rocket. He had a clear run and put in a centre that Paulinho hit in his stride.

Marco Murriero the Bellinzona keeper dived sideways and bought off a fine, one-handed save. The ball went from him to Andrea Rotanzi, who banged downward into our half. Burla took it on and put out to Mira. The midfielder sped in towards goal and, in trying to get the ball away, Pocognoli got his opponent’s leg instead and Mira went down.

A piercing whistle from the referee announced a penalty kick. Burla grabbed the ball and put it eagerly on the spot.

Konig was dodging about on the goal-line.

Burla ran forward and hit the ball with terrific power. The ball powered high and wide over the cross-bar.

Ian jumped up and threw his fist into the air, “The lad has been talking lesson from Chrissy Waddle.”

I laughed; it was one of the worst penalty kicks I had ever witnessed.

I looked at my watch, the first forty-five minutes were nearly up and we had made no headway. We were lucky to go in all square at 0-0.

[mametz1536]

I estimated that my screams could be heard by most of the supporters enjoying a quiet half-time drink in the restaurant.

“Press, Press, movement, space,” was all I could shout, waving my arms around like a reinvigorated windmill.

“Give to out to the wings and get some triangles going in the centre,” added Alain.

Ian stumbled to the dressing room door and I slapped every player on the back as they filed back onto the pitch.

My conception of the second half was two-fold. In the first place, I estimated Bellinzona might be over-confident after their first-half display and secondly, as convenient and practical my team-talk might have been, our team could hardly play with less blandness.

The crowd was up for the re-start. Marc Sutter was a different player, early on he found his legs as he was penned in two defenders but found a gap between their legs and sped the ball through it along the ground towards the wing.

Kaci raced flat out after the ball, I knew it was a case of now or never. The left-back Raso made a lunge at him and Kaci beat him to the line.

Deniz Konak faced the edge of the penalty area and Kaci drilled the ball towards him. Konak made a half-pivot towards goal and dropped low on one knee. At that height, and in the act of turning, Konak headed the ball. It flew past the keeper and streaked into the net. 1-0.

The crowd gave a sharp yell. Everyone crowded around Konak and a wave of relief invaded our bench.

Bellinzona kicked off, but we immediately got at them. They seemed shell-shocked and we needed to capitalise on the moment.

Grondin was finding more space and he combined with Paulinho to produce a neat flick allowing Sutter to break free and gallop clear of the defence. His shot was low and precise and ran free into the bottom left corner. 2-0.

Perazzi’s team fell to pieces.

The sucker punch came three minutes later, in the fifty-seventh minute when Seedorf sprayed the ball wide to Kaci who whipped in a wicked cross and Marc Sutter arriving late somehow managed to nudge the ball home as the keeper went missing. 3-0.

It was all but over, just an hour gone and the game had been transformed. The question that tormented me was why couldn’t we have started like this?

We continued to take the game to them.

Grondin was the provider of a corner that completely bamboozled the Bellinzona defence. Verloenhoek did the damage at the near post rising to flick the ball on, and there was Konak ghosting in at the far post to nod into the bottom corner. 4-0.

Bellinzona tried in vain at this late stage, they pressed forward and amazingly Inua managed a long range shot that landed high on the nearby Industrial Estate roof of ‘Espark’..

Sutter continued to rip apart the Bellinzona back four. They were unable to stamp their authority on the game.

The final nail came deep into injury time; Seedorf unleashed a twenty-five yard free-kick which was palmed away. Marc Sutter was the quickest to react and slid the ball into the net from the rebound. 5-0.

I was relieved and deep into the tunnel I offered some words of hope to a despondent Luca Perazzi.

He shrugged his shoulders and shook my hand. No words I could offer would help; a five goal victory was very emphatic.

[mametz1536]

Early Saturday morning and the phone rings for the third time. It’s Ian.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he says.

“I’ll meet you there; Thomas will have the ground sorted.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I thought. Can’t wait to get going,” he says. “But you know. See you there.”

I put the hone down and glance at the clock. It’s nearly nine.

I wander back to the bedroom to find some clothes and trip over something that flies across the room.

“Do you have to go?” says a voice from the bed, “Come back to bed and leave Ian to it.”

“Just for a couple of matches till he settles in.”

“I’ll be glad when it’s all over and I can have you back on a Saturday.”

“It’s his first game.”

“Exactly.”

I find my trousers, wondering whether it might be time to wake Christian up. He is never at his best first thing in the morning, so I decide to leave it.

I descend to the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee, sitting at the kitchen table I start to flick through the newspaper. It’s nearly time to go I chuck my kit bag into the car.

I dash up road through the town to the club.

There are three matches on this morning at the training ground and the car park is filled with vehicles. Out of numerous cars are pouring youths of all shapes and sizes followed by there parents. Some are carrying enough kit for an expedition up the Orinoco: flasks, gazebos, folding chairs, video cameras.

Just outside the Main Stand Ian is flexing his muscle’s going through his strange ritual of stretching exercises.

A white van pulls up in front of me and double parks, it hazard warning lights flashing as if to legitimise the obstruction it is causing. A man in a baseball cap, three-quarter-length trousers and a Bayern Munich shirt climbs out.

“Come on, Stefan,” he shouts. And a stout youth waddles around from the passenger door.

“Did you see that?” I ask Ian, in astonishment.

“Oh aye, the under 13’s and under 15’s are playing over on the far pitches. Bloody mayhem round here.”

“Everything okay?”

“Top banana. The lads are getting changed and were going to do a few warm up’s and were away.”

“Got the team sorted?”

“Aye, Patrick between the stick, Claudio, Drazen, Raphael, Jasko, Patrick, Paolo, Andreas, Christophe, Andreas Henchoz and Jerome. Gonna put Oliver. Paul, the two Christians and Stephane on the bench.”

“Captain?”

“Only had a couple of sessions with them, but Drazen is getting my vote."

The lads emerge from the changing room and fan out across the pitch in formation, looking alarmingly organised.

[mametz1536]

Ian was drilling the lads through a series of warm-up exercises. On the touchline high-maintenance wives stand shoulder to shoulder with chaps they would otherwise encounter only if they employed them to redecorate their interiors.

Here at 11 o’clock on a Saturday morning, we are about to play a game of football where privilege or position have no meaning.

The games gets under way, the opposition Luzern under 19’s should have the advantage with all the resources of a rich club at their disposal. But, Baden has a unique reputation of finding and developing young talent and unnervingly this becomes increasingly evident.

“Mark, mark,” Ian was shouting. “Red shirt on a white shirt. Come on everyone pick someone up and stick with them.”

Good old Ian, I thought. Organise them, turn them into a machine. But I’m pretty sure they are deaf to his instructions, as they not once, but twice allow an opponent to remain completely unmarked in the area as a corner is taken.

“Mark him, mark the number 6,” he yelled from beside me, gesticulating towards a lanky tower block of a lad lumbering into the penalty area.

In the defence, there was a lot of pointing, a lot of delegating of responsibility, a lot of telling someone else to mark.

Drazen pointed at Claudio. Claudio pointed at Raphael. Raphael looked at Paolo. And Paolo pointed at Patrick. Nobody, however went near the big number 6. The ball did and he headed it fortunately into our keepers hands.

After this fiasco, Drazen managed to score a wonderful winner. Paolo tricked his way past three defenders and won a corner. He swung it into the far post, Drazen stabbed at it on the half-volley and it flew into the net.

Ian had won his first game in charge:

Baden under 19’s 1 (Drazen Juric)

Luzern under 19’s 0

“We won here and we were magnificent,” Ian started. “Okay, there were some basic defensive mistakes, but we can work on that. But you can be really proud of that performance.”

Ian had eye contact with most of the players, who were smiling.

“Well done mate,” I congratulated him.

“We’ll work on the mistakes and we’ll eradicate them. The encouraging thing is, everyone gave 100 per cent. They all tried hard and that sort of effort will get rewards”

I clapped my hands and said, “Well done, lads, brilliant.”

“Fantastic lads, well done,” adds Ian. “See you Monday night.”

[mametz1536]

It was late-August and the sun was hot and high in a cloud-less blue sky.

I was playing super-heroes in the garden with Christian and Isabella when Sophie returned from her visit to the school. I broke off from the game – removing my cape made out of an old beach towel – and offered to make lunch for everyone. The city of cardboard boxes I’d been saving from imminent disaster instantly forgotten, the kids chased after me, clamouring nosily for a drink. I ignored them.

“Darling,” I said, cocking my ear. “Is it my imagination or can I hear a strange sort of squeaking?

I looked exaggeratedly around me. “It seems to be coming from somewhere down there,” I looked directly at the kids, who immediately threw themselves at my legs.

“Aha!” I said. “It’s you two. Well, unless you take off your masks and invisibility cloaks I won’t be able to give you a drink.”

Christian and Isabella shrieked with laughter and pulled off the masks I had made earlier from an empty cereal packet.

The kids ate their lunch on a blanket under the tree and Sophie and I sat at the garden table. As I sliced the last of the French stick and offered it to my wife, I noticed she didn’t seem very hungry. She had hardly touched any of the pate or brie and had only nibbled on a few pieces of bread. I took her by the hand and without wanting to push her too far, I asked if everything was all right.

She smiled, “The busy body of a head mistress wanted me to get more involved in the PTA with the other parents.”

“Hey that’s brilliant!” I said.

“You are joking, right. Do you really think I am ready for that particular brand of helping hands!”

“Well.”

“Steven, I rather cover myself in raw chicken livers and get into a tank of piranhas.”

“I’m sure she only…..”

“She said I could help out with the coffee and biscuits.”

“Oh!”

She ripped of a chunk of French bread and bit into it, “But she made me feel so guilty. My word, why after all theses years do teachers make me feel so guilty.”

I smiled, “It’s their job.”

I understood exactly what she was saying. I knew just how it felt to be obligated to do things I hated. I had the uneasy feeling that the onus was being put back on me.

“Oh by the way I picked up the newspaper, no doubt your want to read the reviews.”

I smiled at her, she knew me too well. I couldn’t wait to read the Bregy reviews.

[mametz1536]

August 20, 2005

Super League, Round 5

Hard fought matches all around, and one real surprise.

Basel dominated against a determined Young Boys squad, and had to come from behind to get the draw. Eduardo got the equalizer to stop the blushes and keep the favourites on top.

Zurich stayed in 2nd with a workman-like performance against Yverdon.

The shock of the week featured the ‘other’ Zurich side Grasshopper. The troubled Grasshopper were thrashed 4-1 by a surprisingly rampant Thun. The Zurich giants still seem to be in total chaos, they were expected to jump out of the box and challenge, but so far have merely stubbed their toe.

Xamax made the most of playing a midweek game, by knocking up two wins and leaping up the table.

St. Gallen got its first win of the season, defeating Schaffhausen in the bottom of the table clash. But it probably won't matter in the long run, as they're likely to be relegated anyway.

Team of the Week: Thun

Bore of the Weak: Grasshopper (Vey unhappy in Zuich at the moment)

Super League Pts

1. FC Basel 13

2. FC Zürich 13

3. Neuchâtel Xamax 12

4. BSC Young Boys Bern 8

5. Grasshopper-Club Zürich 7

6. FC Thun 6

7. Yverdon-Sport 4

8. FC Aarau 4

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

9. FC St Gallen 4 Relgation Playoff

-------------------------------------------------

10. FC Schaffhausen 3

Round 5

Aarau – Neuchâtel Xamax 0:2 (0:2)

5,529 (Xhafa, Rey)

Basel – Young Boys 1:1 (1:0)

32,446 (Eduardo - Euller)

Schaffhausen – St. Gallen 2:3 (0:3)

3,168 (Ogunsoto, Pires – Ilic, Fabinho, Tachie-Mensah)

Thun - Grasshopper 4:1 (2:1)

4,466 (Lustrinelli 2, Kudryashov, Brenes - Seoane)

Zurich – Yverdon 2:1 (0:0)

8.303 (Keita, Akhalaia – N’Diaye)

Wednesday 17th August

Neuchâtel Xamax - Schaffhausen 2:0 (2:0)

6,670 (Rey 2)

[mametz1536]

August 20, 2005

Challenge League, Round 5

A couple of amazing results as we started to sort out the contenders from the also runs.

Sion showed their Super League credentials with an 8-0 thrashing of Locarno. Super striker Leonard Thurre smashed in four as the promoted club was put to the sword.

Lugano remains an enigma, after posting some good results they fell away at lowly Chiasso. Too many Lugano have been considered a promotion favorite, yet they will have to get the results away from home.

The top side Baden hosted Bellizona and continued to build on their great start will an impressive 5-0 thrashing. All goals came in the second half when the Aargu side ran riot.

Vaduz many pre-season’s tip, lost again this time at Baulmes. If Remy’s team can’t find their scoring boots soon, he may well be the first managerial casualty of the season.

Finally, Wohlen who were without a win, beat promotion contenders Luzern at home. Improbable as this might seem, perhaps it shows the reality that Wohlen aren’t as bad as their position and Luzern are not as good as theirs.

Once again, One thing is sure in the Challenge League that is nothing is surprising.

Team of the Week: Sion

Bore of the Weak: Vaduz (Slip, sliding away)

League Pts.

1. FC Baden 13 Promoted

-----------------------------------------------------

2. FC Sion 12

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

3. FC Lausanne-Sport 12

4. AC Lugano 10

5. FC La Chaux-de-Fonds 10

6. FC Locarno 9

7. SC Kriens 8

8. AC Bellizona 7

9. FC Concordia 7

10. FC Meyrin 6

11. FC Luzern 6

12. FC Chiasso 6

13. FC Winterthur 5

14. FC Vaduz 4

15. FC Baulmes 4

16. SC Young Fellows Juventus 4

17. FC Wohlen 3

-----------------------------------------------------

18. FC Wil 1 relegated

Round 5

Baden – Bellizona 5: 0 (0:0)

1,781 (Konak 2, Sutter 3)

Baulmes - Vaduz 2:1 (0:1)

219 (Hyseni, Doglia - Urdaneta)

Chiasso – Lugano 3:0 (3:0)

681 (Kalu 2, Beck)

La Chaux-de-Fonds – Concordia 0:0 (0:0)

1,350

Lausanne - Winterthur 1:0 (1:0)

1.255 (de Souza)

Meyrin – YF Juventus 0:2 (0:2)

398 (Dembele 2)

Sion - Locarno 8:0 (4:0)

3,571 (Thurre 4, Maliqi 2, Parra, Delgardo)

Wil – Kriens 0:1 (0:1)

2,524 (Lustenburger)

Wohlen – Luzern 2:0 (1:0)

1,268 (Nascimento, Dos Santos)

[mametz1536]

Two weeks had passed since their night away and they were taking more and more risks, grabbing each other in the studio, stealing frantic pleasures when and how they could behind closed doors in secret liaisons. Alain couldn’t help himself.

Never had Lucie felt so alive or exhilarated, or so greedy for sex, for Alain. Alain made her feel stronger and more empowered that she had ever known. He was her drug of choice and she lived in need of him. She loved knowing that when they were apart he fantasised obsessively over what he would do to her when they next went away together.

Alain’s concern that she would immediately regret their night away had been way off course. She’d had only one thought in her head as she’d driven home that day and that was how she was going to stop herself from blurting out how wildly changed she felt inside.

She pitied anyone who had never experienced even a fraction of what she was feeling. At the oddest times she would catch herself looking at people around her – in a meeting, in a shop – and wonder how they could bear their safe, dull little lives.

A knock at her office door had her turning round from the window that looked down onto Zurich’s plaza.

“Yes,” she said, trying to keep the eager hope that it was Alain out of her voice.

It wasn’t Alain. It was Marie Bastin, one of the more efficient and capable members of the journalistic team.

“Have you seen this?” Marie asked. She laid out the tabloid newspaper on Lucie’s desk. Lucie sat down to look at it. A grinning Alexander Frei, Swiss captain and golden boy stared back at her. With a swimming pool in the background, he had his arms around a blonde girl wearing only the bottom half of a bikini. For the sake of propriety, the girl’s Spacehopper breasts were partially hidden by one of Alexander’s chunky tattooed arms. The photograph in itself was no surprise to Lucie – the Swiss captain with a blonde lovely on his arm was a regular occurrence – but the headline was a different matter: “ALEX AND TASTY MARINA BACK IN THE SACK!”

Lucie read on, and after wading through the footballing puns – Alex scores again with tennis ace…..Alex and Marina go for extra time……Alex raises his game…..Alex back in the Super league with Marina! – the gist was clear: A new story for the media one that she would have to cover on tonight’s show.

“Do you want me to make a call to his agent or manager for an official comment?” Marie asked.

“Yes, go ahead,”

Marie’s gaze lingered on the photograph, “They look surprisingly happy, don’t they?”

Lucie snorted, “I give them four months tops before they’ll be at each others throats.”

“That sounds very cynical.”

Luice folded the newspaper and pushed it away from her, “When I’ve received confirmation we’ll swing into action and broadcast it, hopefully tonight.”

Left on her own, Lucie dismissed Alexander Frei from her mind and wondered what Alain was doing, or what he was thinking. How easy it would be to email or text him to find out. But she wouldn’t. Alain was desperate for her to communicate this way in secret, but she flatly refused. Emails in the workplace were too dangerous. Who knew who could access them? The same for text messages. Having such a forbidden fruit was all part of the game for Lucie; it kept Alain keen. She smiled to herself. Sex and power – was there ever a more powerful combination?

[ScottleeSV]

Alex and Alain should go out on the town together.

[mametz1536]

Excellent ScottleeSV, no woman would be safe!!

--------------

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Are you gay, or what?”

A cacophony of uncontrollable giggling broke out next to me, from my normally reserved wife. In the passenger seat next to me Ian, glanced back at his eldest daughter, Donna. He was smiling and I knew his amusement far outweighed any embarrassment he felt. He was used to the antics of the press, especially when his celebrity ex-wife was making the tabloid headlines.

When my wife’s giggling finally died down, Ian said, “What’s do you mean pet? Do you mean do us fancy men or are you asking if your dad’s a sad loser?”

Donna’s face coloured. “Just that mum said you’re a bender; Dad?”

“And why do you want to know?”

“Cos I don’t believe her and I want to know why she would say such a thing.”

Sophie laughed again and put her hand across her mouth, “Donna dear, that’s enough,” she said. “Of course, your Dad’s not gay. He wouldn’t have had you and Abigail if he was, would he? And of course he married you mum.”

Donna shrugged, “But, you’re not married and we’ve never seen you with a woman, so I thought maybe mum was right and you were playing for the other side?”

I chucked, “Ian has consumed too much junk food to make anyone believe for a moment that he was homosexual.”

“Well,” Ian said. “It’s true I am single, I keep fit, work out, I write and I like musicals.”

I nearly crashed the car as I held back the tears forming in my eyes. The idea of Ian liking musicals was an out and out lie but was hilarious. I couldn’t help myself. Not many ex-footballers could be accused as being gay let alone admitting it.

As I stopped at the traffic lights, I caught Sophie looking at me sheepishly. I immediately knew from her eyes she was telling me that Donna was a little minx and storm winds were gathering.

[mametz1536]

I was trying to work. But it was one of those days that seemed destined to be peppered with petty disturbances guaranteed to break my concentration. It was the downside of working early before the staff arrived.

My first interruption had been in the form of my cleaner, coming over to my office to tell me the vacuum cleaner wasn’t working properly.

“You really should get the Chairman to invest in a Dyson, Mr Allen,” she’d told me and had then gone into elaborate detail about the merits of such a device. From then she went on to remind me that she wouldn’t be in next week.

“I’m off to Rugen to stay with my sister in her guest house. Beautiful, it is. Right down by the esplanade. Lovely views by the sea. Just what I need after the time I’ve had lately.”

Much as I depended on my cleaner to keep my office running smoothly, I often wondered if the effort expended on listening to her updates was worth it. Every week there was always some new drama to recount to me – last week it had been her husband’s refusal to let her have their bedroom decorated pink, and the week before that it was her trip to the dentist which had resulted in an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic injection. Whilst I had every sympathy when it came to visits to the dentist – I was the biggest coward going when it came to the high-pitched whirr of a drill – I wished she’d get the hint that I had work to do.

When she had eventually left to clean the restaurant to pour more scorn and loathing on the club’s humble appliances, it had been the constant ringing of the phone that interrupted me.

Then Heinz had come stomping up the corridor to my office, demanding to know what the hell was going on with the post: why hadn’t it been delivered yet? When the chairman was in one of his cantankerous moods - “Where was the kit? Who’s checked on the travel arrangements? Has that bloody awful agent been sniffing round our players again? – all I could do was bury my head in my work.

At the sound of shouting and screaming I saved my work on the laptop and went to look at the door. Down on the training field, a dachshund was chasing a squawking blackbird across the field. Thomas came into view with a roll of netting in one hand and a bunch of canes in the other. “Shut up, Fritz!” he roared. “Any more racket from you and I’ll toss you into a bin bag and take you to the tip.”

This isn’t how managing a club was supposed to be, I thought.

[mametz1536]

I was sure I had only slept for a few minutes but when I opened my eyes, I awoke to a completely different world. We must have travelled only the best part of an hour. I had never seen anything quite like it. There was so much of it. A city resplendent from its medieval prosperity and surrounded with invigorating mountain views, there were miles of frescoed houses, churches and chapels, filled with magnificent gardens and flowers. It went on and on as far as the eye could see, until the stunning blue of Lake Luzern, covered with old boats and half a dozen paddle steamers that zigzagged their way from shore to shore filled the horizon.

I pointed them out to Alain, but he wasn’t interested: he had seen it all before and was engrossed in his laptop, watching some DVD he had purchased.

The road we were driving on kept twisting this way and that. It went up and down too; it reminded me of the funfair ride on Brighton pier.

I closed my eyes and listened to the pockets of conversation talking all around me. I enjoyed listening hard to other people’s conversations. It was one way of finding out how people ticked and what was going on. I discovered that Zonnebeke’s parents were visiting him from Kortijk and that they had bought his favourite cake with them. Giuseppe’s wife was pregnant, again and he wouldn’t be clubbing it on Saturday night and that Sutter’s parents really didn’t want him living a home and he was trying angle his way into Zonnebeke’s apartment. Oh, and the consensus of opinion was that Bon Jovi had sold out and were now crap!

I opened my eyes and concentrated on looking at the passing scenery. It had changed.

The houses were still affluent but we had moved into an industrial area, a less friendly place. In the distance, crouched like a black cat in the hollow. I could see the roof of the main stand. Dotted across the horizon were clumps of trees and houses and in the distance, never far from the eye, the mountains.

The stadium rose from the ground into full view and seemed to watch over the surrounding area disapprovingly. As the coach dipped down towards the main route in, I spotted the sign on the side of the road: Stadion Allmend.

[mametz1536]

We came to a stop in front of the imposing main stand at the end of the magnificent carriageway. I stared at the entrance; at last we had arrived at a real stadium. This reminded me of all the grounds in England that I once took for granted. Everything about it spoke of a once grand club that dreamed of returning to the great days.

“Well then,” said Alain fetching his kit bag from above my head. “Here we are.”

I smiled to myself, what was it, with the irritating habit of stating the bleeding obvious when there was nothing else to say?

The coach door finally opened by the overweight driver, with hair the colour of a grey, rainy day. It was combed over his receding scalp; I swear he modelled his appearance on Bernard Manning.

“Sorry, we are later than expected,” he said, leaning over the steering wheel.

“No probs, mate.” I replied. “All here in once piece.”

“Good luck, Lads,” he shouted out loud and under his breath he muttered. “You’re going to need it.”

I looked at him and held out my hand, “Thanks.”

I descended the steps and was greeted by a skinny woman, with needled eyes and jet black hair.

“Welcome to Luzern,” she held out her hand. “I’m Marie, follow me and we’ll get you to your dressing room.”

I felt the needled eyes skim over me and I suspected they were the kind of eyes that missed nothing.

We were shown down a well-lit tunnel to our room. For a few moments no one seemed to know what to say, and then Alain suggested that some drinks might be in order after the journey.

“There’s plenty of orange juice and hot drinks on tap feel free to help yourselves,” Marie said. “And of course the famous Luzern water.”

“The famous Luzern water would go down a treat,” replied a smiling Alain, who I suspected was trying out a line, on our attractive host.

I caught the two exchanging glances as the team filed nosily past me. I made it a point of watching my Assistant Manager closely; I didn’t want any ‘embarrassing’ episodes.

“Well then,” Ian shouted. “This is the ticket, isn’t it boss? Brings back the old days.”

I looked round the immaculate bright dressing room. Chilled. Welcoming. Efficient. Those were the words to describe it at its best. There was nothing but efficiency to look at, every player had a pine space and there was even an area put aside for myself.

There was satellite TV in the room, broadcasting SF news and a plethora of drinking utensils and liquids. It was up there with the Premiership rooms I had loved so much during my career. Without much ado Marie appeared at the door.

“Excuse me, Mr Allen,” she shouted in a polite tone over the drone of my player’s general chit-chat.

I caught her eye and wandered over.

“Mr. Van Eck would like to pass on his compliments.” she said ushering me towards the door.

Rene Van Eck the Luzern manager appeared out of nowhere. I remembered him from a UEFA cup tie back in the 90’s, he still had his long fair hair and piercing eyes. A Dutch man who had made his home and career in Switzerland.

“Welcome,” he said with a smile, offering his hand. “It is good to meet you again. I trust everything is all right for you.”

“Thank you,” I replied, warming to his polite generosity. “It’s all superb. Everything is great and we have been well looked after.”

“Fantastic,” he said. “It was a long time ago when Alain and you put our little club to the sword in the UEFA cup. I can still see your bullet header flashing into our net. Must be strange to be back here, today.”

In an instant, memories that I have quite forgotten came flooding back. The sense of Déjà vu I had since getting off the coach all made sense. “Yes, it’s changed a bit, but I do recall standing here with Ian and Alain…….Well, I’ll be….” A chill ran down my spine.

“I hope that I get a better result today,” he said. “All the best, let’s have drink later and we can recall the glory days.”

“It would be a pleasure.”

He smiled and made his way over to Alain, where he was greeted less formally with a hug.

[mametz1536]

“Remember keep focussed and the two mantras: Create space and vision. Let’s move the ball around, press them back, and get the concertina going!”

“Who could forget that horrible thing Boss!” shouted out a voice from the back.

“A least he didn’t sing!”

“All right….All right.” My concertina was the source of constant amusement, but it had done the trick and everyone remembered it. “Alain will run through the team again.”

“Between the sticks - Swen Konig.

Right back Orazio Ferranti.

Left back Sebastien Pocognoli

Centre back’s Giuseppe Mazzarelli and Joao Manuel Pinto.

Holding midfield and Destroyer Stefano Seedorf

Right midfield Albert Kaci.

Left Midfield and Outlet David Grondin.

Centre Midfield Marc Sutter.

Midfield Link Paulinho.

And up front Deniz Konak.

The subs are Paterick Abatangelo, Markus Meier, Gregory Scattone, Jan Verlorenhoek and Pascal Bader.”

The stadium was full of stands covered in a sea of blue and white flags, scarf’s, signs and other supporters stuff. There was even a thin border of blue and white flowers that ran up the front of the main stand.

I looked over to the far side and could be see our faithful hoard of about 200 gathered with their red and white flags. Here at least was some other colour, I thought. I didn’t know why but the sight of so much opposition home support made me want to rush over and stamp on very single well positioned flower, crushing the petals till there was nothing left of them.

The referee ran over to me and instructed me to stand in front of him with Rene Van Eck. He was a grey-haired, tall with big shoulders, strong and powerful. He had faded, unfriendly blue eyes and his hair, parted at the side, was oily and glued down close to his scalp. He was certainly a horrible looking man.

Taking us by surprise he said, “Right gentlemen, I want I good game here today and that means that I expect the same behaviour from you as becoming your positions. I will not hesitate to use my authority if necessary.”

He shook our hands and departed for the middle.

“Well that’s a first,” commented Alain from the bench.

“It remains to be seen if he’s as good as his word,” I replied.

“I wouldn’t try to test him,” the reply came back.

[mametz1536]

The whistle pipped and I looked up in the Main Stand I could see Heinz talking to Siegfried . Next to them was the Thun defender Holdvic who was taking one final look at us. I was wondering what he made of it all.

Paulinho passed the ball to Sutter. Luzern pushed up to close the space. Sutter swerved past them; made Raphael Felder come into tackle, then put the ball ahead of Grondin. He came up to the ball going flat-out and took that perfect pass. He feinted to beat the right back Boz and cut in almost at once.

Sutter was coming in with his clean, long stride. Grondin put the ball in front of him and before you could say, “Roy Hodgson” he kicked high and diagonally towards the opposite side of the Luzern goal.

Paulinho’s head bobbed up and the crowd uttered a flabbergasted cry as the ball flashed into the net! 0-1.

The first goal away from home is worth a great deal!

I threw an imaginary punch into the sky and Ian had Alain in a bear hug!

The goal acted as a whip to the home side. Advancing from the kick-off, their star forwards worked the ball with machine like precision. Our defence concertinaed back and the ball reached Jean-Michel Tchouga.

Mazzarelli bundled into the striker and Tchouga only got in a half-shot. At no great speed the ball bounced towards the far corner of the goal for Konig to make an easy save down low.

The clearance was pumped down field and within a few minutes Luzern were at us again, but Seedorf was playing above himself and slowed the place down.

I gestured at the midfielders and shouted out, “Space, Vision!” A few knowing nods acknowledged me.

Seedorf ran towards the midfielders and said something, all three nodded.

I looked back and saw Alain sitting down, scribbling furiously into a notepad. I moved towards him, in big words he had written, “RELAX.”

“What?” I shouted.

“We’ve got the measure of them, they are all bluster not much substance,” he shouted back.

Sutter passed back to Seedorf and the defensive midfielder sent the ball curving towards Kaci on the right wing. The Albanian hooked it down and passed it back into Sutter who made ground swiftly.

The pass he ultimately gave Deniz Konak split the defence wide open and our striker joined in the goal scoring with a low cross-shot that gave the Luzern keeper and captain Ziburg no chance to save. 0-2.

Two nil up and the noisy, blue and white flag waving crowd were silent. Only the small red and white contingent away to my right was making the noise.

Van Eck had the look of a worried man and he gesticulated wildly at his players.

“It’s now or never for them,” said Alain on my shoulder. “Get ready for the back-lash.”

I looked at the clock, 20 minutes to go to the break.

Sure enough, Mario Schynder broke away, tricked Pinto and smacked the ball inwards. The home fans suddenly found their voice as Keita shaped up for a pile-driver. The thwack of his foot on the ball could be heard all over the field.

Konig soared like a human rocket and, with his arms flung out to full length, grabbed the ball just below the bar and hurled it away.

Felder beat Pocognoli to the ball and worked it in. He pushed it into a shooting position for Tchouga, and the striker shot. Agile as a cat, he was up again in time to grab the ball as he drove it back into the goal.

We went on the attack; Grondin found some space down the left and played a neat one-two with Konak that took the winger free of the defence. He cut inside and hit a wicked low cross across the face of the goal, that eluded everyone expect Paulinho who slid in at the far post. Connecting at right angles with the cross, he guided it full stretch into the net past a despairing and stranded Ziburg. 0-3.

The perfect end to an excellent first half, we hadn’t dominated but we had taken our chances. We also had an excellent performance from our keeper.

[mametz1536]

When we came out after the interval, the atmosphere in the ground was to say the least somber.

We hit top note early on and our forwards moved with speed and precision.

Running into a gap, Kaci took a pass and shot. Zubrig was on the line of the ball waiting for it. The clearance was atrocious and fell to Paulinho in acres of free space. As quick as a flash, the Brazilian fired in a snorter to the open side of the goal Ziburg slipped as he scrambled to get to the shot. He desperately threw an arm out but to no avail as it sped into the net. 0-4.

Paulinho wheeled away towards our fans, celebrating our fourth and his hat-trick.

Alain threw his arm around my shoulder, whilst Ian hugged everyone he could get near. I smiled to myself, I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing before my eyes, was this the once great Luzern?

Van Eck took immediate action and threw on a couple of substitutes. He replaced his top goalscorer Keita with the untried Jurendic.

It made no difference; Konig had to make a routine save from the substitute. Sutter standing adrift in midfield and our keeper swung the ball out to him. Away went our central midfielder. Chased down by a couple of defenders, he shook them off his heels with some magical footwork. He hit a calculated pass through the defence that Konak ran on to. His pace took him clear of the last defender. There was a wide open space in front of him and he raced down and crashed the ball home. 0-5.

Boo’s erupted from around the ground as the disgruntled home supporters gave vent to their misery.

The Baden faithful traveling supporters were ecstatic.

I signaled to the bench and I bought on Jan Verlorenhoek for the very tired hat-trick hero, Paulinho. Also I swapped the Belgian Gregory Scattone for the Albanian Albert Kaci.

We were in full flight and our midfield were dominating and spreading the ball around with comparative ease.

Scattone made some headway down the right and full of dash he created a headache for the left back. He drove to the touch-line and crossed the ball. Ivan Dal Santo, the center-back anticipated the ball and reached it nicely. He turned gave a pass back to the keeper.

Zibung was not expecting it and was rooted to the spot. He watched in horror as it rolled past him into the net. 0-6.

The bizarre own goal ironically summed up the game and to concede six goals was unfair to the way Luzern had played. But I wasn’t complaining.

I met the team on the pitch and congratulated each one of them.

Heinz burst into the dressing room and with his usual gusto threw himself into encouraging the team.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked.

“I gave myself a sore throat yelling with excitement,” he replied. “My voice is just about coming back.”

“It was quite something,” I said, smiling.

“It made me proud,” he said, putting his arm around me. “It made me proud.”

[mametz1536]

Spoilt. Devoius. Undiscilpined. Self-indulgent. Reckless. Mouthy. Manipulative. Sly.

There were just a few of the more polite adjectives Sophie could use to describe the world-class brat of Ian Gunstone’s daughter Donna. She had been stuck with Donna for over five days now and each day had brought her closer to losing her temper, something she’d sworn she wouldn’t be reduced to. However, today she’d nearly lost it. She’d found Donna rummaging through the fridge taking all the kids stuff and filling her face with them.

“Why don’t you just ask me if you want and I’ll give you something to eat,” she’d managed to say.

The girl hadn’t even jumped, just stood there staring insolently back at her, a slab of chocolate gateaux in her hand.

“If you must know, I was catching up, Mum sends me to that awful boarding school and they starve us as punishment. I wish Dad was back home, instead of being stuck in this backyard.”

“You know it’s better for him to be here, away from all that!”

“So everyone keeps telling me!” she responded with venom in her voice. “But that’s no good for ME! If he really loved me like it says, he would put me first!”

“Donna, you’re Dad’s got a heart of gold. He doing what is best for you, your Mum and himself,” she said with gritted teeth and clenched fists. She’d know perfectly well that this manipulative little minx would go to any ends to get her own way.

Ian was training with the under 19’s at the ground and Sophie was determined to wash her hands of his daughter, so at least she could get down to the rink this evening for her latest curling match. Playing would at least take her mind off the awful day she had just endured. As far a Sophie was concerned, she had done her bit; she had gone way beyond the call of duty. She sighed out loud. It was hopeless. She knew she would never be able to convince Ian that his darling daughter was the spawn of Satan.

They were in the car now, she drove trying to concentrate on the road and trying to watch her speed. Sophie silently chanted to herself: Calm, calm, calm.

When the eventually reached the ground, they walked down the tree lined avenue to the session.

Ian was ordering round a bunch of lads, as they ran round and round the outside perimeter.

“Donna, darling!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Donna edged closer to her father, “Don’t worry I’m here now.”

Before Sophie could say anything, Ian was saying, “Come and sit with us pet. I want to hear everything you’ve been up to with Sophie.”

In a lowered voice, Sophie said, “What about the lads? You can’t just leave them.”

“I’m keeping them running.”

“Is that wise?” She inquired.

“Look, if we can keep on running for the full ninety minutes chances are the opposition can’t and we’ll get the rewards in the last few minutes.”

Sophie smiled, she knew a bit about football and as a strategy it did have some logic. Get them super fit and they might just have within them the last-minute spurt to win the necessary points.

[mametz1536]

August 24, 2005

Challenge League, Round 6

An interesting round in the Challenge League, as leaders Baden thrashed Luzern in front of a sold out house at Allmend. All the signs were there with yours truly suggesting the famous blue and white were not as good as everyone might think. But nothing should be taken away from Baden’s remarkable performance. Englishman Steven Allen has had an instant impact at the popular club and with the leagues top goalscorer in Brazilian Paulinho they are beginning to strike fear into all their opponents.

Sion and their super striker Thurre are hot on Baden’s heels with a hard working win at Winterthur.

The other team putting together some results is Lugano. Not as consistent as the top two, they managed to squeeze their way past bottom side, Wil thanks to a Russo strike.

Pre season favorites Vaduz continued to stumble with only a home draw against Meyrin. Their form is amazingly crap.

Team of the Week: Baden

Bore of the Weak: Luzern (Having six put past them must hurt!)

League Pts.

1. FC Baden 16 Promoted

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2. FC Sion 15

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

3. AC Lugano 13

4. FC Lausanne-Sport 12

5. FC La Chaux-de-Fonds 11

6. FC Locarno 10

7. AC Bellizona 10

8. SC Kriens 9

9. FC Chiasso 9

10. FC Meyrin 7

11. FC Concordia 7

12. FC Luzern 6

13. FC Winterthur 5

14. FC Vaduz 5

15. FC Baulmes 5

16. SC Young Fellows Juventus 5

17. FC Wohlen 4

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18. FC Wil 1 relegated

Round 6

Bellizona - Lausanne 1: 0 (1:0)

1,769 (Coda)

Concordia - Chiasso 0:2 (0:1)

1,203 (Kalu, Beck)

Kriens – Wohlen 2:2 (0:0)

870 (Ostojic, Deschenaux – Dos Santos, Karanovic)

Locarno – Baulmes 0:0 (0:0)

867

Lugano - Wil 1:0 (1:0)

5,065 (Russo)

Luzern – Baden 0:6 (0:3)

5,261 (Paulinho 3, Konak 2, Dal Santo OG)

Vaduz - Meyrin 1:1 (1:1)

837 (Antic - Moes)

Winterthur – Sion 0:1 (0:1)

710 (Thurre)

YF Juventus – La Chaux-de-Fonts 1:1 (0:1)

649 (Bernjashi - Boughanem)

[mametz1536]

I was disappointed when there was no sign of Heinz at the ground on Friday morning. I had been looking forward to seeing him after Thursday’s training. At first break, I sat at my laptop and tried to concentrate on the eighty five messages that clogged up my inbox. I reluctantly asked Alain if he knew what had happened to our Chairman.

“The Football Association called him away and he had a dentist appointment," Alain said as I stood at my printer trying to wrench out a piece of paper that had jammed.

“How did you get that information?” I asked, amazed. “I supposed to be the manager, here!”

“I have my contacts,” he replied and started tapping the side of his nose.

The last bit paper freed from the fuser unit, I began reading over the messages and carefully I placed them in my well stocked in tray. Something stuck me as being odd. Why hadn’t Holdvic signed on the dotted line? He had passed the medical with flying colours and he was desperate for football. I thought of the figure in the stand at Luzern and both he and Siegfried seemed to be in a very chatty mood.

“Have you heard anything from you’re mate, Knup?”

“You mean about Holdvic?”

“Yes Alain. Who else?”

He looked at me and dismissed my reply, “Finalizing terms, I understand. Any day now.”

Alain, counting out the names on the team sheet, stopped what he was doing but didn’t say anything more. I watched his face closely; the hesitant expression was one I had come to know well. I had seen it a million times before in other faces. If Alain was dismissing my question it could only mean one thing; I had stumbled across something he wasn’t willing to divulge.

“No change to the team?” he asked.

“Same as Wednesday’s. Zonnebeke should be back after the international break, can’t complain only one injury in seven matches.”

I scanned over the team sheet:

17. Swen Konig.

2. Orazio Ferranti.

23. Sebastien Pocognoli

4. Giuseppe Mazzarelli.

5. Joao Manuel Pinto.

6. Stefano Seedorf

26. Albert Kaci.

18. David Grondin.

29. Marc Sutter.

16. Paulinho.

8. Deniz Konak.

Subs

1. Paterick Abatangelo.

12. Markus Meier.

22. Gregory Scattone

10. Jan Verlorenhoek.

30. Pascal Bader.

[mametz1536]

Marc Sutter stood in the dressing room and pulled his number 29 bright red jersey over his head.

“Right, everyone ready,” I said looking round the room. “This is not going to be a walk over. Kriens are a useful side with some very useful players. We need to keep it tight, create space and yes, you’ve got it, Concertina!”

“Plenty of movement,” Alain chipped in. “Create the space you need.”

“You heard the Boss,” Added Ian. “Stick it to them good and proper.”

I grinned all I needed was someone to say, “They don’t like it up them.” To make the pre-match cliques complete.

It was time to go and Giuseppe Mazzarelli put on the captains arm-band, rolling up his sleeves. We trotted out into a strong south-west wind that blew diagonally across the pitch.

We lost the toss and we had to kick-off against the wind.

We were up and at them right from the kick-off.

In our first move Konak was caught out by the offside trap.

The strength of the wind was shown when Kriens star midfielder’s Dusko Ostojic powerful free kick soared and then curved towards our penalty box. The pitch was green and dry and the ball skipped high as it bounced.

Konig shouted and ran to take the ball. Instead of using his hands, he headed it away, an unorthodox touch that startled the crowd and had our bench, Ian in particular, spitting feathers.

Kriens started to ply their African winger Owusu Benson, with the ball. He was a strong chap, too, and it looked as though Pocognoli was going to have his work cut out to stop him. Benson eventually put a very dangerous pass into the middle, Marc Arnold, big and bustling, took a pot-shot, the ball flashed towards goal knee-high, straight into Konig’s waiting arms.

Konig distributed the ball back towards an unmarked Pocognoli, and he progressed down the left flank. He put a flashing pass inside to Grondin, who returned it with a neat one-two.

He flashed it inside to find Sutter who running from deep had broken the off-side trap. Tahiraj, the Kriens keeper rushed out of his goal. Sutter started to swerve to run round him. As if he was a coiled-up spring that was suddenly released, he flew a Sutter’s feet. Sutter saw him coming, pushed the ball past him and straddled over him outstretched body with ease. With an open net at his mercy, Sutter gracefully stroked the ball home. 1-0.

I threw an imaginary punch as the players engulfed the midfielder and I was greeted with a giant slap on my back.

A wave of relief flooded through my body, I was confident that once we had the lead we would not let it go.

It wasn’t long before we were at them again. Seedorf cleared the ball and Grodin, who was a constant thorn in the flesh of Kriens made his way to the by-line and won a corner crashing the ball of the shins of the right-back.

Grondin whipped over a wicked kick, the evaded everyone except Mazzarelli who slapped the ball into the net from close range. Tahiraji had no chance to save it. Their keeper stared at the ball in the back of the net and then picked it up and hurled it away as if disgusted with himself. 2-0.

From the kick off we were attacking, and Kaci won a corner.

The ball was pasted across and curved in the wind. Tahiraji was caught in no man’s land and Konak found himself with the ball at his feet. He flashed at it and it smashed wide of the post into the camera of a press photographer.

The crowd groaned in unison, I stared towards the goal in disbelief. From where I was standing it had been easier to score.

The whistle blew for half time and I was more than happy to go in with a two goal lead.

[mametz1536]

We started with the wind on our backs instead of our faces.

The first time Sutter had the ball he underestimated the strength of the wind and dropped it harmlessly into the arms of the keeper.

We were playing confidently with our two goal lead. Our defence was strong,

A pass from Seedorf put Grondin away on the left. He was soon hedged in by the right-back Cobert, and raced him neck and neck to the bye-line. He tried to fox his way past, but Cobert stuck out a leg and the ball went out for a corner.

Grondin picked it up to take it.

There was some jostling in front of the goal as we waited for the ball to come over. But Grondin took his time. He turned it over, replaced it and took three short strides and booted it over.

The ball passed over Paulinho, going towards the far edge of the penalty area. Konak hurled himself at the ball, with a flashing header, that riveted home under the angle of the upright and bar. 3-0.

“Did you see that?” shouted an overjoyed Ian. “Magnificent.”

Kriens looked forlorn as our players celebrated a sea of red and white flags filled the far end of the ground.

I looked around at the bench and walked over to the lads. I wanted to change it around, give Scattone and Verlorenhoek a run out in place of Paulinho and Grondin.

The last twenty minutes and Kriens had been battered too badly to make anything of a recovery and decided to defend in depth and shut up shop.

I watched in amazement they weren’t the first side I’d come across to settle to this approach.

Alain must have read my mind, “typical Swiss approach,” he said.

“So I see,” I said.

“Better to lose conservatively, than attack and be trashed!” he raised his eyebrows.

All the better for me, I thought.

The match finished at 3-0.