Chaos Theory: Five Managers, One World

[Makonnen]

Terry Langford

The Ethiopian Job? January 13, 2010.

“Leti, hon, can you help me here.”

Leti stretched luxuriously in the small bed, the dark sheets falling away from her generous form. She groped on the side table for her glasses, put them on, and looked over to the wooden desk by the wall where Terry sat in his boxer shorts, crouched over a laptop. That boy needs to get in the sun once in a while. Still, look at those shoulders. Yummy. She looked around the room, stretched her hands above her head, grinned as she saw him staring, then flipped herself around so her head was now closer to him, and rested her chin on her hands.

“Terry, you’re truly hopeless when it comes to computers.”

He looked at her shyly, as much from her open comfort with her body as from the truth of her statement. She was, not for the first time, caught short by the clear blue of his eyes.

Ah, she thought to herself, just how well do I know you, my blue-eyed, black-haired, Irish man? And how well do you know me? The past, what, week? Ten days? It had been lovely, but it was also teetering on the edge of something else. She was not naïve in such things, and had prior experience with both affairs and white men, but most of those were secrets, kept apart from even her closest girlfriends and certainly from her widespread family. But Terry felt compelling, like a lake she could dive into and get lost, caught forever underwater exploring the shallows where sunlight melted in dappled pools, the places where the bottom changed from sand to stone and back again. There was danger in that as well: she seemed to lose track of herself with him, to float outside of her own history. They seemed to have no past, no knowledge of what each other were before they met, no sense of being connected to a story, a narrative that would place them in context. But she laughed with him and felt free, and in the dark when he became shy and withdrawn, she luxuriated in her power, in taking control, guiding him where she needed him to go until they were both lost in gasps and sweat.

Terry looked back at the laptop, shrugged. “I know it. I just, well, here.” He picked it up, and sat beside her, pointing to the screen.

She read, then looked up sharply.

“Ethiopia, Terry?”

“Well, it’s the first I’ve seen. I don’t even really know where they are, but it says they need a coach since they fired this …” He peered at the screen. “ … Gebremedin Haile fellow. Poor guy.”

She stared at him.

“You’re serious, aren’t you.”

“Leti … I told you, this is what I do. I can’t do it here now, but I still need to do it.”

Leti nodded, paused, laughed.

“You did see the name of the team, didn’t you, Terry?”

He blushed. “Uhm, no, not really. I just saw an advert.”

She smiled again. “That’s the team, love. It’s coffee. Ethiopian Coffee. Probably have all you can drink in the break room.”

“Really? A team run by a coffee company? What could be better! Um, where are they, exactly?”

“Hopeless. Utterly and foolishly hopeless. Give me a minute.” Leti smoothly typed for a little while, then flipped the laptop around. “There. They are in Addis Ababa—which is the capital, don’t you know. I sent you an e-mail with a link to information about the city, and this is a map with their stadium and home office marked on it. Google rocks.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it does for you.”

“Someday, when you enter the 21st century along with the rest of us, you’ll see the light.”

She rolled over onto her back, stared at the ceiling. Visions of woven tables, of soft spongy bread and spicy food, of clean white cotton edged with rainbows of fabric, of churches so old they were built directly out of the rock of a mountain floated through her head. It was a place she knew nothing about, beyond the occasional television special, but it was a place she reacted to well somewhat instinctively.

“Ethiopia, huh? I could do Ethiopia, Terry. It’s still in Africa. It may be the most African place in Africa, did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That Ethiopia is the only country not to have been ruled by your people. I mean, there was that thing by Mussolini, but that hardly counts. Thousands of years, only Africans.”

“Where?”

“Ethiopia! Are you daft today?”

He smiled. “No, I’m just incredibly distracted.”

She glanced down, smiled, and covered her breasts with her arm.

“Oh dear me, sir, I hadn’t noticed that I seem to be naked here in your bed.”

Terry gingerly put the laptop on the ground, and then lay down on top of her. Between kisses, they spoke of the possibilities of life in a country far to the North and then they spoke of nothing at all save a silent ode to their pleasure in each other.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

One Cole Down, One To Go. January 14, 2010.

The knock on his office door surprised Danyil, who hastily closed out of his browser and moved the newspaper out of sight. “Come in.”

He stood up when he saw Ron Gourlay’s face—it wasn’t often that Chelsea’s Chief Executive deigned to visit the coach’s office. In fact, as far as he could remember, it was the first time.

“Morning, Danyil.”

Gourlay had a habit of talking very slowly to him, confusing his Dutch accent for an inability to hear English correctly. It wouldn’t do, however, to mention it. “Morning, sir.”

Gourlay closed the door, crossed the room. “May I?” he enquired, gesturing towards one of the chairs.

“Of course, of course. To what do I owe the honor?”

Gourlay’s eyes narrowed, unsure of Oranje’s tone was sincere. He really wasn’t sure what he thought of his new manager. The club was underperforming, but had been playing much better of late, so it wasn’t that. Instead, there was something else that made him uncomfortable whenever he had to spend much time with the younger Dutchman.

“Well, I just got the most interesting phone call … from Garry Cook.”

“Really? What does the evil empire want with us?”

Gourlay smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. “They were calling to ask about Ashley.”

“Really? Were they serious?” Oranje kept his face composed, not sure what the club’s official stance was on their world-class left back.

“Who knows? But they seemed serious.”

Oranje leaned back, contemplating. Ashley Cole was very popular and, perhaps, was one of the finest left backs on the planet. But he was also getting older, was probably at the peak of his value, and he didn’t fit Oranje’s future vision, which centered around playing Zhirkov on the left and clearing space for the young Russian to move forward at will. He carefully considered his response.

“Mr. Gourlay, here is what I would do. Propose something ludicrous to them. Something with money up front and over time that is at least twice what we value him at—something in the mid thirties, even $40M range.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because they might say yes. And even if they don’t, we’ll have planted the seed in their head that that number is Ashley’s worth. And if they really want him, they’ll come back at that price. And … at that price, we would have to let him go.”

Gourlay frowned. “Let him go?” It sounded like an honest question, not incredulous or mocking in tone.

“Well … for forty million, we could replenish a lot of the transfer fund.”

The older executive shook his head. “Leave that side to me. What about on the field?”

Danyil paused. “Mr. Gourlay, can I be utterly frank with you?”

“Of course.”

“He’s a fantastic player. Fantastic. But his time is coming, and we are awash in corner defenders. I still want Kjaer as a long-term replacement for JT in the middle, but at the wings. Well, we’re good.”

“So, you are confident of winning without him?”

“Yes. Especially if we can use some of those funds to bring in a world class striker if Didier starts to show his age. Which, luckily, looks to be a ways off.”

Gourlay nodded, considering. “So demand more than he’s worth and hope the Arabs have fallen in love? If the gambit fails, we still have Ashley Cole.” He leaned back, and smiled. “Yes, Danyil, I think that would work.”

[Makonnen]

Terry Langford, Unemployed

No Coffee For You. January 15th, 2010.

Terry Langford stared at his laptop screen in disbelief, reading the e-mail for the fourth time.

Dear Mr. Langford,

We regret to inform you that after a thorough consideration of your application the club has decided that the future of Ethiopian Coffee lay elsewhere. We want to wish you the very best in your further ventures, and we remain assured of your future success at any endeavor to which you apply your considerable talents.

Yours, etc,

Abdurezak Sharif,

Chairman

Ethiopian Coffee Sports Club

He slammed the lid shut, then looked around guiltily—it wasn’t his laptop, strictly speaking, and he expected a call from the club any day, asking for its return. He carefully moved it beneath the desk, out of harm’s way, then got up and went to the kitchen. There wasn’t any beer in the fridge, but there was a bottle of scotch above it. He opened it, got out a glass, then left it on the counter, taking the bottle with him into the bedroom and, propped on the pillows and staring at the wall across from him, began to drink.

To hell with them. Who needs their job anyway? He remembered his Da’s reaction when he got the job at Ajax.

Africa? Why in God’s name would you go there? You’ll just come back without a job, but this time with AIDS. That’s worse than Chile, Terry.

The only saving grace was the name Ajax. The vague association with the “total football” of the old man’s youth was enough to get his father to relent slightly, just enough to give Terry the courage to go. But, Ethiopia? He doubted his father could find it on a map. Hell, he couldn’t have found it on a map last week.

The room got darker as the afternoon drew on, shadows lengthening through the bedroom window. Halfway through the bottle, Langford fell into an uneasy sleep, sweat drenching the sheets as his dreams were haunted by vines tightening around his legs. Time slowed, and every step stretched out forever, he could hear his own voice screaming at his legs to move, to leap, to do anything at all but to do it quickly. Instead, he was aware of every heartbeat, and the infinite, deadly pause between, the nothingness where he had no body, no control, nothing except the vines, tighter and tighter around his legs and, in the distance, his father’s voice, clear and disapproving.

Come on Terry, all you have to do is kick the ball.

“Terry!”

He jerked up, eyes opening, bottle spilling over the side of the bed, and let out a small shriek. He tried to sit up, but his legs were too tangled in the wet sheets so he just floundered, a slow-moving fish caught out of water.

“Hey there, hey love, hey, it’s OK.”

Leti had moved across the room, stopping to set the bottle right side up, and sat down taking him into her arms, stroking his short dark hair.

“You’re soaked, love. Hey there.”

He collapsed against her, still not quite sure what had happened or where he was.

“It was the dream … again.”

“Shhhhh. You’re OK.”

He looked up, and saw her eyes, red and wet.

“Are you?”

She looked away and kept stroking his hair. “Shhhh. Not now.”

He stiffened, and sat up, his back pushed hard against the wall at the head of the bed, extricating himself from both her arms and the sheets. He exhaled heavily and rolled his head upwards, feeling the uneven stucco of the wall behind him. “What’s going on, Leti.”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me. Not tonight, not now.”

She heard something in his voice, and looked at him questioningly. “What happened?”

He laughed, soft, mocking himself. “It seems that I’m not good enough for Ethiopian Coffee, Leti.”

“Oh … I’m so sorry, Terry.” Her voice was lighter, as if a burden had evaporated, leaving only a faint ring of condensation around her eyes.

He looked away, confused by her tone and still a little disoriented. “It’s OK. It happens. There will be something somewhere else.”

She moved towards him, snuggling against his body. “Or, even, something else here.”

“Maybe. You hear anything? Krol still on the outs at Pirates?”

She shook her head. “Shhhhh. No talking. Just … just quiet.”

He was stroking her hair now, and looking out the window at the moonless night.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

No Cole For You. E-Mail Exchange. January 15th, 2010.

From: rg@cfc_internal.com

To: do@cfc_internal.com

CC: ra@cfc_internal.com

Subject: FW: Ron, are you serious?

Well, gentlemen, we’ll see if Danyil’s gambit works …

-Ron

|| From: garry.cook@mcfc.co.uk

|| To: ron_gourlay@chelseafc.co.uk

|| Subject: Ron, are you serious?

|| I mean, really? I assume that was a joke. What’s the real number. The

|| Sheikh has a hankering for Mr. Cole, and I understand that you’ll pillage

|| us, but there’s no need for rape.

|| Best to the missus,

|| -Garry

[Makonnen]

Saint George

Nigerian Press Conference. January 16, 2010.

All Africa Challenge Group C: Saint George @ Enyimba

Saint George 0 – Enyimba 1 (Victor Lawal, 5 pen)

MoM: Adugna Deyas (7.4)

Attendance: 174. Referee: Seyoum Haile Mariam

There were more press here than I was used to. Predictable: the All Africa Challenge was a major championship, bringing together teams from all over the continent: Nigeria, Egypt, South Africa, Morocco. Still, a little unsettling. Especially after the crowd today: the government had voided hundreds of tickets, leaving fewer than 200 fans in the stands. Damese thinks it was their misguided retribution for the roster limitations. But it was a mistake.

The competition board had sent all of the coaches a letter insisting that we only speak positively about the competition itself. That rankled me, but there wasn’t much to do.

I never liked the short format of these press conferences—too little time for any nuance, too much posturing. I was in the wings, waiting for Enyimba’s coach to finish. He was angry, even in victory, and tore into his players from the podium. I looked down: even hearing it made me uncomfortable. That was no way to talk about men who played as hard as our opposition had.

I extended my hand as he made his way down the steps, but he just brushed past me. I would have to tell Damese, it would add to his information on Nigerians.

There were a half dozen microphones attached to the podium with silver tape. The latest technology combined with African ingenuity. I smiled a small smile, took a breath, and made eye contact with the reporters I know—the Getachew brothers, Kebede, a few others. One of them raised their hand, and I nodded.

“Ato Makonnen, how do you feel after the loss?”

“It was a magnificent game. I am very, very proud of this team.” I could feel my heart expand, and paused, covering the emotion with a blanket before moving on. “As you all know, we had to field a team that doesn’t truly reflect the quality of Saint George. For these players to come in and in less than a week, learn enough of our system to hold Enyimba to one goal, well it speaks volumes about the quality of Ethiopian soccer.”

“Will any of the new players be staying with Saint George?”

“I can’t say. They played their hearts out today, and it looks like the administrative difficulties won’t be resolved this year, so you may see more of them, yes.”

“Are you angry that the AAC has forced you to use players that failed in their initial tryouts with the club?”

“Ah, Bayeh, good to see you. Angry? No. All competitions have rules that govern squad composition. We had—and continue to have—a different interpretation of these rules than the governing committee, but we are only here through the generosity of their invitation. While we will continue to press our case, we will also abide by their rulings. Last question.”

“Deyas picked up the man of the match award today—any comment on his performance?”

I smiled. Adugnas was magnificent out there today.

“They say that about sixty percent of the Earth is covered by water? Adugnas covers the rest. Thank you gentlemen, I’ll see you at the next game.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

From Danyil Oranje's Diary. January 16, 2010.

English Premiere Division

Chelsea v. Portsmouth, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Portsmouth 0

MoM: Younes Kaboul (7.4). Chelsea's Best: Salomon Kalou (7.3)

Attendance: 41,150. Referee: Martin Atkinson

We’re still below where we need to be, but what’s life without a little adrenaline? Will he or won’t he, will he or won’t he. I even saw a list of the five people most likely to replace me. By New Year’s. ****. Although that means that list was wrong. Ha! Beat them by a fortnight, at least!

These games are just deadly. We lack life, we lack passion. We lack Drogba. We lack them all. African Nations Cup. Again, ****.

I mean, Portsmouth? Pompey’s lucky not to be in total ruin. Club’s run like weekday amateurs.

But can we beat them? No, not right now we can’t. We tie. We can’t even score against them. And again, ****.

I do have something to try. It’s not the time to do this in public yet, but I can’t resist. Talked to R. about it. He thinks I’m batshit crazy to even consider it right now. Maybe I am. But what’s happening sure as hell isn’t doing me any good. Didn’t take this job as a three month bender. Have to be careful though. It’s not every day you look at letting go of one of the great left backs. Not when the press is calling for your head. But I do want to try it. The question is how to do it without anyone catching on.

Ah, what the hell, already got rid of one Cole. And the fans liked him more.

But … Zhirkov on the left as a true wingback. We’ll find someone similar on the right, and play four in the box in the back. We have the midfielders for it right now. And 3 DC’s to rotate.

But it means selling Ashley Cole. Ashley ****ing Cole.

[Makonnen]

Terry Langford, Unemployed

Help Wanted. January 16, 2010.

What’s the point? If Ethiopian ****ing Coffee doesn’t want me, I’m pretty sure Swansea and Sheffield Wednesday will take a pass.

Terry slammed his hand down on the desk, promptly spilling the cup of coffee precariously balanced on the stack of magazines behind the pad on which he had scribbled down some notes about the two positions newly available in English football. He cursed as he got up hurriedly to fetch a hand towel from the kitchen, returned, and dabbed at the rapidly spreading pool of liquid.

“Oh, hell.” He grabbed the laptop just before the liquid got to it, yanking it away from the desk and putting it on the bed. The last few months of Vogue were saved, but his copy of last week’s Soccer Laduma was ruined. Not a big loss: the only thing of interest was a jubilant letter from Peter Hendricks, celebrating his departure from the club. No need to read that. Again.

Ignoring the bit of coffee pooled around the bottom of the cup—it seemed safely stable, not threatening to touch anything that mattered, he repositioned the laptop, and resumed his slow, two-fingered typing. A few minutes later he stopped, leaned back, and sighed.

I need a drink.

He returned from the kitchen with an open beer, sat back down and started again, pausing now and again for a sip. Eventually, he slowed, and sat with his fingers poised above the keyboard. He shook his head, grabbed the empty bottle, and went back to the kitchen. When he came back with another, the screen was dark. He hit the space bar, clicked the mouse. Nothing. He hit the space bar harder. Still, nothing. He jammed down the power button, then released it, sighed, and closed the lid.

Nothing else to do … He moved to the kitchen.

When Leti came in a few hours later, that was where she found him, surrounded now by a small army of bottles, arranged in front of the toaster in what was recognizable to her as a 3-4-1-2, if you righted the two that had tipped over. She carefully replaced the left winger and the striker, and smiled softly. Terry’s head was on an outstretched arm, his eyes closed and snoring lightly.

“Terry?” She rubbed his back gently, then with more pressure.

“Hremmphha what’s it,” he managed, trying to quickly look awake, but not even fooling himself in the end. “Hello, love,” he said sheepishly.

“Is this what you’ve been doing all night?”

He didn’t answer—the question seemed rather obvious.

“Did you get your applications in?” She was moving into the bedroom as she asked. He rose unsteadily and followed.

“Almost. The machine ate ‘em.”

She stopped and turned around. “What?”

“I don’t know, Leti. I was about to send them—I had them all written and everything—and I went into the kitchen and when I came back, it was dead. Just dead. I tried everything, even that three key thingy. Nothing.”

She went over to the desk and laughed.

“Terry, love. You see this cord? The one that goes to the wall?”

“Yeah?”

“Well the other end needs to go into the computer. Like this.”

Moments after she attached it, he heard the familiar trio of beeps, and the laptop returned to life, with his e-mails still on the screen.

“So, I guess it wasn’t dead?”

She shook her head. “No, just sleeping.”

“Will you take a look at those before I send them on?”

“Sure, just let me get out of these clothes.”

“Won’t argue with that.”

“Terry!”

“Just saying.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Chelsea Scouting. January 18, 2010

“That’s him?”

“Yeah, on the left.”

“Jesus, he is fast. How old did you say?”

“He’s fifteen now. Fifteen.” The word hung in the air, tantalizing, full of the nubile promise of youth. “Watch this shot.”

They stare at the laptop as the thin figure deftly controls a cross with his left foot, feints, ducks around a single defender, pulls the ball back with his right foot to lay it into position. It’s a beautiful moment—his shoulders move left, the defender shifts his weight slightly to cover the movement, then his right foot reaches out and puts just enough weight on the ball so it is resting, still, anticipating the power of his left foot, already in motion. Then the ball explodes, a blur that shatters the stillness of the net behind the goalkeeper before he moves.

“Jesus.”

“Keep watching.”

The young man on the screen turns, and jogs directly back to the center circle. He has a small smile on his face, and accepts the jubilant congratulations of his teammates without resisting, but also without fanfare.

Danyil Oranje turns to face Victor de los Santos with a questioning look. “And that’s genuine? He didn’t know we were there?”

“No, not a clue. This came from a friend. I didn’t see him myself until the following week.”

“And when you did?”

“More of the same. He’s fantastic on the ball, his makeup is good, and his work rate is amazing.”

“What’s not to like?”

The Uruguayan scout leans back, laces his hands behind his head. “He loses focus too easily, which is odd. He isn’t aggressive … he just finds his way to the right spot, instead of fighting to be there. He’s not a classic holding target man—doesn’t jump particularly well, doesn’t project to be particularly strong. He’s creative, but it’s a quiet creative. And, he’ll never be a leader. Don’t get me wrong, his teammates love him. He just keeps very private and separate. Not aloof, but separate. He’s got something pulling him, something he likes more than the game. But he likes the game plenty.”

The Chelsea coach nods, reaches out, and rewinds through the goal in slow motion, going back and forth over the final move: the pullback with the right foot that left the ball in stride for the left.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Of course. I also spoke to Bustos, his coach. They know we may call.”

“Well, let’s do it.”

“How much?”

“Offer 1.2. My bet is their board steps in and accepts it.”

De los Santos grins, nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know this afternoon.”

“Good.” Oranje watches the highlight one more time, smiles, and walks out.

[Makonnen]

Terry Langford, Unemployed. I of III

A Very Long Day. January 18, 2010.

9:17 AM

An eye slowly opens. Another. Squinting against the light. A grimace, lost between an emerging frown and the dull pain pulsing behind the eyeballs. It is a slow tide, going in and out, an undertow of dark stillness pulling at him. He forces both eyes wide open, the grimace erupts in full glory.

Unh. Head hurts. Sleep some more. No, head hurts too much. Need coffee. Need to close those shades.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, holds his head in his hands. Rubs his eyes, looks around the room. Slowly recognizes the detritus of the past night.

God, this place is a mess. Need to get it clean today. Leti hates it like this. Meant to clean it yesterday. Wait. It was clean yesterday. Must have done all this last night. Last night. What was last night?

He slowly stands up, starts to walk across the room, stumbles. A clattering of glass, bottles bouncing against each other. He catches himself pushing hard against the wall. The room spins, bile raises in his throat. A hard swallow. He staggers to the window, dims the blinds until the light turns into a pattern of grey bars against the wall.

He carefully walks to the kitchen. More bottles, a cardboard pizza box in the sink.

God, that smell. What is that? Oh.

He sees the crust of vomit in the sink. His stomach turns. He lurches to the bathroom, retches, returns wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Better. Water. Start with water.

10:47 AM

The second pot of coffee is gurgling, small wisps of steam escaping the top of the percolator which is dotted with perfect circles of condensation. The kitchen is cleaned, the sink gleaming, the bottles off the counters and the floor, now neatly arranged by the recycling bin. He takes a lemon from the fridge, cuts it into quarters, and feeds them down the sink on at a time, running cold water through the disposal, the citrus aroma covering the last of the sour smell of last night’s vomit.

He washes his hands again, and looks around the room.

That’s better, Langford. Livable. Fit for a woman’s presence. Speaking of which, time to get the bedroom in order. Clean sheets. The promise of a night yet to come.

He fetches a new set of linens from the closet, heads into the bedroom. He strips the bed, emptying the pillowcases, kicking the dirty clothes into a lump, and places the pile of newly folded sheets on the corner of the mattress. As he turns, he sees the laptop on the desk.

Damned machine. But … should check the old e-mail. See what’s happened.

He checks the power cord twice, jiggling it each time, sits at the desk and starts the machine.

A quick game of minesweeper? No, I think not. We’re all about efficiency today. Straight into the e-mail, then.

There are three. The first requires an immediate response:

From: T.Langford@ajaxct.com

To: L.Netshamulivho@ajaxct.com

Subject: Re: Lunch

C u there.

Note my cool use of slang.

-TL

|| From: L.Netshamulivho@ajaxct.com

|| To: T.Langford@ajaxct.com

|| Subject: Lunch

|| Morning, Love!

|| Let’s have lunch today? 1:00, usual place?

|| -Leti

He smiles, turns to reading the other two. He shakes his head, leans back in his chair, gets up, walks again to the kitchen.

Shock of shocks, Swansea and Sheffield rejected me within hours. Gotta’ love their prompt attention to detail. No other jobs look open at this point. So I guess I’m in South Africa for a while.

He opens a drawer, closes it, opens another and takes out a corkscrew. He removes a dark bottle from a mostly empty wine rack and opens it. He swirls the bottle, sniffs it carefully, leaves it open on the counter.

It needs to breathe, but it’s good. I do like the wine here. Maybe I could do something here. Coach High School. Stay with Leti. Something.

He drinks a glass of the red wine, savoring it. Then, another. He showers, shaves and dresses, then returns for a third glass of wine, brushes his teeth, and heads out the door, a little unsteady but smiling.

[Makonnen]

Terry Langford. II of III.

1:12 PM

She sits at a corner table, tracing the edges of the white iron surface, following the intertwined metal strands with the tips of her fingers. She feels heavy, as if gravity has taken a special interest in her today. It makes her uncomfortable: she isn’t used to the attention, spending most of her life floating above Cape Town embracing a distance that insulated her, kept her from taking up too much space. That Leti, they would say, she makes me laugh.

She cranes her neck, looking towards the front door. As she often does when nervous, her right hand hugs across her body, tracing the edge of discolored skin that runs up the back of her left arm. There is a slight change in texture, the lighter skin slightly, almost imperceptibly smoother.

Her eyes widen, and she drops her hands into her lap as the man approaches.

“Sorry I’m late. Got a little … turned around out there.”

He leans down to kiss her cheek, but she pulls away quickly.

“Terry, have you been drinking?”

“What, no? Why?”

“Your breath smells like toothpaste.”

“Oh, no, just forgot to do it this morning. Was doing things around the flat, you know.”

She looks at her menu, at her water glass, at anywhere but him.

“Leti, what’s wrong?”

She is quiet. They remain silent until the waiter, bored and indifferent, appears, takes their order, vanishes. Finally, she looks up and meets his eyes. There are tears in hers.

“Terry … I can’t. I just can’t.”

He feels like he is teetering on the edge of something. He doesn’t know how big it is, but he knows it is dark, and deep, and a cold wind comes out of it chilling him from the inside out, a cold that starts in his bones and seeps through his skin to his clothes.

“Can’t what?”

She takes one of his hands in two of hers, and searches his face.

“I can’t go with you. To Ethiopia.”

He laughs. “No worries of that, love.” The chill fades slightly. “Doesn’t matter. They didn’t want me, remember? Swansea and Sheffield said no, too.”

She shakes her head emphatically. A tear falls on his wrist, a soft drop that he feels sliding away, down his wrist, gone onto the table. Another perfect reflective surface.

“No. I can’t go anywhere.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s too much, Terry. And you just don’t know. I have nine siblings. Parents. Grandparents. More cousins than I can count. And they all need me here.”

He was silent. He didn’t know if he knew this or not, and he was shamed. How could he not know about her family? Had they ever talked about it? He wasn’t sure. She seemed to have come into his life whole, complete, a species unto herself. But of course that couldn’t be true.

He smiled ruefully. “I understand. I’m here for now, Leti, let’s just see what happens.”

She took a deep breath and when she raised her head, he knew what was coming. She looked wounded, as if she had just discovered that she was injured and was still in shock at the depth of the cut.

No, please, no not you, too.

“Terry, I’m so sorry. It’s been lovely, the last two weeks. It’s been a fairy tale come true, even with,” and here she tried to laugh, but what came out was more of a soft sob, the sound of something being torn away. Another breath. “Even with you losing your job, even with all of that. But it’s so far from my life.”

“Leti, no, your life is whatever you make of it.”

Her voice hardened. She knew he was wrong, that such freedom was a product of entitlement, of possibilities guaranteed by the accidents of birth and blood. “No, Terry, it’s not. Your life is. My life is wound up with dozens of other people.”

He said nothing, shocked by the implications.

I am alone.

She shook her head again, and before the waiter could return, got up, kissed Terry softly on the top of the head, murmured “Thank you” almost inaudibly, and left.

He ate without tasting, paid, and wandered into the hot Cape Town afternoon.

3:11 PM

He sat on the bench, staring at the almost completed stadium, a massive spider of steel and concrete sparkling as arc-welders fired, putting the finishing touches on the stands, the entrances, the luxury seats. He clutched a brown paper bag wrapped around a bottle which he occasionally raised to his lips. Sweat stains showed on his back, and under his arms.

Everything seemed slightly untethered, lending an ominous danger to the world. The bench, paint faded and chipping, the tree across the way raising its arms endlessly into the sky in forlorn supplication, the scaffolding that surrounded the stadium like a web; all was in danger of coming loose and taking flight, either to head inland, careening against the slope of Table Mountain before skittering across its flat surface towards the arid wastelands of the Kalahari or to be blown out to sea, following the trade winds around the Cape of Good Hope and beyond.

Nothing could be predicted.

It wasn’t all bad: there was a lightness to the world, a two dimensional quality that made everything seem less than real. And if it were less than real, it mattered less, thinning the division between the actual and the possible. Into that gap flowed a sort of freedom, a crippled freedom that existed only in the moment. True freedom required a future, but Terry had only a phantasmal present, a world populated by ghosts dying slowly as they stretched towards what was no longer possible, shades of what might have been that floated by intermingled with dreams and regrets.

He got up, steadied himself, and walked.

Alone is OK. Not like you’re really by yourself. In Cape Town after all. Lots of people. All different colors, all different tastes. Just going to walk around the stadium. Circle the holy city like a modern day Jericho. And the walls come tumbling down. A farewell tour. No way I’m here in June after all. Ethiopian ****ing Coffee.

Stadium’s big. Thought I’d be further. If only my legs would move faster.

I’m sorry, Leti. I’m sorry, Da. I’m so sorry.

He sits under a tree not fifty yards from the bench, and pulls his knees up to his chest, his head hanging between them. He controls his sobs, but cannot staunch the tears. His eyes are open, and he sees the drops fall, a private string of beads slowly cascading onto the grass below, shining and spreading like a small stain, sliding along the edge of the leaves of grass like a snail.

[Makonnen]

Terry Langford. III of III.

6:48 PM

He is home again, sprawled on his stomach across his mattress. The sheets lay stacked on the corner, untouched from earlier. His shirt is unbuttoned, and billows across his back, a standard draped over someone fallen in battle. His breathing is deep, and a small spot of drool spreads from his chin against the mattress.

BZZZZZZZZZ. BZZZZZZZZZ.

His right arm spasms, jerking towards the pockets of his pants. He flails, sits upwards, wiping his mouth, then digging into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He squints at the number, brow furrowing.

Italy? What the ****? I don’t know anyone in Italy. ****ing prank.

He lies down again. The room spins slightly, then settles. He moans.

BZZZZZZZZZ. BZZZZZZZZZ. He sighs, presses a button on the phone.

“Langford.” His voice is rough, dry, struggling to escape.

“Allo? Signore Terry Langford?” His last name has three syllables. He moves the phone away from his head, frowns at it.

“Yeah.”

“This is Allesandro Ferrari. You know of me?”

“Uh … I’m not sure …”

“Is OK. Soon, you know of me. I have a … club di calcio … football. In Northern Italy. Rodengo. Rodengo Saiano.”

He sits up, again stares at the phone, this time in disbelief.

“Yes, sir.”

“I would like you to … gestire … manage it, possibly. Can you come?”

“To Italy?”

“Si, si, to Italy.”

“When?”

“Tonight. I have a ticket for you, it leaves Cape Town at … let’s see … eleven o’clock. You change in Amsterdam, again in Rome. I will have a car meet you in Bolzano at 10:30 tomorrow night. You know Bolzano? Near Svizzera, eh, Switzerland.”

“Tonight?”

“Si, Signore, tonight. Business class is OK, no? You will come.” Much more of a statement than a question.

Huh? Did he just say I should go to Italy tonight. He did. Well … ****all keeping me here.

“Yes, yes I will come. Business class is, um, splendid.”

“Magnifico! I have right here. Momento … ah yes. You have pen? Your number for the ticket is 9XBL3DD. Angora, 9XBL3DD. Two D’s. Like Daniele De Rossi. You know De Rossi? Traitor for going to Chelsea, but marvelous player, marvelous.”

“Yes, yes he is. 9XBL3DD. Yes, sir.”

“Buono! I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

He puts the phone down, and stares at it as if it could leap up and bite him. He moves to the desk, opens the laptop, starts typing.

Well I’ll be damned. The reservation code worked, and now I’m checked in. I’m going to Italy?

He types some more. Sits and stares at the screen, then smiles.

I’m going to Italy. A panda? How cute is that? Why’d he fire the old guy … what’s his name … there … Maurizio Braghin. Ah, that’s why. Pegged to top the table, mired in the bottom third. dal Bosco. Coly. Those look to be their best. What’s this … three of these guys are my age. Interesting. Your loss Braghin is my gain, I guess. Gotta go to make the plane.

He sheds the rest of his clothes, showers, dresses, places one of his three suits into a travel bag, throws in some other necessities, checks his watch.

Time for a drink before the plane. God that’s a lot of travel. ****. Where’s that Xanax? Bathroom mirror, that’s right. There we are. Pocket that, need it later. What else? Laptop? Hate that thing. Probably need it, though.

In the cab to the airport, he looks over the highway wall at the shantytown below, the corrugated metal roofs, the fires, the maze of alleys and almost-streets. Won’t miss that. He checks his pocket for the Xanax.

And Italy has damn fine wine.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Two Conversations January 19, 2010.

“Danyil? It’s Victor.”

“Yes?”

“Two things for you. First, Sevilla called. They want to know about Branislav.”

“Really? You think they’re serious?”

“I think they may be.”

“Interesting. OK, thanks, I’ll take it upstairs. The other?”

“We have a call in fifteen minutes with Parham.”

“Good, I’ll be there.”

Danyil Oranje leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling. His lips pursed, one hand distractedly tapping a staccato beat on the edge of his desk. His head moved back and forth, weighing possibilities before he stopped, stood, and left his office. A few moments later, he knocked on a door on an upper floor of the Chelsea complex.

“Mr. Gourlay?”

“Come in, Danyil, come in.”

“Thank you. This will be brief—I have a phone conversation with de los Santos’ phenom in a few minutes. It seems Sevilla has come sniffing around Ivanovic. I think they will be contacting you directly this afternoon.”

“And?”

“And I think he has a real future here. But I think that if the right number of zero’s were offered, we could get by.”

“Is this your standard method of negotiating transfers?”

Oranje smiled. “Sometimes. With Ashley, of course, we can really change the financial landscape of the team. I just wanted you to know that I think Ivanovic looks mighty good in blue.”

Gourlay nodded. “I understand.”

“Thank you. Let me know how it goes with them.”

“Of course. And tell me what we need to do with Parham after you speak with the kid.”

Oranje closed the door, headed back downstairs and found de los Santos already on the phone. The Uruguayan nodded, and Danyil picked up an extension, raised it to his ears, and heard the faint crackle of the international connection.

“Boyd? Sorry to interrupt, but someone just walked in that I think you should speak with. Boyd Parham, this is Danyil Oranje; Danyil, meet Boyd Parham.”

A pause on the other end, then a voice, flattened by the open prairie and tinged with a slight awkwardness as if embarrassed by the necessity of speech.

“Hello, Mr. Oranje. It’s an honor to meet you.” His cadences were slow and considerate.

“Well, thank you, Boyd. And, please, it’s Danyil. I’m very pleased to meet you as well, and I look forward to doing so in person.”

Another pause. “You there, Boyd?”

“Yessir.”

“Well, we’ve seen you play a few times in Mexico. We think you have the makings of quite a player.”

“Thank you, sir. I do my best.”

Danyil looked at de los Santos, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. What do you do with this? De los Santos shrugged.

“Yes, well, we can see that. Boyd, I’m going to get right to the point here. How would you like to play for Chelsea?”

“I believe I would like that very much.”

“We would, too. I can’t promise anything, as these things take time and lawyers, but I wanted you to know that we were interested, and that we are looking forward to seeing you continue to develop as a player.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Not at all, Boyd, not at all. I’m going to give you back to Victor now. Thank you for your time, Boyd.”

Danyil hung up the phone and turned to look out the window at the darkening sky. More rain, perhaps even snow tonight. Training would move indoors. He was startled to hear de los Santos behind him speaking Spanish. Interesting, if Parham spoke it well. He turned to listen, they were discussing an upcoming game. And then a pause, and gentle laughter from de los Santos.

“Adios, Boyd.”

De los Santos gently put the phone in its cradle and leaned back, his hands interlaced behind his head. He looked at Oranje.

“I dunno Victor … you don’t think the media would eat him alive over here? I mean all that polite **** is charming for a minute, but it wears thin.”

“No, I don’t think so. He is … genuine. It’s not an act. First time we met was after training one day. He had showered and changed, and when I saw him, he was wearing a cowboy hat. Beat up thing, seen better days. But when I walked up to him, he took it off, held it for the whole conversation. You don’t do that for show. You do that because your Mama taught you to.”

Danyil nodded. “Get him, Victor.”

The Uruguayan smiled. “I’m trying, boss. I’m trying.”

[Makonnen]

Saint George

Not Good Enough. January 20, 2010.

Sidama Coffee Sporting Club v. Saint George, Mebrat Hail Stadium, Addis Ababa

Sidama Coffee 0 – St. George 0

MoM: Mulegeta Tegegn (7.5). St. George’s Best: Eshetu Mohammed (7.2)

Attendance: 787. Referee: Umeta Ibrahim.

* Postgame speech, translated from the Amharic.

Tadesse Makonnen slowly came into the dressing room. His squad was tired, but loose. Players were unwrapping their ankles, hanging the shirts gathered from the backs of their Sidama Coffee counterparts in their lockers, or just sitting on the worn benches, staring, recovering from the hard ninety minutes of play.

“Gentlemen.” Makonnen spoke softly as always. His team was alert to his voice, however, and quieted down immediately. Makonnen walked to the center of the room, looked around.

“We were the better team out there tonight. It wasn’t even close: Sidama is a hard fighting side, an honorable opponent. But we were, we are, better.” Another pause.

“But that’s not enough, gentlemen. Not nearly enough. It is not sufficient to be the better team. It is not sufficient to merely outplay the opposition. It is not sufficient to be stronger and faster, to have more talent.”

Players dropped their heads, but nobody spoke. “Talent is a curse. It is something to be overcome. Because talent can convince you not to work. Not to put forth effort. Not to remember that it is desire that matters. The desire to win, the desire to work.”

He frowned. “Look at me. All of you.” They did. Throughout, Makonnen’s voice never raised in pitch. He seemed to never yell, but there was no doubting the force of emotion, the power behind his words.

“We are about to embark on the hardest months of your lives. The schedule will be difficult—we have three games many of the weeks. You will hurt. You will be tired. But do you know what will get you through? It’s not talent.”

“It is desire. It is the desire to be worthy of the shirt you wear every day. It is the desire to live up to your country, your name, your families. And most of all, each other. We are Saint George. What you did today is unacceptable. But it is also over, and now the choice is yours. I choose to never do that again, to never have my name attached to a game that lifeless, that lacking in passion. Your choice is simple: either you choose to come with me, to work for each other harder than you ever have. Or you choose not to, and we will help you on your way.”

He looked around the room, saw defiance, anger, agreement in their eyes. It was enough.

“We are Saint George. Always, forever. Never forget the privilege that brings or the responsibility. I will see you tomorrow morning.” He walked out and down the hall to meet the media.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea. I of III.

Touchline Report: League Cup Semifinal, 2nd Leg. January 20, 2010.

1:25

Bloody African Nation’s Cup. Look, I know I’m supposed to think lovely things about the growth of the game in Africa, about a bunch of undernourished kids chasing around a ball falling apart at the seams. But this leaves us without Drogba, without Essien, without Kalou, without Mikel. All for a second rate trophy and a spit of pride. I don’t mind pride, but I need wins.

And without Chelsea—without the leagues in Europe that pay real money, without the academies, without the competition—they wouldn’t be either the players they are or nearly as rich. So there is something backwards here: for some odd ideal that has no relation to reality, some vague notion of continental togetherness, the clubs that made them what they are suffer. It’s just silliness.

And today we’re away at Old Trafford for the second leg of the League Cup Semifinal.

Without Drogba, without Essien, without Kalou, without Mikel.

So, Sanogo gets a start in a critical game, with Anelka on the right wing.

If I had any balls, I’d bench Cole and play Zhirkov on the left like I dream of. But I don’t have those kind of cajones. Maybe next year.

6:35

Hear that? That’s what we’re coming into. It’s over an hour to the game, and they’re in full throat. I looked around the room. They were stretching, taping ankles, jogging lightly in place. But they were looking at me, listening. But I’m happy to hear them. Do you know why? Heads shook slightly. Even some of the veterans looked interested. Because it’s the happiest they’ll be all night.

Our job tonight is to make them miserable. Our job is to play our game—not theirs, ours. Our job is to play together, to play hard, and to make sure that the only one’s happy at the end are the faithful in blue who made the trip. And we’re going to do that by imposing our will on them. This game will be like chess: if we control the center of the board, we’ll win. Frank, Daniele, Michael, this means you. Dominate your positions, we dominate the game. Dominate the game, and we’ll end up in the finals. I paused, cocked my head.

Just listen to them. My voice dripped derision, dropped in pitch. I ****ing hate Old Trafford.

I walked out of the locker room, and found my way down the tunnel that led to the pitch. Careful to stay out of sight, I stood looking at the far side of the stadium awash in the early evening light. We’ve got our work cut out for us tonight, but we can do this. Kickoff can’t come fast enough.

7:30

It works from the kickoff. Lampard and De Rossi are controlling the game, keeping possession, looking for openings. The passes are simple, easy, and we are edging up the field. And nine minutes in, a sudden strike: Lampard corrals a pass, gives a quick turn, and fires a tracer from 35 yards out. It’s good, and we’re up 1-0.

The goal wakes them up, and we begin to lose possession. They are driving into our half, and if it weren’t for Cech in goal, we’d have given up an equalizer and more. But, we do have Cech, so in spite of being on our back foot, we hold the lead.

Michael! Daniele!

My arms are out wide, hands still. They immediately start the change throughout the squad.

You know we know what that means? I turn to see Ferguson looking at me, smiling. I think it’s the first thing he’s ever said to me that wasn’t good luck, good game, the white noise between coaches. I wonder if he does know—this is a little different than usual. I want us to spread, but to remain calm, to still work on our control and our possession. But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Yeah, we thought of changing the signals, but they couldn’t learn fast enough. He smiled. Isn’t that always the way? I nodded, turned back to the match. Sir Alex spoke to me, all friendly-like. Interesting, need to file that away for future reflection.

We see results very quickly. Anelka has the ball on the right, and instead of forcing the issue, calmly passes back to Ballack who turns and restarts the attack through the other side, to Carvalho and Cole. Ballack trails the play, and receives the ball on the opposite side, letting him find Zhirkov on the side and slightly deeper. As soon as Ballack makes the pass, Sanogo takes off, streaking towards goal. Yury sees him and lofts a brilliant pass over Rio Ferdinand’s head. Sanogo has space between Johnny Evans approaching from the rear and van der Sar rushing off his line. He controls the ball beautifully with his knee, and volleys it straight through the keeper into the back of the net.

2-0 Good guys.

Ferdinand and Evans are having a heated exchange after that one. Somebody missed an assignment, but they aren’t agreeing who it was.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea. II of III.

We’re still applying pressure twenty-five minutes in: Ballack tests van der Sar from even further out than Lampard did, but the Dutch international is up for it this time, managing to smother the rebound after a diving stop.

Ferdinand is running angry, but we pay the price: he knocks JT out cold with a forearm to the back of the neck on a free kick.

Howard! How did you miss that? My man is unconscious and there’s no whistle? Howard! Look at me you blind son-of-a—Butch, get away from me.

OK, score one for Butch. He was quick enough to stop me from getting into hot water. But still, I was livid. I turned out of his hold. JT was only out for a few seconds, but he’s far too wobbly on his feet to continue, despite his protests.

Alex, get ready. JT’s done. And you—this to the fourth official—what the hell was that? You have to do better than that. I’ve got a player with a concussion, for ****’s sake.

Jesus. I mean, we’re deep back there, so this game is fine. Alex and Carvalho may in fact be our best pairing at this point. But JT means a lot to this club. It is a sign of things to come: Carrick goes in with his studs up on Sanogo, who collapses grabbing his knee.

Howard! Not even a whistle? That’s a ****ing card! I head over to the fourth official. Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on today, but you have to do better than that. We’re away at the harshest place on Earth, and you’re not calling studs up tackles? I know I have a long way to go before I’m knighted, but come on!

Ferguson can’t suppress a smile at that. Another point to file away.

We limp into halftime, up 2-0, but wounded.

What do you think, Butch?

I think the game still has goals in it. Pull back a little, hit them on the counter.

I stared at him. This was tricky. It was totally against my nature to do so, but we were away at Old Trafford and there were only two possible outcomes: either it works and he feels trusted, or it backfires, and he gives me some more room. I nodded. OK. Make it happen. But not too defensive—3-1 is fine with me. He smiled a thin smile and headed into the tunnel. I turned to glare at Howard Webb as he walked in: he ignored me, but I knew he saw, just as I knew he heard my screams during the first half; then I followed him in to the dressing room.

Good job, men. Expect more of the same: they are going to come at us hard to start the second half, and we need to be ready. I want to absorb that without giving up the initiative. Yaya, fantastic job. I need you to work just as hard in the second half—go all out, then let me know when you can’t go any more, OK? Butch has tactics today—Butch?

I wish it worked. But it didn’t.

We back off far too much, and they come out with a fire in their belly. A minute into the second half, Zoran Tosic takes the ball to the sideline and floats a cross in high to the back post. Alex manages to commit two sins on the same play, jumping too early and blocking Cech’s path to the ball at the same time. Darren Fletcher heads the ball firmly into the back of the net. He lands awkwardly and has to come off for a few minutes, but that’s small consolation.

Alex looks at me as he comes back up the pitch. He taps his chest and shakes his head. He knows what he did. I clap at him. He’s taking responsibility for the mistake, and other than not making it in the first place, I can’t ask for much more.

Butch looks at me. I shake my head. He’s worried, which I don’t like at all.

Still? His eyes narrow, and he shakes his head slightly. Well, I’ll fight that out later. For now, we need to get some initiative back.

Frank! Push up!

We do better, but the crowd senses blood and are urging their side on. Not ten minutes later, Fletcher finds Michael Owen at the edge of the box. Owen returns the ball, moves into space and Fletcher feeds it right back to him.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea III of III

Owen’s shot is low and hard, and beats Cech cleanly. We’re tied and the stadium explodes. I can feel the ground shake. I stand still, watching my side. Their heads are down, expressions grim. I glance over, and see the Danny Welbeck ready to come on. Owen’s goal is his last part of the match, which is fine with me, although Welbeck’s pace is always a concern.

Ricardo! Alex! I point at Walbeck, then turn to the players. Simon, fast as you can. He nods, and starts sprinting.

We had prepped this in training this week—a slightly deeper back two, a focus on getting the ball to Ivanovic and Cole on the wings. Doing this needs more creativity up front, but Simon needs some time to get ready.

I’m good, coach.

Good. Go in for Yaya, push Anelka up front alone.

Yessir.

Yury! I motion him over. Pull back on your side. I want to overload on the left, and I need you on both ends. It’s a risk: having both Zhirkov and Vukcevic on the left will either open up opportunities for us, or will leave the other side of the pitch naked and gleaming. Here’s hoping for the former.

It’s working: we are pushing forward, and have some chances. And our defense looks stronger with Zhirkov quicker to add presence in the midfield. I’m worried, though: right now it looks like we’re headed to a penalty shootout, and nobody wants that.

Michael! 20 more?

He nods, but I wonder. Sweat is dripping from his body, and he’s clearly a step slower than the start of the game. Drop back—run it from there. He does. Maybe that will conserve enough energy to get us through.

Well, Butch, this is where JT going off hurts. Butch nods, the lights shining off his bald head. One more substitute, and I would be happy with the extra time. I turn to the replacements.

Daniel, I’m sorry. We need you, but we can’t use you. Marc, you’re in for Michael. Either at full time or when he collapses, whichever comes first. Mateu smiles, takes off at a sprint to get ready.

Ballack makes it to fulltime. I grab him. Michael, thank you. You gave me 90 strong minutes—it’s all I could ask for. Marc will take it from here.

Ten minutes into extra time, Walbeck bursts past Ivanovic into the box, but Cech manages to steer it just outside the post. We head into the final fifteen minutes still tied.

Mateu slides a nice pass to Anelka, who has lost his man. He launches one from the top of the box, but it hits the wrong side of the crossbar, leaving a clearly relieved van der Sar to launch a goal kick.

It looks like a shootout. Butch, you working on the shooting order? He nods. Good.

I turn back just in time to see Park gets loose on the far side of goal. Antonio Valencia sees him, too.

No! Bran! Get there!

Valencia launches the cross, and Ivanovic jumps high to clear … but misses. A twelve year old could score from Park’s position. And he’s far better than a twelve year old. Park wheels away in jubilation, and I turn away in disgust.

MOTHER****ER!

We try to get it back, but we only have eight minutes, and we’re a little too shocked by how it all happened. The fans are mind-numbingly loud—they deserve to be, honestly: it was a magnificent fight back.

The final whistle blows, and I make my way to Ferguson.

Magnificent second half. He thanks me, shakes my hand.

Danyil? Can I say something?

Of course.

Trust yourself. You got here on your passion and your own choices. They’ll take you far.

I get the message. And I appreciate it. I nod, clap him on the shoulder, and make my way down the tunnel, between players in red screaming with delight and my own, heads down.

The dressing room is quiet. I want to stay positive for them, but I can feel the anger rising in my chest. This could be an important moment for me, and for them.

Yury, you were magnificent. Petr, Ashley, Frank, great games. But in the end, we lost our concentration twice. One hundred and twenty minutes, and two moments, two brief instants. And the result is a loss to a side we could have beaten. Look, I’m proud of how each of you have stepped up with so many of your teammates missing. But, it’s not enough. You want to take something from this game? Listen to that noise. Take that. Take that, and take the fact that football is cruel. To succeed against teams like this, we need every single ****ing one of you out there performing at your absolute best for every single ****ing minute of the game. I expect nothing less.

It’s an exit line, so I leave. They’re stunned, so we’ll see how that goes over. I take a deep breath, head down the hall to the interview stand. I don’t really know what I say until later, when I see the clip on Sky:

It was a hard game, a good game. We thought we had them by the scruff at halftime, but you have to give United credit. They came out hard, took it to us, and in the end we had a lapse at the back. But, we’ll take the positives from the match—Zhirkov, Sanogo’s goal, the way we played in the first half—and move on. I expect great things from this club.

Manchester United v. Chelsea, League Cup Semifinal Leg 2. Old Trafford, Manchester.

Man Utd 3 (Darren Fletcher 47, Michael Owen 54, Ji-Sung Park 111) – Chelsea 2 (Frank Lampard 9, Yaya Sanogo 21)

MoM:Yury Zhirkov (8.5)

Attendance: 76,212. Referee: Howard Webb.

[Makonnen]

This was supposed to appear before the Chelsea League Cup. Sorry for the back-to-back Terry Langford entries.

Rodengo Saiano

From Terry Langford's Diary. January 20, 2010

I guess I have a job.

First things first. Called Leti this morning. Told her where I was. She asked when I was coming back to Cape Town. Told her I didn’t know, that I thought I’d be there in a few days for a day or so to pick up some stuff, then back next week at some point for a couple more days. Turns out I lied—won’t be back in Cape Town for a week at least. Lots of silence. I don’t even know what I want at this point. Sure, I want her, but I couldn’t ask her to come here. She has a fantastic job with Ajax, and all I offer is the risk of being fired again in another few months.

The timing sure feels like a kick in the balls, though.

Met with Ferrari for hours. Wine, prosciutto, a lovely buffalo mozzarella. We talked about food, movies, football. But very little about his team. He seemed genuinely interested in me as a person. Odd. Never had that in a football job—they usually just want to hear about tactics, players, what I think of how Greece won the Euro’s, what Slovenia’s chances are in the World Cup, crap like that.

But not Ferrari. He wanted to know where I went to school, how many friends from there I still talk to.

He asked if I were in love. I think I just moved my mouth like a fish stranded on the beach for a few seconds.

“Ah,” he said. “Love. Lovers. Lovely. No matter—if she comes with you, Rodengo is beautiful, and if she does not, memories too, are beautiful, no?”

I couldn’t really answer. No, not really. Most of my memories aren’t beautiful. They’re jagged things, requiring careful handling. Grab a memory the wrong way, examine it in the wrong light, and it will cut you deep.

Sometime this afternoon—I don’t remember when. After the second bottle of magnificent red wine appeared, at least. He stood up, clapped his hands together. “Good! If you will excuse me, I have some other business to attend to. But Marco will be here shortly. Marco is my business partner, and he can handle the next steps. After the two of you talk, he will call for Roberto Labardi, who should be able to help answer any questions you may have about the team.” He extended his hand, and I stood up quickly to take it, awkwardly and loudly scraping my chair against the tiled floor.

“Terry, I know this is … how do you … premature. But thank you for coming. And welcome to Rodengo.”

I shook his hand dumbly, and managed, I think, a couple versions of “thank you” before he left the room, whistling softly to himself.

A few minutes later, Marco showed up. He is an intense, stocky man, barely coming up to my chin. He spoke flawless English, in what sounded like an American accent.

“Terry! How good to meet you. I am Marco Lissandro. We’re so happy you could come speak with us.”

We exchanged pleasantries. Marco wore a dark suit with a complexly patterned tie, all in blues and white, the team colors.

“So, Terry, will you come help us with the team?”

“I would be interested. Mr. Ferrari and I didn’t discuss specifics, however.”

“Of course, of course. Here.”

He slid a piece of paper my way. It had three columns of numbers—Euro’s, American dollars, and Rand, and numbers for my salary $1,200 a week, a generous moving allowance, and, below that, information on the club finances. Roughly $20,000 in transfer budget left, roughly $16,000 a week allowed in salaries with our current wage bill far below that. It wasn’t Cape Town, but it wasn’t bad.

All in all, it was a good offer. And I needed it.

“Yes, those terms are acceptable.”

“Fantastic. We have a contract here. It’s very simple: we don’t believe in a lot of paperwork here at Rodengo. Essentially, you are working for Mr. Ferrari, and within the boundaries of his agreements, you are free to manage the club how you choose.”

I examined the contract. It was simple: from now until June 30th, 2012, I would be employed by the club at their discretion. No working for other clubs. No disclosure of club information. That was about it. I thought about making a show of passing it by a lawyer, but I didn’t think I would fool Marco. Something in his manner told me that he knew I was planning to say yes. So, I said yes. One signature and one toast later, and it was done.

Marco seemed very happy. He made a quick call in Italian on his phone, and shortly after there was a knock on the door.

It was Labardi, my new assistant coach. He as slightly shorter than I am, with a shock of brown hair that was rapidly retreating and a pinched look about his eyes. I immediately thought he was sad, but had no idea why. I rose to shake his hand.

“Hello, Roberto.”

He shifted a small computer to his other hand, reached out and shook mine. “Non parlo inglese …” he said, apologetically.

“It’s OK. We’ll manage.” I smiled, and gestured for him to sit down. I looked at Marco, who nodded and said something quickly to Labardi, who was busy tapping keys on the small machine.

“We will locate a full time translator for you, Terry. In the meantime, I hope I will suffice.”

“Thank you, Marco. Your English is impeccable: if your translator is half this good, we will do fabulously.”

“Roberto, I’m looking forward to working with you.” Marco spoke, Roberto looked up, replied. Marco turned to me.

“He says he thinks the team has good potential, and he hopes to answer any questions you may have.”

Right to business then, OK.

“OK, well, can he give me a quick overview of the squad?”

Marco smiled, and nodded to Roberto, who turned the laptop around. It was incredible—videos of training, drills, games. All integrated somehow. I asked him how Silvio Cassaro was on corner kicks, he fiddled for a few seconds, and there was a video of the defender lining up by the flag and then a lovely, floating ball right into the box. Followed by three videos of balls totally and hopelessly mis-kicked.

“So, he’s not our corner taker, eh?”

Roberto looked up, smiled. “Non. Forse … De Pascalis, forse Baido. Non Cassaro.”

“See, we speak fine.”

Marco laughed, and then had to translate. Roberto nodded. We spent the better part of an hour like this before Marco cleared his throat, and said “Terry, it is getting late. Roberto and I will be at your service again tomorrow, but for now, let me take you back to your hotel.” I wasn’t about to argue: my head was spinning, and my notepad was turning into an illegible mess.

There is much more to learn, but at first glance, the Clint Eastwood roundup looks like this.

The Good

Abdoura Mohamed Coly is our best. 26 year old Senegalese who can play almost anywhere on the defensive side of the pitch. He’s a great physical specimen, but could use some more technical skill. Our offense right now is almost exclusively Nicola Dal Bosco, a loanee from Vicenza. He’ll be a focus, but I can’t count on him next year, so we’ll be bringing in some more strikers. Attacking support will come through Raffaele Baido, a very creative 24 year old and the tall presence of Alessandro De Pascalis, another youngster. We have some old men that can still play: Leonardo Colucci is 37, but still useful as a holding midfielder, and he’s not even the elder statesman of the club: that falls to Mauro Bertoni, who at 40 is well past his prime, but can still contribute at the back. Colucci’s name rings a bell—I think he played in Serie A at one point. Have to check that.

The Bad

There’s a lot of dead wood. Players that aren’t going to get any better, or who just won’t play for me without learning a new position. Carlo Gallovich is the most troubling: he has talent, but he is a wide midfielder, and needs to change his style to succeed with me here. Stefano Murante doesn’t look like he can play, but he fits my system. On talent, he would be gone, but we’re short on true wingbacks for a while, so maybe we keep him. Roberto doesn’t think much of him.

The Ugly

Too much to mention. Suffice to say the following will be aggressively marketed to the lowest bidder. Or at least find themselves filling out the reserves. Andrea Rosso, Paolo Bresciani, Stefano Preti, Daniele Prandini. Others, too.

Tired. Need to get some rest before we start training tomorrow.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Transcript of Giuseppe di Franco's Interview. January 21, 2010.

A click. Clinking of glasses, rustling. A muffled cough. Sounds emerging as if underwater.

GF: Softly, clipped, a staccato summary of the basics. This is Giuseppe di Franco, Rodengo Soccer Messenger. It is January twenty-first at … 13:15. I am sitting here on this lovely patio with Terry Langford, the newly hired coach of Rodengo Saiano, who has graciously agreed to this interview.

The voice turns, no longer spoken directly into the microphone. Background noise occasionally intrudes—a hum of conversation, a ping of metal, now and again a distant motor.

Terry, as we discussed, I’ll be recording the interview, which will serve as a basis for an article likely to run in two days, just before your first game as coach. Shall we get started?

TF: The voice is edged with caution. Sure, of course.

GF: Can you share some of your reactions to being hired by Rodengo Saiano?

TF: I’m thrilled. It looks to be a great opportunity, and one that I’m excited about.

GF: Had you heard of the club two weeks ago?

TF: A pause. Honestly? I’m not sure. But I never thought I would manage in South Africa, either.

GF: Ah, but in South Africa, they spoke English. How do you think your lack of Italian will impact your ability to succeed here?

TF: I’m not worried. Many of the staff speak English quite well and, honestly, language matters little once we’re on the pitch.

GF: The universal language of soccer, then?

TL: Something like that. These men have been playing this game all their lives. Our job is to help them improve, help them play together. Help them do better what they already know how to do.

GF: Lofty goals. Do you think this job is at too humble a level for your managerial aspirations?

TL: Soft laughter. I think that I’m lucky to have caught the eye of the club. My time in Cape Town was … well, let’s just say that everyone involved—myself included—expected better.

GF: Indeed. What do you think of Italy so far?

TL: It’s been a bit of whirlwind. I’ve only been here a few days, but it’s been fantastic so far. I think I will enjoy it.

GF: What do you plan for Rodengo, tactically?

TL: A pause. Well … it will be a process. I am committed to a different kind of soccer, perhaps, than Rodengo’s supporters are used to. I hope that we are able to transition into the kind of game I want to play smoothly.

GF: And how would you describe that system.

TL: A lot of movement, a lot of players in the attacking third.

GF: And in the back?

TL: The defense is governed by the center backs and the holding midfielders. Wingbacks will drop back in reaction to the opposition, but the core defensive responsibilities fall on the central players.

GF: In looking at your time at Ajax, it seems like you would be happy to see a return of a libero in the back. Is that true?

TL: Well, sort of. There are some differences between the classic Italian libero and what I envision, but it certainly is similar.

GF: Any insight into how you work with your staff and players?

TL: I believe in a lot of communication. I want my players to come to me, to know that my door is open.

GF: That sounds very involved—would you characterize yourself that way?

TL: Well, yes, I think so. When it comes to the game, details are my life.

GF: And, that sounds like someone who would come into the job quite prepared. Have you already made decisions on your lineup?

TL: No, I wouldn’t say that. Certainly, the next few days and weeks are critical, but I need to see everyone in training, see how we fit together, see how they adapt to what I ask of them before any personnel decisions will be made.

GF: Still, you must have some idea. What do you see as the strengths of the team currently?

TL: Get back to me in a week. I will say that I think that the defensive core is very strong here, which gives me great confidence in our ability to build upon that foundation.

GF: Good, good. I think that about covers it. Thank you for your time, Terry. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.

TL: That’s it? You have what you need?

GF: Yes, yes. Rustling of papers, a short burst of white noise. What will you do with the rest of your day?

TL: I’m not sure. I thought I would walk in the town for a bit, maybe head up to the castle, see what’s around—

Click.

[Makonnen]

Racing Club. I of II.

The Dinner. January 22, 2010

David Barron was whistling to himself as he made the last turn towards home. It had been a good day spent reviewing scouting reports with Dayán, then on a conference call with the scouts themselves and then just before he left, receiving a note from Santos’ office that implied that Racing Club’s players might actually show up in a week or two. That part still confused David—shouldn’t they know when they were due back from vacation? Shouldn’t he know? But Dayán was unconcerned, and David trusted him.

And there were more important things on his mind at the moment: tonight was his dinner with Ayida.

His whistling was tuneless, distracted: indeed, for David Barron, whistling was a nervous habit more than anything else.

He put his hand inside the pocket of his yellow windbreaker emblazoned on the back with the Racing Club crest, and felt for the folded piece of paper, again reassuring himself of its presence. Walking up the driveway, he waved to James, crouched as always by the behemoth of a car that was under his care. James catches sight of him, straightens from his efforts, and looks at Barron expectantly.

“James, I’m having dinner with someone at 7:30. Here’s the address. I’ll need you to wait. When should we leave?”

The young man covered his surprise well—it had been at least ten days since the last time his services were requested. He put down his rag (for a vehicle that never went anywhere, it looked absolutely fantastic), took the piece of paper, slowly read the address then looked at Barron in surprise and let out a low whistle.

“What is it?”

“This is down that way.” He waved his arms down towards the southeast. “Down to Pétionville. Very nice.” He nodded. “We leave á sept heures, ok?”

“Oui. Seven o’clock.” He pocketed the piece of paper, picked up his rag and went back to making the hood shine. David nodded, began to whistle again, and entered the house, turning immediately into the large kitchen.

“Luisá?”

“Oui, monsieur?” She emerged from the pantry, carrying some fruit.

He held out a paper sack, full of empty containers and cutlery. “First, lunch was fantastic. Magnifique! Thank you. Second, I’ll be eating out this evening. You should go home whenever you’re done—no need to stay for me.”

Smiling, she took the bag. “Oui. Thank you. Et le petit déjeuner?”

David struggled to keep his composure, not wanting to admit that very question had dominated his thoughts all day. And breakfast, indeed?

“Ici. I’ll be back late, but tomorrow I need to be at the stadium early.”

She nodded, moved to the sink, and began washing the fruit.

“Thank you,” he called, heading down the hall to his bedroom. He spent fifteen minutes looking for an outfit that didn’t include the club’s logo, finally settling on a pale blue button-down and dark gray slacks. It lacked style, but it was safe enough. And importantly, it was clean.

James must have spent the rest of the afternoon going after the car with a toothbrush—he was known to do that from time to time. It was so bright it seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the evening light, its edges blurred by its own magnificence. At 6:55, David opens the front door and nodded in appreciation for James’ efforts. “All set?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Bien. Allons-y.”

James eased the dark car out of the driveway, turned right and headed away from the city in a slow arc. The further they moved, the more impressive the houses were—slowly separating from each other with growing wariness, the gaps between them exposed as larger and larger expanses of well-manicured green lawns. Gates appeared, then guardhouses as well. Clearly, thought David, we are heading to where the other half lives, although in Haiti I had to guess it was other tenth. If that.

Eventually, James turned, slowing at a gate manned by an overweight guard, collar stained by sweat from the day. He rolled down his window, and the two of them spoke. It always amazed David how much the people in his life who spoke more French than English—James, Luisá, even George as the stadium—must take pity on him when they talked. When they were speaking naturally, he could barely keep up, only catching a patter of random verbs and proper names. The heavy man picked up a phone inside the small guardhouse, and spoke for a moment, then turned, pressed a button that raised the gate, and nodded us through. James gave him a wave, and they headed up the drive.

It was impressive—the road curved through a pristine lawn of deep green towards a large white house fronted by columns. David began to whistle, rubbing his palms on his calves. As they pulled in front of the house, they were greeted by Ayida standing alongside a young girl, no more than sixteen, dressed all in white, including a kerchief, edged with gold and red, tied about her hair. Ayida was even prettier than David remembered: her light brown skin offset by a pale blue dress with a subtle floral print and her thin dreadlocks loose, falling over her shoulders and down her back.

“Hello, Ayida.”

“Welcome, David. Glad you found it.”

He wasn’t sure what to say: greetings always made him a little nervous. “Ayida, this is James. James helps me not get lost in the maze of Port-au-Prince.” She smiled. “Bonjour, James.”

“Bonjour, Madame.”

She turned to the girl and spoke to her in French. She and James smiled, and the two of them walked around to the side of the house, chattering away.

“That was Veronique. She’s my niece, and helps me take care of this place. Among others.”

“Other places?”

“No, other helpers. This home is … large.”

David looked up at the columns, a the windows which had the subtle ripples of antique glass, small waves of distortion that caressed the evening light. “Yes, yes it is.” She smiled and took his arm, leading him inside. “Shall we?”

[Makonnen]

Racing Club. II of II

Small vines of wax coiled down the sides of two candles, leading into smooth pools of whiteness contrasting with the dark wood of the table. The two figures at the table were quiet yet comfortable, a pause after a relaxed and filling meal. Veronique entered the room and removed the plates, returning with two cups of dark steaming liquid.

“Thank you, Veronique.”

The girl withdrew quietly, and the sound of water running along with the muted clatter of dishes being washed drifted gently from an adjoining room.

“Ayida, that was wonderful. I don’t know what half of it was. But it was wonderful.”

Ayida smiled. “You never had joumou soup or riz djon-djon growing up in New Zealand?”

“No, can’t say we did.”

“You know why, don’t you?”

David smiled in anticipation. This was, he thought, his favorite bit of the evening: the food was good, but Ayida’s wit was better, the banter, the way she would ask him questions just for the joy of a joke. Her delight is contagious.

“No, why didn’t we have … those things in New Zealand?”

“No mutton in them.”

“Ah, yes. Without sheep, we don’t exist.”

“No, you exist. You’re just sad. And lonely.”

“Touché.”

“Ah, enfin! Vous admittez que vous parlez français?”

“Non, non, non! Mon erreur, madame!

Ayida smiled, sipped from her cup. David reached for his, sniffed it—cocoa, but with another spice mixed in.

“Cinnamon?”

She grinned. “Very good. I am impressed.”

It was wonderful: a froth of foam, with sweetness beneath anchored by a hint of spice. A perfect ending. Ayida lifted her cup and stood, motioning to the patio. “Shall we?” David followed.

Outside were two wooden chairs and a small glass-topped table. They sat, listening to the ocean and tasting the faint salt of the air.

“Your place is lovely, Ayida.”

“Thank you. Having criminal ancestors has its privileges.”

“What?”

She waved a hand in the air. “Another time. Let’s just say that all of this.” Another wave, this one more expansive, encompassing the house, the patio, even the rolling hills beyond. “All of this are … what is the phrase … ill-gotten gains. I’ve made peace with that. But it remains true.”

David just looked out into the night, both bewildered and content.

He closed his eyes, and could feel the fatigue pulling at him. Setting his cup down, he turned to her.

“I should go. It’s late, and I have to see your cousin in the morning.”

“Ah, you almost did it, you know?”

“Did what?”

“Made it through the whole evening without mentioning Dayán.”

“Ah. Was it a test?”

“Perhaps. If so, well, not good for you.”

He stood, as did she, and made his way back through the house to the front door.

“Thank you, Veronique,” he called through the opening leading to the kitchen.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“And, Ayida, again, thank you. It was lovely.” He turned to her to find a cheek offered up demurely. While he had hoped for more, it felt somehow right—there was something classic in the time together, something that hearkened back to the propriety of courtship. He kissed her on the cheek lightly, but not so quick as to not savor the feel of her skin against his lips, then pulled away.

“You are very welcome, David with two r’s.”

“Will you always call me that?”

She cocked her head. “Perhaps.”

“Can we do this … or something else … again sometime soon?”

She looked at him carefully. “Yes, yes I think we could.”

“OK. I’ll call you.” He tapped his shirt pocket. “Since I do now have your number.”

She leaned against the doorframe, and watched him walk away.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

From Terry Langford's Diary, January 23, 2010.

Got my translator today. He’s more boy than man, but eager to please and enthusiastic as all get out. And he’s played a bit, which helps. His name’s Matteo. Matteo Lozio. The lads got a kick out of it, too. Evidently Austin Powers has made it as far as the Italian mountains—he was dubbed Minime almost immediately. So for the time being, that’s the scene: me and a 16 year old kid trying to make sense of all this.

Training is going well, though. They are taking to what I want faster than Ajax did, certainly.

Spent half of today with the youth squad. There’s some talent there. A defender, Luca Romano will be good, and another back line player, Davide Bettenzana warrants immediate promotion to the reserves. But a lot of these kids will be out of a job as soon as I can get rid of them. We need a youth squad that is more than warm bodies.

First game is tomorrow. I don’t even have a sense of the rest of this league yet, but the team we’re playing, Pro Vercelli, is in first place, and hasn’t lost a game for close to two months. It’s not an easy beginning.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report, FA Cup 4th Round. January 23, 2010.

10:42 AM

Butch, I know you don’t like it much, but we’re going to go with a second side today. We have Liverpool in three days and need that game more than this one.

You sure, Danyil? They’re pretty torn up after your last speech. Sheffield Wednesday’s not a bad team.

Not a bad team? They haven’t been in the top flight for ten years. We can do this, Butch.

He frowns, looks away, rubs his bald pate.

You know that if we lose this one, the Board will **** bricks.

Yes, I know.

OK. What’s it look like?

I showed him. The back line was ¾ standard, with the mighty Jack Cork joining Boswinga, Ferreira, and Alex. But the rest—other than Vukcevic—was makeshift: Mateu and Matic in the middle, with Kakuta, di Santo, and Sturridge on the attack.

And we’ll have Lampard and Ballack on the bench just in case.

1:37 PM

I grab Sturridge before he heads into the locker room.

Daniel, remember what happened last game? How you couldn’t get in?

Yeah, coach.

Make up for it tonight. This is your game. Franco’s huge—he’s a ****ing house out there—so we’ll be using him as a target, but I want you to be on everything that falls.

He smiles. I’ll do my best.

**** that, Daniel. Just get yourself some goals.

2:19 PM

Alright, listen up. You all know we’re trying some new things today. Every one of you—every single one of you—deserves where you are today. You have earned the right to wear the blue. You’re better than this team. I know it. You know it. It’s time to let everyone else know it.

Then, in the corridor, I grab Frank and Michael.

I hope the two of you get the day off. But if we need you, be ready.

They, of course, nod.

It all looks so perfect at first: three minutes in, Vukcevic abuses his man, gaining space down the left flank. He crosses to the near post. I think nobody is there, and am about to tell Simon to get his head in the game when Sturridge flashes in from nowhere and dives full out. He meets the ball in midair with his head, and Lee Grant doesn’t have a chance. My only fear is that Sturridge will crack his head on the goalpost, but he clears it by inches.

Yes, Daniel, that’s it! More!

But it’s the same old ****. Less than ten minutes later, some Polish midfielder turns Cork around with a simple stepover, and beats Cech into the top corner.

Jack! He looks over, abashed. I tap my forehead a few times. Head in the game, son, head in the game!

Sturridge is playing like a man possessed. Or, at least, a man who thinks he deserves first team action. He blows by his man just inside midfield and has a line to goal. The defender catches up, but instead of forcing the issue, Sturridge holds his man off until the big guy catches up. He lays it square, and di Santo volleys it off the far post and in. That’s his first senior goal, and he’s delighted. As am I. We’re up 2-1, and look to be in control.

Well, Butch?

I like it up front—it’s the back that worries me.

Cork? He nods.

I’ll try to get him back up at halftime. Leave the tactics to you if you promise not to let up.

He almost smiles. Sure thing.

Halftime comes. I stay out of the room. As the players filter out, I grab Cork.

Jack?

Yessir?

You deserve to be here. Remember that out there: everyone here knows it and the fans will know it, too.

He just stares at me, looking even more nervous. Scared, even. ****. Played that one wrong, I think. Looks like wonderboy doesn’t like reassurance.

We’re dominant in the second half. But again Cork looks lost for a minute and we pay: Argentine veteran Roberto Sosa feints left. Cork doesn’t fall for it, but he’s not ready for what comes next: Sosa spins to his right, plants his foot and pushes back the other way. Cork is left looking for his jockstrap, and Sosa is in free on goal. Cech dives, but it’s too late.

We’re tied again. And this time against a ****ing second division team.

Michael? Frank? We need you. The veterans get up and get ready.

I only hope their insight and touch will be enough.

It’s not.

Things are NOT going as I wish. And I don’t like it when that happens. After the post-game pleasantries, I enter the locker room already boiling.

The door slams open, and I see them anticipating my screaming tirade. So I quickly shove it down and surprise them.

OK, that’s that. We’ll get them on the replay. Daniel, Franco, great job up front. You worked hard for this chance, and you delivered. Whoops. Didn’t mean to single out Cork through omission. Oh well, at least I’m not screaming. Look everyone, I know this is difficult. But we’ll get through it as a team. The key is to carry the effort through the entire game. If we do that, everything else will take care of itself: victories, trophies, everything. Work for each other. Walk through for Liverpool tomorrow, 10:30.

Sheffield Wednesday v. Chelsea, FA Cup 4th Round

Sheff Wed 2 (Jakub Wilk 12, Roberto Sosa 57) – Chelsea 2 (Daniel Sturridge 3, Franco di Santo 42)

MoM: Daniel Sturridge (9.0)

Attendance: 35,983. Referee: Michael Langford.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano. I of II.

A New Beginning: Game One. January 24, 2010.

I’m sitting in my office, staring at my notes before our first game. Some people are not going to be happy. On the plane … what was that … three days ago? I told myself I wouldn’t make the same mistakes, that I would take it easy, use what was already here and not plan a major overhaul to the squad until the season was done.

Oh well.

The problem is that I know the kind of football that will win, both here and as we move up the ranks. And once I know that, I want to get there. Quickly. So, here goes.

Starting Mattia Pedersoli in goal. Really a toss-up between him and Andrea Lamacchia, they will rotate back there. Now the fun things.

We’ll be playing with a trio of central defenders. Today, that will be Mauro Belotti as a sweeper with Marco Zentil and Abdoura Mohamed Coly in front of him. Coly, a Senegalese import is a great talent for this league, easily our best player right now. Zentil is a 20 year old loanee from Vicenza, here for the experience, nothing more.

This team has virtually no defenders that are comfortable as true wingbacks, so I expect the play on the sides to be awkward until either I find the talent I need or they learn their responsibilities. For now, Silvio Cassaro will man the left and Francesco Pigoni the right, but I don’t know if either are in our long term plans. Both are moving from their more natural positions as fullbacks, but both have the ability to slide up the pitch. I hope.

The midfield is anchored by Leonardo Colucci. I expect great things from him, but at 37, I only expect them for a short time.

Colucci will look to partner with Raffaele Baido and Mauro Calvi. Baido is a project: he is used to playing further up the pitch, and I will slide him that way quite often. But he has the tools to play in the middle, and has a knack for the unexpected. A little creativity can go a long way at this level, so I want the ball to run through him as much as possible.

The attackers will be Matteo Bonomi and Nicola Dal Bosco. Dal Bosco is very good, but is only here for the year before his loan runs out and he scampers home to Vicenza with Zentil. For that year, though, our job is to get him the ball somewhere near the goal and let him do his thing. Bonomi is holding space and, hopefully, will do well in what should be his final game for the Pandas.

Nobody calls them that. I can’t understand why. How do you put a panda on your logo and not use it as a nickname? Forze la panda!

Roberto was clearly shocked when I told him my plans: we had one of those classic translator moments. He and Matteo spoke for a good 90 seconds in rapid Italian—I thought I heard loco but I don’t even know if that is Italian for crazy or not. In any case, after they chattered at each other, hands waving wildly, Matteo turned to me, and said, pointing to Roberto, “He said OK.”

I stared at Roberto, who was looking quite steadily at his foot. “Roberto?”

He looked up, a grim expression on his face, then nodded. “Is OK. Is just … new.”

I tapped him on the shoulder, and tried to express my appreciation. “Grazie, Roberto. Grazie mille.” His expression was still grim, but at least there was a hint of a smile as he shook his head.

The locker room is tense. They’ve worked hard to learn their new roles, but I don’t think they thought we would actually ask them to do it in the game. There is muttering. I leave the pregame review to Roberto, standing to one side with Matteo in tow. He began whispering a translation to me, but I stopped him. I didn’t really need to know what Roberto was saying, and wanted to focus on body language, posture, learning the squad’s nonverbal styles.

It was a mixed bag: some were clearly determined to do well, others looked defeated before the ball was dropped. Roberto clapped his hands, “OK, questo è tutto. Domande? Facciamo vincere la partita.” Matteo nudges me.

I step forward, hold up my hand. Let’s hope my practice with Matteo this morning pays off.

“Uomini. Un momento. Si può vincere oggi. Giocare liberamente, giocare con passione, giocare bene.” They smile at my mangled cadences, but they understand. Play freely, play with passion, play well.

We head out. It’s wet, and the game will be played under a constant drizzle.

From the beginning, we look, well, uncomfortable: players trying to remember their spacing, having to think twice about where the escape valve is when they are under pressure. More than once I see Calvi or Cassaro instinctively cut inside, remember, and veer back towards the touchlines.

But we aren’t too awkward. In general we hold our shape, and more importantly we do well with the ball when we have it. It is about as good as can be expected.

Then, nineteen minutes in, a gift. Coly has gotten forward, and as he receives a pass in the box, one of their defenders kicks right through his legs. The referee has no choice but to point to the spot. I clap, and turn to Roberto. “Who do we have to take these?” Matteo translates, and he laughs, replying “I’ll make sure we cover that next week.”

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano, II of II.

Baido has stepped up for the kick. Good. I appreciate having Dal Bosco on loan, but I need to see how the players who will be here next year perform. He has a tell—just before he kicks, his hip dips slightly to the left. The keeper sees it and dives that way. Baido proceeds to drill it hard, but straight at the keeper’s body.

Roberto and I both grab our heads.

“Roberto did you see that?” He shakes his head. “His hips—he told the keeper where he was kicking. We’ll fix it.” Roberto looks impressed. Score one for the new coach.

Still, we are keeping the ball on their side of the field. Cassaro and Pignoni are holding their higher position well, and it feels like a goal is coming.

Pro Vercelli are unsettled by our formation and our possession, and I hear their coach screaming at them. “Matteo, what is he saying?”

“He wants them to be stronger, more physical.”

I nod. Vercelli responds immediately: Bonomi is taken out by a vicious scissors on his ankle. He’s hurt, and it doesn’t look good at all. This is a problem in many ways: first, we just offered him to a few clubs and second, I need to burn a substitute to bring on Pietro Maglio, who is passable but not part of my long term plans.

I react instinctively. “What! How can that not be a card? He did that on purpose!”

The referee looks at me, confused. He understand my general meaning though, and motions me to calm down. Evidently, he didn’t like my outburst at all: it is followed by a string of fouls called against us, and a card on Dal Bosco for persistent fouling.

“Roberto, tell them to settle down in the tackle. They need to challenge, but not so blatantly.”

Matteo looks at me. “Blaytent?”

“Obvious—not so obvious.” He nods, relays the message. Roberto jumps up, gets Colluci’s attention, and yells to him. This is awkward, this translation thing, but it’s working.

We have our moments: After a nice save, Pedersoli clears quickly to Cassaro on the left wing who lofts a ball down the line for Dal Bosco to run onto. He does, and turns quickly towards the baseline. A swim move puts him past his man, and he lofts a floating cross that leaves their keeper flat footed as it arcs perfectly toward the far post where it is met by … no one.

I clap for the move, and yell for Baido’s attention. “Raffaele! Dove sei stata?” He smiles at my language, but nods in understanding.

We go in scoreless. On the way to the dressing room, I grab Baido. I shrug with a smile, and ruffle his hair. He nods, and jogs in. I follow, much more slowly. Outside the dressing room, I grab Roberto. Matteo has disappeared for the moment, so we’re on our own. I draw my hands apart, saying “Longer, we need more space.”

He nods, “Yes, longer, yes.” I decide to go for broke: “and bring the tackle up a little. Not a lot, just a little.” He nods, less sure. Luckily, Matteo has reappeared, and conveys the message.

Before the second half begins, I get the team’s attention again. “Ancora. Liberamente, con passione, bene.” They are less confused now, encouraged by a strong half of play.

At the hour mark, I gesture toward Mauro. “Matuso? Pronto?”

He smiled, closed his eyes, took a big breath, and got up to warm up. As he came back towards me, I said one word to him: “Libero.” His eyebrows arched. “Yes?”

“Yes. Give me 30 minutes. Trenta minutes.”

He nodded, rolled his neck, and headed off towards the 4th official.

Bertoni gave it his all, but we just couldn’t put anything together. Still, a draw against the top team in the league was a decent start, if not the upset I had hoped for. Persoli was our best player, a great debut in goal for him. Baido really suffered after missing the penalty, but I wasn’t going to single him—or anyone—out for their poor play.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo v. Pro Vercelli. Cumunale, Rodengo Saiano.

Rodengo 0 – Pro Vercelli 0.

MoM: Danilo Bacchi (Pro Vercelli). Rodengo’s Best: Mattia Pedersoli (7.2)

Attendance: 299. Referee: Andrea Armellin.

It turns out Raffaele had reason to suffer: his ankle was the size of a grapefruit within fifteen minutes of the end of the match. It looks like I’ll be missing my most dynamic player for about a month. Bonomi and Belotti also picked up injuries, but nothing too serious, although both will miss the next game.

Hopefully, we can keep Bonomi’s injury under wraps, as a fax was waiting on my desk after the match saying that no fewer than eight clubs accepted our offer of a free transfer for him. He’s not a bad player, but I need to get his salary off the books if I’m going to bring in the talent I want.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Italian Finance. January 25, 2010.

“Mister Ferrari, thank you for your time today.”

“Of course, Terry, of course. You did well yesterday: nobody expected us to stay with Pro Vercelli.”

“Thank you, sir. I had hoped for three points, but it was a start.”

“Yes, a good start. And I have here,” he said, tapping a stack of papers on his desk, your requests for new players. That is quite a lot of change, no? Are you sure?”

Damn. I didn’t want these issues to get mixed up in the wrong way. I had to be careful here. “Yes, I’m sure. We need more players, younger players, players who have more potential. To win next year, and the year after.”

He shrugged. “It is your team. Well, my team. But your choice. But I know that is not why you are here.”

“Well, it is related. I would like to offer new contracts to Mauro Bertoni and perhaps to Leonardo Colucci. New contracts, at a lower rate than they are receiving now.”

“Ah. Yes, that is a problem. We cannot offer them new contracts: payroll is too high.”

“Yes, that is why I want to lower their pay.”

“Yes, that would be good. We are very close to our maximum.”

“So, I can offer them the reduced contract?”

“No, I’m sorry, but we cannot offer any new contracts. Payroll is too high.”

“Yes, that is why …”

I stopped and took a breath, feeling like I had stepped into some twisted version of an Abbot and Costello routine. He was eyeing me carefully, and I suddenly realized that it was important for me not to press on the matter. There was a solution here somewhere, I just needed to find it.

“Yes, we must reduce the payroll to bring in these players.”

He smiled, clapping his hands together. “Good! I am sure you will find a way to do that! Moving Bonomi certainly helps a little. Although our fans may miss him.”

Another bit of information. “Change is difficult: they will find new players to cheer for. Well, let me know on those,” I said, nodding towards the paperwork. “And, thank you for your time.”

“Anytime, Terry, anytime.”

My head was still spinning, but I managed to leave his office without stumbling. Ferrari was no fool, and I was certain he understood what I wanted to do. I had already spoken to Bertoni’s agent, who indicated his willingness to help our situation by accepting a lower offer. But I couldn’t make the offer—which would lower the payroll—because the high payroll prevented making any new offers.

What in God’s name was I missing?

[Makonnen]

Chelsea, I of III

Danyil's Day: Three Scenes. January 26, 2010.

Danyil Oranje is paging through his inbox, tossing most of it into the large wastebasket he keeps for just that purpose—memoranda on the importance of reducing paper memoranda, information on the crèche services starting in February, a reminder about who qualifies for family discounts when purchasing tickets, the usual nattering from above and below—when he stops, removes a stapled sheet of paper and sits down, leaning back heavily in his char. He starts muttering to himself.

“Mother****ing son of a goddamn saint full of pig’s **** …” The string of invectives is interrupted by the phone on his desk. He sees Ron Gourlay’s name on the display, takes a moment to compose himself, and lifts the receiver to his ear.

“Danyil?”

“Yes, Ron,” all sweetness and honey.

“City contacted me this morning. You won’t believe it.” Oranje’s eyebrows arch up. He had proposed the gambit more to show his boss he was financially acute than a belief it would actually work.

“They bit?”

“They swallowed. Thirty-six million. We’ve changed the terms slightly to our favor, more money up front that kind of thing. But, thirty-six million.”

“That’s enough to free up some transfer funds, no?”

Gourlay’s voice grew wary quickly. “Yes, it could be. Do you have something in mind?’

“No, no I don’t. Just talking out loud. Dreaming of next summer.”

“OK. Well, I just wanted you to know. We think they’ll agree, perhaps even by the end of the day.”

“Have you talked to Ashley or his agent yet?”

“Yes. I would be prepared to be asked about it after the match. Good luck, by the way.”

Oranje rubbed his forehead. Today’s match against Liverpool would be hard enough, and with the recent mediocrity of form, he could just imagine how the fans would react to Cole’s departure. Still, he knew that Cole’s sale had been, in one sense, his idea.

“Will do. Thanks, Ron. Oh, one more thing.”

“Yes.” Again, Gourlay’s voice became closed. Clearly, thought Danyil, I am on thin ice. Wonder what the record is for shortest stay by a Dutch manager in the Premiere League?

“Ron, I’m looking at a press release here. About a transfer ban. Can you shed any light on it?”

“Oh, that. Yes, well … it seems the flap over Kakuta is still unresolved.”

“Unresolved? It says here we’re officially banned from any player transactions for two years starting on the first of February.”

“Yes, well, that is the official release. But we’re still negotiating. I’ve been told not to worry about it.”

“Not to worry about it?”

“Yes.”

Oranje heard the closure in his superior’s voice. It was easy for Gourlay not to worry, but for the under-fire manager whose plans depended on an infusion of talented youth to Stamford Bridge, this could be a devastating blow.

“OK, Ron, thanks. Let me know when Ashley becomes official.”

He turned to his laptop, mashed a few keys, reviewing the players already scheduled to join in the near future: Tanzanian goalkeeper Halo Jones was due in July of 2011, and youngsters Alípio and Alphonse Aréola were already in the field. There were growing rumors of a superb defender emerging from the academy. It wasn’t a lot, but they could survive for a couple years if they had to. Barely.

He reached for the phone again. “Victor de los Santos, please.”

“Victor? It’s Danyil. You saw the release?”

“No, I don’t have any idea. You know how it is: they keep me in the dark with the rest o fthe mushrooms. How goes it with Parham?”

“Really? Damn. OK. Well, try 1.6. And get it done today if you can. Yes, I’m sure. I’ll take the heat with Ron if it goes through if there is any. Promise.”

“OK, thank you. And, Victor? Any chance of getting something done with Galván in, I don’t know, the next few hours?”

“OK, didn’t think so. But had to ask. Keep working him, though, just in case this thing is all smoke and mirrors.”

“Great, talk to you then.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea II of III

Premiere Division

Liverpool v. Chelsea, Anfield

Liverpool 2 (Torres 53, Gerrard 61) – Chelsea 0

MoM: Steven Gerrard (8.8) Chelsea’s Best: Nicolas Anelka (6.8)

Attendance: 45,362. Referee: Kevin Friend.

Danyil Oranje paused before taking the podium. He was tired and it showed: his hair was still flattened to his scalp by the driving rain and beyond that was a weariness, almost a resignation to his stance. Shoulders slightly drooped, step slightly shuffling, gone—or at least subdued—was the unbridled arrogance of a few weeks ago: three draws along with losses to Liverpool and Manchester United clearly offset the single win over Stoke in his last six games. He took a deep breath, and walked up the stairs to the small wooden platform. He squinted slightly against the lights, and pointed to a young man in the front row.

“Yes, Steve?”

“A hard loss today. What were your thoughts about Liverpool’s tactics?

“Honestly? I had hoped to take better advantage. They left the middle of the field pretty open with the four up top. We were trying to control the middle, and it worked for the first half, but a couple strong individual moments on their part, and there went the game. But you have to applaud them: whatever Benitez said to them at half time should be bottled. He did a great job getting them out for the second half. They’re a good team, of course. They’re scuffling a little bit like we are, but they’re still pretty dangerous, especially here.”

“By individual moments, I assume you’re referring to Gerrard’s goal. What did you think of him today?”

“Steven Gerrard is a marvelous player. There’s not much else to say. He was the link with their attack today, and was probably the best player out there today.”

“And Torres?”

Oranje paused, stared at the reporter, his eyes going cold. “What do you want? We limited Fernando to two shots, and he absolutely murdered one of them. There’s not much else to say.” Danyil turned to the other side of the room, ending the exchange. “Mike, welcome back. Good to have you.” Oranje’s bravado was returning, rising as he fenced with the media.

Having already clashed with Oranje in public once, the young reporter from the Observer blanched slightly, but persevered. “Mr. Oranje, I’m getting word from our sources that Ashely Cole has completed a move to Manchester City for more than thirty million dollars. Can you confirm that? And, if true, could you comment on continued reports that link you with defender John Arne Riise?”

There was a murmur in the room as people dropped their recorders to check mobile devices.

“Well done, Mike. Looks like you got it first. So, a special for the Observer: yes, I can confirm that Ashley has moved on. I want to take this chance to publicly thank him for his time with us at Chelsea. I’m a little sad that we couldn’t hold off one more game, as he’ll move on with 99 caps for us, and it would have been nice to get him his century. In the end, the offer from City was too good to pass up, and while it always hurts to give up a player of his quality, we’re confident it was the right move for us. We wish him all the success in the world. As long as City’s not playing us. You broke it, Mike, you get a follow up.”

“In addition to Riise? Thank you. Who do you see as your first string left back now?”

“Nice try. No on Riise: he’s a very good player, but we’re pretty deep on the back line. I think you’ll see Zhirkov out there most days. Ferreira can also play over there, of course, but we’re looking for Yury to be a top flight player for us for years to come.”

“Mr. Oranje? Lise Stowers, soccerinfo.com. Could you comment on the performance of your forwards today?”

“Well, we didn’t score, so it wasn’t great. We can take some things from this game: Nicolas and Daniel are playing together more, that helps immensely. We’re really looking for someone up there to catch fire, though. We still have a few more matches before Drogba, Essien and the rest are back, and we need to find a way to generate a consistent offense in the meantime.”

“So, would it be fair to say that the African Nations Cup has contributed to your recent run of form?”

“No, not at all. We were aware of the schedule from the start, and we wish them all the best: the African Nations Cup is a great event, a chance for them to show their talents to the world, and to give something back. We’re all rooting for a Ghana – Ivory Coast final—with apologies to Jon Obi.” Oranje glanced offstage, where Roy Wilkins stood, slowly shaking his head. “Last question.”

There is a clamor for his attention. “Yes, Peter?”

“What will you take from this game heading into Saturday’s league clash with Blackpool?”

“The last twenty minutes. We were much sharper and were frankly unlucky not to score. Lampard’s shot deserved the net, and Matic heads that ball in nine times out of ten. OK, maybe eight. But we are just better when we play attacking soccer, and we need to do more of that. Consider that a preview. Thank you, that’s it from me. Frank and … who is it, Butch? Oh, yes, Frank and Petr will be available for you shortly.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea. III of III

It was edging past midnight. The team had already left and were in the air heading back to London. Danyil was seated on a stool in a well-appointed kitchen, leaning on a dark marble bar whose perfect polish was only marred by the half moon of condensation beneath his glass of scotch. Across the room, leaning against the Viking stove, was a dark skinned man with close cropped hair and a concerned look emanating from caramel colored eyes. His voice was deep, rough on the edges.

“Wat ga je doen?” What are you going to do? Oranje shook his head and responded in English.

“I don’t know. We’re not doing well right now. I mean, if we were Fulham, we’d be thrilled. But we’re not. We’re Chelsea and fifth place—wait, after tonight, sixth place—just isn’t good enough.” He picked up the glass, swirled it just hard enough to hear the ice cubes gently clink.

“I just don’t know. I think I’m losing them. If I ever had them to begin with.”

“Danyil, you know what you need to do.” Oranje looked up, held the other man’s gaze. “You need to be true to your self.”

“Not that again.”

“No, not that again. In your football. You can’t manage them any way but your way. You got Gourlay stinking drunk just to buy De Rossi, you began to create a team that was suited to play the way you want to play. And then you shifted gears. Don’t. Go back to that vision.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you’ll go down knowing that you were true to yourself. At least there.”

Oranje nodded. “Did you see today’s game?”

“Of course I did.”

“And?”

The other man crossed the room, stopping across the counter from Danyil. He reached out, took the glass of scotch, sniffed it and took a sip.

“The last twenty minutes were quite good. And you almost looked like a typical boring English side in the first half. But you can’t pull that off reliably.”

“You don’t think so? I’m pretty good at playing roles.”

“Yeah, you have the look-at-me, I’m-a-***** press conference down pat.”

“Lul.”

“Well, you do.”

“Maybe that’s the real me.”

“How long have I known you?”

Oranje took back the glass, emptied it in a long swallow, grimaced. “Too long, vriend, too long.”

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Long Distance. January 27, 2010.

He stares at his cell phone as if he expects it to mutate in his hand, as if it contains something dangerous and unknown. Three times, he picks it up, rotates it quickly in his hand, puts it back down. He taps his foot against the side table, wipes his hand, and finally, a gulp from the tall round class and he lifts the phone and dials.

The connection is rough, with bursts of static running down the line adding to an illusion of distance: after all, all points are equidistant via cell phone. His eyes close as he hears the ringing on the far end.

“Hello?” Her breath is broken by the connection, but he can still hear the deep honey of her presence.

His breath catches in his throat. He is surprised at how much he misses her, how much of a hole was left by his sudden departure. He can’t answer, can’t speak at all for a moment.

“Hello? Terry?”

“Yeah, yes, it’s me. Hello, Leti.”

“Terry.” Her voice is flat, controlled.

“Uh … Howzit there?”

“Fine, good. And you? I saw you took the job.”

“Yes, I did. It’s … well, it’s different. I have a translator. Just a kid, but he speaks both. And it’s a much smaller league. But it feels good. It’s chaos—we’ve just played our first game, we have loads of players coming in for tryouts. It’s good. I’m good.”

“I’m … I’m glad for you.”

“Thanks, Leti. I miss you.”

Leti is silent. The static swirls around the line, rushing back and forth between them. For Terry, it delineates the edges of the gap he feels in his gut. He can feel its shape hardening, the contours of absence sharpening and making him more aware of the negative shadow it casts inside him. For Leti, the static is distracting, containing snips of conversations between ghosts, words not quite heard and even less understood, forming a fog through which she is unaware of any feelings at all.

“What do you want me to say, Terry?”

“I don’t know. That you miss me too, that you’ll come visit.”

“Terry, I—“ Her voice breaks, and he hears her trying to silence a sob.

“I’m sorry, Leti. I never wanted …”

“I know, love. But … here we are.”

He wants to ask her to come, just for a few days, he wants to show her the hills, the mountains in the distance so different from the single behemoth of Table Mountain. He wants to make the walk up to the castle, her hand in his, seeing the vineyards rolling away like battalions on the eve of conflict, the crosses that dot the horizon marking each small village. He wants to lay with her on his narrow bed, the crisp white sheets changed daily by someone he has yet to meet or even see.

Instead, he makes small talk, asking after mutual acquaintances from the club, about Ellis, about a few of the players. She is grateful that he has done this, offering her a path out of the fog, a road built upon the certainties of trivia, of shared gossip and the mundane. He tells her about Roberto, about his laptop, and about how he is amazed at what his assistant can do with it. She laughs at this, and he is glad.

In the end, she asks if there is anything she can do for him, and his mind reels. But all he can say is, “well, yes, actually. You still have the keys to my place, yeah?”

“Yes, I do.”

“If you could go over there, take anything you want from the icebox, empty it out, I would be grateful. I don’t know when I’ll be back to pack it up, but at least that way the landlady won’t break down the door from the smell.”

“Sure, Terry, I can do that.”

“And of course, if there’s anything there that’s yours …”

Her voice drops again, and the static rushes in. “Yes, of course. Thanks. I need to go, Terry. I’m so glad you called …”

“OK. Thanks for going by the place, Leti. I … I’ll talk to you soon.”

“OK. Call me after your next game, will you?”

“Sure.”

He puts the phone down, and walks into the small kitchenette off the main hallway and removes a tray and a bottle from the freezer, clinking three cubes into his glass and filling it again.

He stares out the narrow window above the sink, watching a flock of birds struggle against the wind. They form a perfect arch, and then scatter as they wheel against the sky. Reform, and scatter. Reform and scatter.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

From Terry Langford's Diary. January 29, 2010.

****ing financial genius, I am.

Never thought I would say that. Maybe Italy agrees with me. I submitted a request to the Board to juggle our payroll allowance and transfer budget. That reduced transfer availability, but raised our weekly allowance for payroll. Marco very quickly called me to say that was approved.

Then I went in to see Ferrari and asked him about offering reduced contracts to Bertoni and Colucci.

He smiled, and said, well, I see that payroll is under control, so we can now allow you to make contract offers.

I don’t know what kind of a test this was, but I guess I passed.

More importantly, our budget is reasonable now. Which is vital, as I think we’re adding at least a half dozen warm bodies to the payroll. None of the them cost a lot, but they do add up.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea. I of II.

Touchline Report: Chelsea v. Blackburn. January 30, 2010.

3:13 PM

The locker room is disjointed, uncertain. There are mutterings, private conversations, guarded glances around the room. None of them like change, and the only solution for it is victories. Blackburn is mid-table, so victory should be forthcoming.

Should be. It’s been a rough week. Ashley’s departure has been met with defensiveness—the easiest way for the players to react is to blame it on the elusive ghost of “management.” All week, I’ve been reminded that “it just goes to show that football’s a business,” and “if Ashley left, any of us could go.” It’s been all I could do to keep it from blowing back on Daniele—it’s clear enough that if we hadn’t paid through the nose for him, we wouldn’t have to make the economic argument in the first place.

Which is true enough.

There are a few exceptions. Yury is obviously excited about his first team role. Paulo sees the possibility of scoring more goals. A few others—turns out Cole wasn’t universally loved. But he was—is—damn good.

It was a good few days at work in training, though. They were energetic, and the tactical changes play to their strengths. Now if we can only hold on for the Africans to return—right now, we’re awfully thin against top competition.

4:57 PM

Gentlemen! Your ears, if you will.

Butch has some specifics for you, but I want to remind you of Gamst Pedersen on throws. Remember to defend as if they’re corners. I don’t want to concede just because the Norwegian lofts one to the far post.

But, more importantly, I have something I want.

I want goals, gentlemen, goals. I want tap-ins and headers, drives from inside the box and bicycle kicks from crosses that drop in lovely arcs to their target. Goals. Penalties are acceptable, but curling tracers from the edge of the box that nestle in the top corner are preferred. Goals, gentlemen. We’ve practiced it. And I want it.

Go out there and get them.

I walk out. But, it feels forced. And if I feel that it feels forced, they’ll feel it too. But we can’t all be ****ing Hoosiers all the time. I head down the tunnel, and peer into the cold, wet afternoon. Days like this, Ewood Park feels full of ghosts from when it opened in the 1880’s—the rain echoes off the metal, the wind makes a high pitched whine.

Come on, Oranje. Got a football game to manage.

Allardyce comes up next to me. His tie is already loose, his shirt struggling to escape his waistband. Who the hell dresses that man? We shake hands, mutter incomprehensibly to each other. He’ll have a job forever, and won’t ever win anything. Lucky bastard.

Kickoff comes, and we dominate the early play. Lampard goes outside the post, Anelka misses a header, then a breakaway fizzles into nothingness. The pitch isn’t helping—it’s so wet that water is beginning to pool lightly, and long passes alternate between skating on the wet surface and slogging to a standstill in the puddles.

Butch, watch the shape up front. He nods, and I think he sees what I do: Anelka and Sturridge both drifting away from goal towards their stronger legs. I want them tighter on the inside, more willing to turn in and find space without coming into the area where Zhirkov or Ferreira are pushing forward. More importantly, Sturridge is seeing more of the ball than Nicolas—not what we want.

What do you think of flipping them? Let Nicolas take charge in front?

Butch almost smiles, nods his head. It’s close to full agreement.

Nicolas! Daniel! The forwards look towards me at a stoppage in play. I wave my hands past each other, telling them to switch sides of the pitch.

They look better after we do this, but I am spending most of my time when we have the ball dreaming of Didier. Just a few more days.

The clock slowly clicks towards halftime. The game is a waste until we’re rescued by a brilliant bit of individual play. The whole sequence makes me smile, and even gives hope for the future.

Anelka has the ball on the left touchline, near midfield. He’s seen much more of the ball after the switch with Sturridge, and is beginning to play a part in the build-up play as well. He squares the ball to Lampard, and here is where I was happiest, here is where a faint whiff of what I want appears.

Nikola Kalinic, Blackburn’s young Croatian striker, is heading back upfield to get onsides. Alex is keeping pace with him step for step and Carvalho is in line on the far side, with Ballack holding space just in front. So, we have kept three safely in the back: both center backs and a safety valve. What’s important, though, isn’t that I see it. It’s that Paulo sees it as well.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea, II of II

With proper defensive cover behind him and seeing that Blackburn has abandoned that side, Ferreira dashes up the pitch. Their defense is caught unawares: Khizanishvili, Samba, and Jacobsen are in the middle, and Givet is man-marking Anelka. Lampard lays the ball into space in front of the big Portuguese defender who beats his man and sends a lovely cross into the box. Sturridge, unfortunately, is outjumped by Khizanishvili, whose clearance seems destined to head out of bounds for a corner.

But Zhirkov never paused in his run down the left, and was heading to the line at full sprint. He comes on the ball no more than two yards from the endline, somehow brings it under control, and sends it back to the far post before he tumbles out of bound. This time, Sturridge pounces, and volleys it hard and low into the back of the net.

I can’t help but smile and pump my fist.

Sturridge will get the goal—and deservedly so—but he understands what actually happened: he wheels away from the goal pointing at Zhirkov, who has gotten up and is jogging back upfield. Both of them turn and yell for Ferriera as well.

Yury! Paulo! Fantastic stuff! Well done! Daniel! Daniel! Well taken!

They are happy. And, they should be: Zhirkov’s cross was an amazing display of athleticism, and Ferreira’s vision to make the play was perfect.

Still, we are only up by one when the whistle blows for the half.

Very good, very good. We dominated the first half, and at the end, well, that was a well-deserved goal. That is exactly what we’ve worked at: if we have coverage at the back, I want you moving forward, and I want you to take advantage of the space they give us. Just like you did there. Let’s go get some more. And a clean sheet means a day off for everyone tomorrow.

Less than minutes into the second half, Blackburn gifts us another: Paul Robinson drills his clearance directly into Samba’s backside, and it falls right to Anelka’s feet. He takes a touch and scores easily. Several players look at me as they regroup for the kickoff—they want me to know they heard my desire for the second goal. That—even more than the goal itself—is encouraging. For a brief moment, all is right with the world.

That’s what I’m talking about, Butch. Two goals and a dominating day.

Butch grimaces. He doesn’t like me saying things like that. Thinks it sets us up for a fall. Superstitious little lovable gnome.

Except this time, he’s right. The message got mangled somewhere: they are letting up. Instead of taking their foot off the accelerator, they begin to play with the brake, coasting. I explode into the technical area.

Daniele! Forze! Don’t let up. Michael, Frank, give me what you’ve got. And then, to the bench, Marc, Nemanja, get ready. I’ll need both of you.

The youngsters go about their business.

Alex! You have to close that down!

I can feel the bad juju building, and in the 73rd minute, it hits.

Gamst Pederson takes a throw from the far side of the field, and lofts one of his maddening throws into the box. Kalinic flicks it across goal, where Steven Reid has lost Vukcevic and rises to meets the ball with an easy free header. I don’t like that. Not only did I mention it specifically in the pre-game, I want the three points. Hell, I need the three points.

On the good side, they lost their day off tomorrow.

Butch, we going to make them hurt tomorrow?

You got it, gaffer.

A low moan from the substitutes who overheard the conversation makes me smile.

Simon is gassed, so I have to make my final substitution. We’re up one, and I want to try something. I bring on young Gökhan Töre. I can see he’s nervous warming up, so before he checks in, I grab him, hands on either side of his face.

Gökhan, just play within yourself. Work into space up front, and don’t be afraid to shoot the ball.

He nods, and heads in. Vukcevic is frowning as he comes by. I reach out, but he shrugs me off. I turn and grab him. He’s angry, won’t meet my eyes.

Simon. Don’t worry about it. It was a rough day. Your teammates took care of you today: you take care of them next time.

His eyes flick towards me, and he nods. He heads to the far end of the bench and proceeds to hurl water bottles against the plexiglass while cursing in what I assume is Serbian or Russian. I like the fire, I admit.

I turn back to the pitch in time to see Matic gain control of the ball near midfield. He sends a long ball diagonally to a streaking Zhirkov, but it is intercepted. The deflection comes all the way back to Matic, who heads it on to Anelka. Anelka moves back towards midfield, and all three central defenders float up the pitch with him. Töre holds just long enough to stay onside and make eye contact with Anelka, who sends a lovely pass to him at the top of the box.

Töre shows why he has a future in this league: instead of just blasting the ball at goal, he takes a touch to his right, and sends it hard and low back across Robinson’s body. The Blackburn keeper doesn’t have a chance, and we’re up by two again, and the little ginger is ecstatic.

It’s his first goal, and he deserves the moment.

I relax and even tell them to hold possession.

We give up a lazy goal to Gamst Pederson in added time—after the game, I think them for it, as it gives me an excuse to complain, and more importantly, a reason to run them into the ground tomorrow.

Premiere Division

Blackburn v. Chelsea, Ewood Park, Blackburn.

Blackburn 2 (Steven Reid 73, Morton Gamst Pederson 90+2) – Chelsea 3 (Daniel Sturridge 45, Nicolas Anelka 52, Gökhan Töre 84)

MoM: Gamst Pederson (8.0). Chelsea’s Best: Nicolas Anelka (7.7)

Attendance: 31,230, Referee: Chris Foy.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

January 27, 2010

Addis Cup Group A: Saint George v. Defence Sports Club

St. George 5 (Samuel Degefe 10, Lencho Skibba 27 59, Mohammed Abera 52, Bereket Addisu 78) – Defense SC 0

MoM: Skibba (9.5)

Attendance: 2663. Referee: Asmare Zenebe.

January 30, 2010

Addis Cup Group A: Saint George v. Defence Sports Club

St. George 3 (Bereket Addisu 9 28, Samuel Degefe 72) – Defense SC 0

MoM: Assanji Bajope (9.0)

Attendance: 1739. Referee: Yohannes Kayira.

The Loanee Returns. January 31, 2010. Saint George Training Ground, Addis Ababa.

“Ivo! How are you?”

Tadesse Makonnen extended his hand to his Tanzanian goalkeeper. Mapunda had just gotten off a trans-Atlantic flight, and was still fatigued from the day of travel from Los Angeles—where he had been on loan with MLS’ LA Galaxy—to Addis Ababa. He took his coach’s hand and shook his head.

“I am well, thank you. The arm is healed, I’m fit. But I didn’t get to play over there. I had hoped to, but the injury stopped that. By the time I was fit, they had made other plans.”

“That is a shame. We all were looking forward to seeing you in American football! I mean, soccer! You would be playing soccer, of course.”

Mapunda smiled slightly, shook his head again. He looked over the training ground and began pulling on his thick-fingered gloves. Makonnen smiled, seeing the Galaxy logo on the back.

“At least they let you keep those, eh?”

“That was so different, coach. Shirts, boots, gloves, balls—there was a room and you could take whatever you needed. I have a bag of shirts they let me take as well—thought I would give them to the team later.”

“Hmmm … they are yours to do with as you will, Ivo, but I wonder if the children back in Tanzania—or those over there—” here St. George’s coach motioned with his chin to the crowd of teenagers that were always present when the team trained, “might make better use of them.”

Mapunda nodded.

“Ivo, did you get a chance to speak with Ndizeye?” Ndizeye Aime was one of two Ethiopians playing in the North American pyramid, and had spent the last year as the reserve goalkeeper for the Boise Steelheads.

“Yes, I did. He sends his regards, and hopes you can put a good word for him in with Ato Teklehaimanot.”

Makonnen nodded. “Too bad he is over 19!” Makonnen coached the national team of youngsters, while Abraham Teklehaimanot ran the full national squad.

“Coach, I have a question.”

Makonnen knew what was coming. “Ah.”

Mapunda looked down, dug in the dirt with his boots, then looked back at his coach. “Will I play here?”

“Ivo, I have to be honest with you. Adugna is having a phenomenal season. And behind him we have Negash and Taddele. I don’t see you getting a lot of first-team minutes.”

“Will you help me find somewhere else, then?”

“Of course. You know that was why we arranged the loan with Los Angeles originally. I have already had some inquiries, to be honest. Would you go to Nigeria?”

Mapunda looked around. Nigeria was still on the continent, but it was worlds away from either his adopted home of Ethiopia or his ancestral village in Tanzania.

“If I can play full time, I’ll go anywhere.”

“Good man. I’ll keep you informed. In the meantime, go train, and see if you can help Zerihun with his punting—he is still putting too much spin on the ball, and they fly out of bounds more often than they reach midfield.”

“Yes, coach.”

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Game Two. January 31, 2010.

It’s the morning of my second game with the Pandas, but the squad is almost unrecognizable from last week. Four players have left on free transfers, with Simone Barca (to Noicattaro) and Matteo Bonomi (to Olbia) signing on with new clubs.

The real change, of course, has been the incoming class. Our focus has been on youth and attackers, but the biggest signing comes in midfield, where we spent a lot of our budget to pry 21 year old Massimiliano Esposito away from Virtus Lanciano. Esposito is the best passer I’ve seen in Italy, bar none, and if he can adapt to the central role in our system, he will be a star for years to come. Spaniard Juan Francisco Góngora comes in as my wingback of the future, but the most important signing may be, literally, the smallest.

Góngora’s fellow countryman, Isma, all 5’1” of him, joins us from Albacete. Isma is 21, fast, agile, and full of flair. He needs to improve across the board to become a star, but the ability is all there, and he is guaranteed to become a fan favorite. As long as we never ask him to win a header. Ever.

Up front, I auditioned a half dozen teenagers, and have so far signed three: 17 year old Portuguese national Alvaro Jalò, and two 19 year olds Alessandro Corsi and Romanian Vladimir Rusu.

Lastly, another teenager, defender Carmine Antonio Capasso, joins later today.

Jalò and Corsi have as much potential as anyone here, but they all need time to learn their roles and time to keep developing their physical skills.

So, it’s a little chaotic around here, since I am throwing Isma and Esposito directly into the fray. They have the experience to survive a trial by fire. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. Corsi will start on the bench. If I need him, he’ll be asked to play a fairly traditional attacking role, so we’ll see what happens there.

With the injuries from last week, we have no cover at the back, so I need Zentil, Bentoni, and Cassaro to all last the full 90. I’ll have a 16 year old—promising youngster Luca Romani—on the bench just in case, but I hope he stays off the field. If any of the starters get hurt, it could get very shaky back there.

After Persoli’s sterling performance in goal last game, I am loath to replace him. But I promised myself a rotation back there, so Andrea Lamacchia starts between the pipes.

The players gather at the stadium at 9:30. There is the usual horseplay, spilled coffee, curses. But they seem subdued. I don’t know them well enough to tell if it is focus or withdrawal, but I’m hoping for the former. It’s just over two hours to San Giusto Canavese, and many of them nap. I sit with Matteo and Roberto, talking in hushed voices about the game, the lineups, and how the new players need to integrate.

Once we get there, Roberto takes over with the bulk of the squad while Matteo and I work with the new players, giving them a crash course in the tactic focused on helping Esposito and Isma learn where each other should be at all times. They are happy at the promise of more playing time, but Esposito especially looks a bit lost.

Isma is a cocky, brash kid. He’s clearly spent his whole life being told he’s too small to play this game and delighting in proving his doubters wrong. The problem is that, eventually, they’re right: he is too small to play this game at the highest levels. But he’s plenty good to play it here, and as long as he is willing to play as part of a team, he’ll do fine.

That said, when he jogs onto the field, I can hear the snickers from the stands. I mean, there are fewer than 300 people here: I can hear them arguing over where to eat after the game, too.

We look awful at first, surrendering possession and giving up a series of shots. We go down 1-0 just 11 minutes in, giving up a free header directly in front of goal from a set piece. We can lose, but that is absolutely unacceptable. The three central defenders need to divide their responsibilities much more intelligently.

I explode off the bench, Matteo in tow. “Mauro! Matuso! Take charge out there! Fortemente old man, fortemente!” I clench my arms, shake them, looking, I’m sure, vaguely like an annoyed gorilla. He gets the idea—especially after Matteo sends a long stream of Italian his way—and starts barking to the other defenders.

Whatever the cause, we settle down, and are playing a tight, organized game.

And then, comedy: Canavese has a corner kick in the 31st minute. As it drifts in, I see Isma setting himself and cringe. But nobody dressed in the red and blue of the home side approaches him, and he leaps—must be a good 5’8” at the apex of the jump—and gives the ball a massive WHACK with his head, clearing it safely to midfield.

I cackle with delight: Isma, dominant in the air. He is grinning like an idiot and catches my eye, pointing to his head. I clap and yell “Isma! Forte no ar!” It just about exhausts my Portuguese. Matteo looks at me quizzically. “What, you think Italian is the only other language?” He laughs.

If nothing else, the sidelines are looser than the first game.

We stay a goal down at halftime, and despite Roberto and I pleading for more focus, more involvement from our skill players, we’re unable to do much. In the end, we abandon our shape entirely in an attempt to equalize, but it doesn’t help.

I suffer my first Italian defeat, 1-0.

Still, Bertoni was very strong at back, and Lamacchia played brilliantly in goal, which is fantastic, but doesn’t help to clear up that problem.

Patience.

Serie C2/A

Canavese v. Rodengo Saiano, Franco Cerutti, San Giusto Canavese

Canavese 1 (Luca Avanzi 11) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Luca Avanzi (8.6). Rodengo’s Best: Andrea Lamacchia (7.1)

Attendance: 272. Referee: Giorgio Ceravolo.

[Makonnen]

Houston Comets

Gratitude. January 31, 2010.

“Can you believe this crap?” Levi McKinnon tossed the sports section of the Houston Chronicle onto his assistant’s desk.

Julian scanned the front page and looked up, puzzled. “What?”

“Not on the first page. Course not. We play soccer. Flip to page five.”

Julian did so. “Oh … ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch. He was all sugar and sweet when he was here, you know. Rest of the team liked him, he practiced hard, did well too: caught a couple goals here. But as soon as he goes back to the Dynamo, he takes a dump on us. Here, give me that.” McKinnon took back the paper.

“Ah, here it is … Returning to the Dynamo after a year-long loan to NADII neighbor—hey, I didn’t catch that the first time through. NADII neighbor. Clever—year-long loan to NADII neighbor Houston Comets, young midfielder Danny Cruz had this to say about his time in North America’s lowest division: ‘Really, it wasn’t the best use of my time. I think I would have been better off staying with the Dynamo and their staff, even if I was on the bench most games.’ Cruz played in nineteen games for the Comets, scoring two goals. When asked if any of his Comets’ teammates might be following him across town, he said, “Well, I’m sure they’d like to. But NASL is a different level of play entirely: the speed of play, the skill. I’ve missed it.’ Manages to insult the staff and his teammates in a single go. And it’s not like he set the world on fire down here. Matt was consistently better on the other side.”

Julian shook his head and sighed. “We’re still going to take players on loan from them, though, right?”

McKinnon closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Yeah, we will still take other players from them. But not Cruz.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

FA Cup 4th Round Replay

Chelsea v. Sheffield Wednesday, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 2 (Paulo Ferreira 56, Daniel Sturridge 80) – Sheff Wed 0

MoM: Ferreira (7.9)

Attendance: 36,941. Referee: Steve Tanner.

From Danyil Oranje's Diary, February 3, 2010

We were ugly and sloppy to start the match, and are lucky the opposition was *****. I was up and screaming from the get go, trying to get them to respect their space, to find the better option when passing. Fifteen minutes in, we were unlucky when the ball caromed around their box for what felt like an eternity, but stayed out of the net. From that point on, though, we were better, mounting a bit of an attack.

But still … we can’t play like that and survive very long. It felt very nervous, very dangerous. Sheffield is just plain ****-poor and we should have been utterly dominating them.

We finally put together some pressure, but still couldn’t unlock their defense. But, we were beginning to overwhelm them—they resorted to the play of the weak, fouling us mercilessly. Our play began to open up in a slow crescendo: Simon hits the post, Anelka headed the rebound towards the corner of the goal, but Lee Grant made a fantastic save, damn his eyes. We retained possession, and Simon was denied again. Not good enough.

I didn’t have to say anything at half: Daniele came in and threw a chair into the corner of the room. The echoing clang quieted them down quickly. JT looked over at the chair, turned to the rest of the group, said I guess that about sums it up. I smiled, gave Butch the thumbs up, and left.

Ten minutes after half, we finally broke through. They defended a corner well, but Paulo, who is loving the chance to come forward, pounced on the rebound and caught it absolutely square: low, hard, unstoppable, and we went up by one.

Sheffield was beat at that point: a constant stream of late tackles led to Richard Hinds being sent off, and we coasted from there.

We even got one of the new French kids—Ishak Belfodil—some good action. He managed an absolutely lovely backheel to Sturridge late in the game that led to our second goal. And, thankfully for them, no stupidity in extra time. So I gave them tomorrow off.

OH! When I walked back to my office, another memo. The transfer ban was lifted. I have no idea what that was about, but I won’t complain. Now to stay here long enough to make some more transfers.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

February 3, 2010

Addis Ababa Cup Group A: St. George v. Insurance

St. George 0 – Insurance 0

MoM: Sisay Abera (7.5). St. George’s Best: Gabriel Junedi (7.2)

Attendance: 569. Referee: Yohannes Kayira.

The Loan Offer. February 4th, 2010. Makonnen Tadesse’s office, Addis Ababa.

“Ato, we have to say yes! It’s free money!”

“Nothing is free in this life, Dagchew.”

“This is! Nyala has made an offer for Tessema for loan, paying 100% of his salary. But they would be his third club this year, so he wouldn’t be able to play for them until next season. By which time the loan would expire. It’s brilliant!”

Makonnen looked hard at his assistant coach. He appreciated the enthusiasm, but sometimes Dagchew’s passion led him to troubling positions. However, this was not the day for an argument about ethics: Saint George were due to play Insurance in a few hours, and a win would guarantee their qualifying from the group stage of the Addis Cup.

“Ah, but who would cover our back line while he is gone?”

“We can draft someone from the youth team.”

“They wouldn’t be eligible for most of the competitions.”

“Really?”

“Really. We need Tessema: he will see minutes over the next month—remember how brutal that schedule is. Even if the starters all stay healthy, we’ll need him.”

“But it’s such a perfect chance …”

“Some, Dagchew, would say ‘scam.’ Not only do we need him, it’s not the right thing to do. As long as I’m here, that will decide the matter.”

Damese looked crestfallen. “OK. I’ll drop it. But only because we need him for cover.”

“Good, thank you. Here’s my idea for a starting eleven against Insurance. If we win this game, the one on Monday is meaningless, and we can rest them for the one on Wednesday. What do you think?”

“I think that five games in eleven days is idiocy, and the FA should be ashamed of themselves.”

“Dagchew …”

“Sorry. Yes, I like that. I think it’s our best chance. I really do.”

“Good, let’s win this one, rest against Sidama, and go from there.”

Addis Ababa Cup Group A: St. George v. Insurance

St. George 5 (Bereded Gawo 18 43, Bereket Addisu 21, Andualem Negussie 57, Mohammed Abera 69p) – Insurance 0

MoM: Andualem Negussie (9.3)

Attendance: 1889. Referee: Atalay Dereje.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Training the Defense. February 4, 2010.

“Matteo! Over here.”

He trots over, obedient as ever, waving to three of his young friends who had been chatting to him from the stands as he comes. I am standing in front of a half-dozen players: Coly and Góngora who are key to our future, Pigoni and Cassaro who have a chance to play themselves into our future, and Murante who is, well, taking up space quite efficiently. Joining them are Bettenzana and the newly arrived Capasso, who will have more time before we figure out their futures.

I nod at Matteo. “Let’s get started.”

“Gentlemen. You have spent most of your life playing a straight four in the back.” I pause for the Italian to flow, then begin again, in short phrases.

“Now, you will learn to play a curve back there.” I move my arm in a long arc, the apex passing in front of my stomach.

“The key to begin with is to always do three things.”

“Prima. Watch ahead of you. You are looking for space, open space, to move forward.”

“Secondi.” They smile, and I know I got it wrong. I look at Matteo, who gently forms a circle with his lips. “Secondo. Secondo. Scusa. Secondo. You listen to the three behind you—the two center defenders, the sweeper, you need to be communicating with them at all times. At all times.”

“Third.” Matteo chuckles. “Third. Watch for attacking players. If their fullbacks come forward, or if they have a player who is staying wide, staying up the pitch, staying in that area, they are your responsibility.”

“So, three things: move forward; communicate; track back. Questions?” Murante raises his hand nervously, and begins to speak rapidly to Matteo, his hands in front of him like an arrow point, moving here, there. It’s a question about positioning, but I can’t catch enough to answer without the translation. Matteo who turns to me. “He wants to know if they are responsible for any player on the wing, or just the fullbacks.”

“Good question. Bene. Essentially, yes, if they are playing a 4-4-2, anyone that comes down your side is your responsibility. The back three will cover their two attackers, and you have the wings, however they play them. So, you will have to be fast—you will have to cover attacking midfielders as well as lumbering fullbacks.” Matteo looks at me. “Lumbering. Big, slow.” He nods, speaks. I wait a couple beats after he is done. “Remember, we have a diamond in the middle—the holding midfielder joins the back three. So anyone that is coming inside, you pass off to them. Other questions?”

They shake their heads. “OK, last thing. What do you do when you go forward?”

Someone says “Attraversa. Uhm … cross. Cross il pallone. Cross the ball.” It’s Pigoni.

“Si, Francesco, good. Your job is to get the ball into the box, and to switch the attack from side to side. And if you have a shot from distance? Then what?”

Coly laughs, and looks at me with bright eyes. “Gooooooooooooooooooooooool.” The others laugh with him.

“Yes, that’s right. You shoot, you score. Now get to it.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

Touchline Report: Chelsea v Manchester United. February 6, 2010

6:27 AM

Been awake about an hour. Can’t get back to sleep. Might as well get up. Nerves. Haven’t had nerves in a long time. That’s what Manchester United coming to our house right when we might be rounding into form will do. Opstaan, Oranje.

Shhh, no, it’s just me.

Yeah, couldn’t get back to sleep. No need for you to get up.

No, stay here. I’ll be back this evening. Wish me luck.

8:44 AM

Have to remember to call Essien after the game. Ghana is playing Mali for third place in the African Nation’s Cup. Drogba, Kalou, Mikel will all play in the final tomorrow. We’re less than a week from a full squad, thank God.

11:30 AM

I don’t have a lot to say to them before the match. If you can’t get up for United at home, you don’t belong here. And if you don’t know to watch Rooney, to be careful of Park or Fletcher, well, where the hell have you been? So, it’s all business.

JT, Alex you need to cover for each other. Rooney’s faster than he looks, and we need to keep him in front of us. Petr, I want your distribution to go to the sidelines—Yury, José, look for Michael or Frank on an angle if you’re under pressure. But this is the goal. I turn to the whiteboard, and draw a large “<” between the magnets bearing the numbers 1, 18, and 13. If we can get the ball moving quickly that way, we should find Ballack or Lampard on the ball near midfield, with a defender on the far side barreling down the pitch to join three other players in attack. So, whenever you makes the pass in, the back on the other side will probably be open to move up. Park and Tosic both tend to leave their touchline if the ball goes to the middle, so I want to take advantage of that.

There are nods all around. Last thing from me. Simon, Daniele, we need the two of you to focus on linking the lines together. You’ll need to run a lot out there today, and it’s going to be wet and cold and nasty. Butch has the final words today. I’ll see you on the pitch.

I head out. No sign of Sir Alex today. Unsure if our interactions at Old Trafford were genuine, or just him trying to get inside my head. We’ll see.

12:48 PM

The first two minutes see two great chances, one per team. But we’re still scoreless: Cech leaped high in the air to deflect Anderson’s drive and van der Sar made a brilliant reflex save from a volley off the foot of Daniel Sturridge.

The weather isn’t fit for man nor beast: there’s a nasty wind, it’s pouring buckets, and it’s barely above freezing. The pitch is in as good shape as they can make it, but it’s not pleasant out here.

Wish I could sit back and watch this, though: it has all the makings of a great game.

We’re dominating the middle of the field with Ballack, Lampard, and De Rossi, but can’t break through up front. And they in turn look dangerous up front with Rooney and Berbatov.

We are lacking a physicality, a fire that is needed to compete with an opponent this strong.

Daniele! Michael! Get strong! Find it out there! Let’s go!

Ten minutes from half, we are caught totally exposed. Our center defenders are up attacking on a corner, but we have three back in De Rossi, Bosingwa, and Zhirkov. So far, so good. The ball comes out, De Rossi goes for it, and Boswinga inexplicably leaves Rooney behind him, one on one with Zhirkov. The ball falls to Jung-Si Park after a deflection. The South Korean looks up, sees Rooney, and sends it long and wide. Rooney is onside, and has easily put a step behind himself and Yury. Luckily for us, the ball catches on the wet surface, and the little fireplug has to slow down for it. That gives Boswinga time to recover momentarily.

But it doesn’t matter, because Rooney has found an entirely new gear, leaving José well in the dust. Or, at least, in the gusting rain. We have four defenders back at this point, and even though Rooney’s pass finds Anderson alone in the box, after a bit of a scramble, we escape unscathed.

I hang back at halftime. I’m too agitated right now to go in there—that last bit of play was sloppy and amateurish. Sir Alex comes towards me.

Nice enough day for it? I smile.

We got lucky there. He grimaces. Maybe. I think we’ll regret not capitalizing. I raise my eyebrows, and we both head into the tunnel.

I linger outside the door, hear Butch talking about Chelsea pride and how they need to perform better for the fans. I storm in.

Jesus ****ing Christ, Butch, you ever say anything else?

He is shocked, silent. I’ll need to make that up to him later. I turn to the rest of the group.

Look, the stands are full, and that’s great, but the key here is you. Each and every one of you. You have a choice. Right now.

You can win this game or you can lose it.

You can play like you did in those last few seconds and walk out of here having lost to them. And that’s all I’m going to say about that scramble at the end. Other than if you let Rooney behind you again, you’re all dead.

But you have another choice.

You can find some fire in your bellies, some balls in your shorts, and you can win this game. If you go out there and you defend like you practice, and pass like you practice, and for ****’s sake shoot like you practice, you can win tonight. We are every bit as good as the team in red today.

You know what I saw out there? I saw a team that was controlling the middle of the field. They can’t win the ball from us. This game is ours: link up with the players in front of you, support the players behind you.

They listen, and they even try to seize the game. But the two teams are pretty evenly matched. Vukcevic is barely beat to a through ball by van der Sar, then Cech has to resort to a kick save on a shot from Park.

It is a game that is going to come down to a moment of individual brilliance, or end in a draw.

I’m searching my bench for brilliance and not liking what I find.

Simon is tired, so I reach for Töre. It worked against mediocre opposition, let’s see if it works here. I know almost immediately that it’s a mistake: he is awed by the players around him, and doesn’t really make an impact on the game. I curse myself, and wonder if putting Di Santo in up front wouldn’t have been better—make them cope with his size.

We spring Anelka once, but he’s flagged for offsides, and Ballack forces van der Sar into a save from distance. Manchester United presses hard, and we bend more than I would like, but we don’t break.

In the end, it’s the deserved result, a point apiece. As time winds down, I head over to Sir Alex, hand outstretched.

Good game. He nods, his handshake is firm. Yes, it was. We each deserved the point. I look at his eyes, nod. There isn’t much else to say, and I have a phone call to make before I face the idiot press.

Hello, Michael? It’s Danyil.

Congratulations! I saw the goal. Great shot. I meant it, too: the game between Ghana and Mali was tied at one and only nine minutes from going to penalties when Essien delivered a curving rocket from the top of the box to lead Ghana to a 2-1 win, capturing 3rd place in the African Nation’s Cup.

Yeah, I know. But third on the continent is quite an achievement. We’re all proud of you, but more importantly, your country is proud of you, Michael.

You going to stick around for the championship game? Please, please, please, no …

No? Really? You can, you know.

Yeah, true. Well, we’ll be delighted to see you. We miss you here, of course. But we’re also thrilled with what you’ve done there.

OK, see you in a few days.

So, Essien should be back soon. There’s that.

Premier Division

Chelsea v. Manchester United, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Man Utd 0

MoM: Jonny Evans (7.7). Chelsea’s Best: José Bosingwa (7.6)

Attendance: 41,761. Referee: Michael Langford.

[Makonnen]

Houston

Scouts' Meeting. February 6, 2010.

Levi McKinnon paused, composing himself before entering the meeting room. There was really no reason to be nervous—after all, he had hired these three scouts and, in the end, they reported to him. Still, if the Comets were going to have a more successful campaign than last year, the performance of these three gentlemen could be as important as anyone on the field. Other than Lance Miller, of course.

Waiting for him around the table were Craig Adams, Eric Cullen, and Chris Bliss. All were older than Levi, and this marked for each of them their first job with a team part of the North American pyramid. Adams had been in Houston for a few days, staying with an old girlfriend; the other two had flown in just that morning, not realizing they were on the same flight until they met by baggage claim where the car service guy stood with a sign with both their names on it. The three of them had met for lunch with Julian, as a way of getting to know each other and so Levi could get his assistant’s opinion of how well the three new hires would work together. It was a concern: they had to hit the ground running, and effective coordination was vital. It was unusual for a team to release all of their scouts at once, but that was the situation facing the Comets.

McKinnon opened the door. “Gentlemen. First, welcome. And, happy birthday, Eric.” Cullen smiled.

“Thanks, coach.”

“It’s your birthday? Mine’s next week. How old?” That was Bliss, deep blue eyes offset by a tanned, athletic body and a shock of light blonde hair. He was aging well, and was excited about the opportunity in Houston, even if it threatened to take him far away from his preferred West Coast haunts.

Cullen replied, “Yeah, yesterday. The big four-oh.”

“Really? Me, too. We must be the old men around here.”

Levi laughed along with them, although he bristled inside at the reminder of his comparative youth. He sat down and opened up the folder he had been carrying, then looked at each of them in turn. “Let’s get down to it. The three of you are key to the club over the next few months. I know we each spoke about this during the hiring process, but I want to reiterate it now that we’re all together: I need you to work together, to cross-check each other, to develop some internal standards for both reporting and for our scouting warehouse. Chuck in IT knows that the three of you are at the very top of his priority list and he has, I think, arranged a meeting with you to begin the training on our system?”

They nodded, and Adams, eager as always, added “yeah, tomorrow at one o’clock, I think.”

“Great. Remember, we have two needs: players who can help us now, and young kids who will help us in NACL in three years. That’s the goal: two promotions in three years.”

They nodded. Cullen bit his lip. Levi looked at him questioningly. “Eric?”

“It’s just very aggressive.”

“Yes, it is. But we can do it. We should have moved on from NADII last year. We all learned from that, and we’re going to do it. It will mean a lot of hours for all of us, but the rewards will be worth it—professionally and personally. And your new jobs are to help us find the talent that will get us there. I want each of you to spend the rest of this week with the coaching staff, watching our practices, talking with the staff about what we need, looking at the young kids we have. And, if you know of anyone we should bring in on trial, just let me know. We’re especially thin on the left side, so any good defenders over there, just let me know.”

Bliss looked up. “I have one. I watched this kid in LA. He was born in Wyoming, North Dakota, somewhere up there. Name’s George, Ryan George. Strong kid, good up here.” He tapped his head. McKinnon nodded. “Great, forward me a profile today, let’s get in touch with him. Any questions about this week?” A pause, silence.

“Now, next week, the fun starts. Craig, I want you to focus on South America, starting with Argentina. Eric, you’re off to England. And, Chris, you’ll be focusing on the teams in our league. So, for now, work with Julian on seeing what friendlies we’re pulling together. Video is fine, but seeing them live is better.”

Adams raised a finger off the table. “Any news on the budgets?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. But, by the time you’ve pulled together the first batch of reports, we should know more. It’s not going to be a windfall—so you can ignore anyone who is asking for big bucks. This is old-school, guerilla scouting: find them in the amateur leagues, the colleges. Diamonds in the rough.”

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Game Two: Rodengo Saiano v Feralpi Salò. February 7, 2010

Tonight, we welcome Feralpi Salò to the Comunale. They’re one of the weaker sides of the league, so hopefully the fact that we’re banged up and players are still trying to learn new positions won’t hurt us too much. The joys of injuries, fatigue, and hard training sessions.

We’ll be playing with two strikers up front for the first time. It’s not my preference but Isma is still rounding into game form and is too fatigued to start today. It is, of course, an opportunity not a problem or some such twaddle.

Actually, this time it very well may be, as I’ll get a chance to see what our young Romanian import, Vladimir Rusu, can do up there with Dal Bosco. We’re still struggling to find people to play productively on the left side in the tactic, so I’m going to give the nod to Carlo Gallovich. Gallovich is very skilled, and deserves to play on pure talent. But he needs to prove that he can adapt. We’ll see.

Esposito, Isma, and—most worrisome of all—Coly are all on the bench. If things go well, they will rest well and teenager Carmine Antonio Capasso will get some time.

The game starts cautiously. We’re tentative, giving them far too much time on the ball and when we have possession, we’re trying to do far too much all at once.

“Pressure! And make strong choices, good decisions!” Seconds later, Matteo’s echo in Italian. We’re getting pretty good at this, me and Matteo. The team is still struggling with application: I yell to our holding midfielder, “Mauro! Stronger!” and am rewarded by back to back fouls as he runs through his opponent.

“Matteo, how do you say strong, but not that strong?” He looks at me, shakes his head. “You wait until halftime.”

And then, fifteen minutes in, we catch a bolt of lightning. Persoli launches a free kick into the attacking half, where Dal Bosco is waiting. He holds his man off and heads the ball into space towards the box. Rusu is onto it. He lets the ball run, moving around it and into position for the strike. It’s clean, and past the keeper, and we are up 1-0.

Rusu had a debut goal, and the fans—all few hundred of them—are ecstatic. I hear a deep voice yelling, “Qual è il suo nome?” And then, moments later, a wave of “Ruuuuuu-su, Ruuuuuu-su” echos through the fans. A good name, a good goal, perhaps a new fan favorite.

Ten minutes on, and fortune proves just how fickle she can be: Rusu leaps to avoid a sliding tackle, but he catches some contact on the way over and stumbles. He doesn’t get up, instead holding still with both hands around his ankle. Enrico Castellacci, our newly hired Physio, is out as soon as the referee lets him, and he almost immediately turns to me and shakes his head.

So, it’s one teenager for another: I bring Alvaro Jalò on for the injured Rusu. Two debut goals, perhaps?

We’re better now, though: Rusu’s goal has settled us down, and we are beginning to dominate play. We have a few shots, but nothing particularly close to a goal. But neither do they: Feralpi have yet to get off a shot anywhere near our goal.

Halftime is positive: I stumble through some nuances with Matteo, encouraging them to play aggressively without fouling. They’re not happy with the number of fouls they are suffering, but they have to play through it.

Just after halftime, Bertoni comes forward to take a free kick from just outside the box. The ball is knocked to Zentil and one of their players—Colicchio, Coliccio, something like that—comes in hard with his studs up, taking Zentil down. The whistle blows, and Andrea Lanzoni immediately points to the spot. He does not, however, reach for his pocket, and I explode from the bench.

“Andrea! No card? Rosso! That was rosso! Come on!” Matteo is quiet—evidently mangled fragments of sentences are untranslateable.

Dal Bosco steps up and while his shot is poorly aimed, it is aimed to the side their keeper vacates. We’re up 2-0, which makes me happy.

But it still should have been a red card.

We’re holding on, but it’s pretty awkward out there. I pull them back into a shell, and send Coly out for some time in the middle of the pitch. Before he goes on, I grab him.

“Abdoura, I want you to be a holder today. You’ll be playing a lot of different positions for me, this is just one of them. Have fun, play strong.” He’s looking at Matteo, who quickly translates, and he nods.

We hold on. Victory feels good. The cheering of the fans feels even better.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v. Feralpi Salò, Comunale, Rodengo Saiano

Rodengo 2 (Vladimir Rusu 15, Nicola Dal Bosco 49p) – Feralpi Salò 0

MoM: Dal Bosco (8.8)

Attendance: 335. Referee: Andrea Lanzoni.

The news isn’t good about Rusu: he’ll miss at least a month with a busted ankle.

[Makonnen]

African Nations' Cup Final. February 7, 2010.

Nigeria has defeated the Ivory Coast 2-0 in a lively game from the Estádio de Cidadela in Luanda, Angola. The game was scoreless until the 41st minute, when Victor Obinna was able to carry the ball from midfield and around two Ivorian defenders before slotting it home to give the Super Eagles a 1-0 lead. The midfielder’s goal delighted the crowd of over 60,000 with its audacity and skill. While the Nigerian defense was under heavy pressure, they repelled the attack of the Ivorian forwards time and time again. In the second half, a lovely cross from Fulham’s Elliot Omozusi found Kalu Uche alone at the far post in the 71st minute. Uche, who plays for Almería in Spain, made easy work of his header, and sealed the game for the men in green.

The victory marked a return to glory for the Nigerian side, who last lifted the continental cup in 1994 and 1980. This was the second runner-up finish in the competition for the Ivorians, who won it all in 1992.

Nigeria’s goalkeeper, Vincent Enyeama, was the man of the match, providing several world class saves in preserving his clean sheet.

Nigeria dominated the individual honors as well, with twenty year old Chukwuma Akabueze beating out Yakubu and Obafemi Martins for the best player award. Uche, Yakubu, and the Ivory Coast’s Didier Drogba shared the golden boot for the tournament, tallying four scores each.

African Nations’ Cup Final

Nigeria v Ivory Coast, Estádio de Cidadela, Luanda

Nigera 2 (Victor Obinna 41, Kalu Uche 71) – Ivory Coast 0

MoM: Vincent Enyeama (8.6) Ivorian Best: Yaya Touré (6.7)

Attendance: 61,294. Referee: Johannes Solomons.

[Makonnen]

Saint George

Press Conference, February 8, 2010.

Addis Ababa Cup Group A: Saint George v. Sidama Coffee Sporting Club

St. George 0 – Sidama Coffee 0

MoM: Berhailu Baramo (7.2) St. George’s Best: Samuel Degefe (7.1)

Attendance: 1807. Referee: Umeta Ibrahim.

Tadesse Makonnen moved to the front of the room, nodding to the reporters as he positioned himself behind the microphones.

“Samuel?” When he could, Makonnen liked to start with one of the Getachew brothers—today, only Samuel was here, the older brother, grizzled, with salt and pepper hair surrounding a large, slightly off-center bald spot. He and his younger brother Jereymia were usually predictable, allowing Makonnen to ease into the discomfort he still felt at these postgame encounters with the media.

“Thank you. What can you tell us about your thoughts heading into this game?”

“Well, as you know, we qualified for the next round of the cup in our last game. So our goal today was to play safe, not get injured, and get prepared for the league game Wednesday against Banks.”

Bekele Araya cleared his throat and looked down. He found Makonnen to be both lucky and sanctimonious, a combination that earned only his disdain, often demonstrated in his lack of respect for the rules that usually governed these group interviews. For Bekele, anyone could succeed as the coach of Saint George, you just had to pick players at random and not tell them to run the wrong way. Makonnen’s largest affront was that he thought he had anything to do with the club’s victories. “Speaking of Banks, we have received word that you have loaned Saladin Said to them, effective today. Is that true?”

“Yes, yes it is. We hope that Saladin is able to play regularly for Banks during the loan. If he does, we are hoping he contributes to our success here in the future. But I believe Samuel had another question?”

Getachew threw a cold glare at Araya. “Again, thank you. Mulalem Regassa’s injury looked pretty bad. Do you have any information on how long he’ll be out?”

“Nothing specific, no. But it looks pretty bad. I wouldn’t expect him back for a while. It looks like there is damage to his hamstring, but we won’t know how bad for a few days.”

Again, Araya pounced. “Regassa’s skill at midfield—his vision, his passing—all make him one of your most important players. How will you handle his loss?”

Makonnen took a breath. The animosity from Araya puzzled him—he never understood what he had done to deserve it. Dagchew chided him about it, saying that “it came with the territory,” but even if that explanation were correct, it didn’t really help the situation.

“Obviously, it hurts whenever you lose a player like Mulalem. But we knew these months wouldn’t be easy: the schedule would naturally produce some injuries. We’ll get by.”

“Another question, if you will. Do you have any comment on Umeta Ibrahim’s failure to call the penalty against you in the second half?”

“No, I can’t say I do, Bekele.” The two men stared at each other for a moment—clearly, Araya was looking for more of a reaction and, just as clearly, Makonnen was unwilling to give it. The silence was broken by a soft, tentative voice.

“Ato Makonnen?” It was Bayeh Kebede, the youngest of the journalists, still cowed by the aura around Ethiopia’s best team.

“Yes, Bayeh?”

“What about Mengesha? He seemed to be limping pretty significantly at the end.”

“Yes, Atakilti’s ankle looked pretty bad at the end. It’s really the same story—we’ll know in a few days what the extent is, but I would expect he’s sidelined for a while, too.”

“Another question, Ato? Berhailu Baramo had a great game for Sidama. Do you have any comment on his performance?”

“Baramo was very solid at the back, and he covered well. The times we broke free on goal, he seemed to always be there.”

There was a pause, long enough for Tadesse to lean away from the microphones, glance once more time around the room. “OK, that’s it then. We’ll let you know when the locker room is open.”

He walked away, leaving the journalists scribbling their rough drafts.

[Makonnen]

Was travelling yesterday, so no posts. Will catch up this weekend, but within a few weeks planning to go to one post a day, probably slightly longer entries, covering more game time. We'll see.

Thanks to the folks who are reading--just crested 1,000 views. You're a quiet bunch, but you're faithful, and I appreciate that.

Chelsea

Battle of the Blues

Posted at 11:31 PM on February 9th, 2010 to soccerinfo.com by Lise Stowers

Despite the return of Solomon Kalou and Michael Essien from the African Nation’s Cup, a lackluster Chelsea side could only manage a bore draw against visiting Birmingham in the evening match tonight at Stamford Bridge.

The game seemed to start off magnificently for the home side, as Kalou slotted home a shot just twenty seconds into the match, however the Ivorian winger was flagged for offsides. Replays showed the decision to be correct and, unfortunately for the nearly 40,000 in attendance, it marked the only time a ball would find the back of the net for the next ninety minutes.

Birmingham’s left side looked vulnerable early in the match, as Paulo Ferreira, Frank Lampard, and Kalou combined effectively to give Chelsea several good chances. The theme for the day emerged quickly, however, as Birmingham’s keeper Joe Hart provided save after save—first a spectacular dive to his left to deny Lampard, then two reflex saves to send shots by Nicolas Anelka wide of the post. Chelsea was certainly the better side over the first half, but much to under-fire manager Danyil Oranje’s frustration, they were unable to break through despite sustained pressure on the Blues’ back line.

Garry O’Connor had Birmingham’s best chance, when a breakaway developed following the clearance of a Chelsea corner. O’Connor found himself alone with the ball and bearing down on Chelsea’s goal, but Petr Cech managed to deflect his shot just outside the six yard box, ensuring that the two sides went into halftime all level.

The second half opened with more of the same: Kalou found Daniel Sturridge momentarily unmarked in the area and Hart was forced to dive hard to his right, just barely stopping the shot. That save, though, seemed to deflate the Londoners, and the energy went out of the game with Chelsea reduced to long distance attempts, often close, but never on target.

Birmingham’s head coach, Alex McLeish was clearly pleased with the result. “Sure, we’re thrilled with the point. But, to be clear, we deserved it: we played hard, stayed focused, and Joe had a fantastic game between the pipes. To come in here, keep a clean sheet, I couldn’t be prouder of the side.” His opposite was in a less ebullient mood: Chelsea’s Danyil Oranje had this to say: “We have work to do—we need to put teams away when we have the chance, and we need to find a way to turn a lot of lovely moments into goals. We had tons of shots, but they turned them away, and you have to tip your hat. But frankly it’s a bit disappointing—I was hoping for more, especially this week.”

There was no word from Chelsea on when superstar striker Didier Drogba would be declared fit. Drogba picked up a muscle strain while leading the Ivory Coast to their runner-up finish in the African Nation’s Cup last week, and looks to be held out of training at least another week.

Premier Division

Chelsea v Birmingham City, Stamford Bridge

Chelsea 0 – Birmingham 0

MoM: Joe Hart (9.2) Chelsea’s Best: Paulo Ferreira (7.1)

Attendance: 39,850. Referee: Kevin Friend.

[Makonnen]

Rodengo Saiano

Pandas and Donkeys. February 11, 2010.

“Hello?”

“Terry! It’s Alessandro!” My chairman was excited about something: his voice was bright, energetic. I was immediately curious—this was clearly not just about our victory in the previous game.

“Yes, sir?”

“Marco just gave me the most marvelous news: we have it all finished! Rodengo Saiano is now in associazione, in partnership with Ceo.”

“Ceo? ChievoVerona?” I was incredulous.

“Si, si, mussi volanti, ChievoVerona. They are even paying us to be so.”

“Wow, that’s marvelous. Tell Marco I will raise a glass to him tonight.”

“Yes, of course. I thought you would want to know.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“I will let you get back to work, Terry.”

“Thank you, sir.”

So the pandas were now linked to the flying donkeys. This was great news for us for next season, although it was likely to have little impact this year.

[Makonnen]

Chelsea

The Night Stroll. February 13, 2010

FA Cup 5th Round

Barnsley v Chelsea, Oakwell, Barnsley

Barnsley 0 – Chelsea 1 (Vukcevic 32)

MoM: Jon Obi Mikel (7.7)

Attendance: 22,832. Referee: Phil Dowd.

Danyil stood at his window, staring across the London skyline, one arm raised above his head, gently tapping a tumbler of scotch against the glass. He liked the aesthetics of London, the mix of the gleaming modern with the ancient bricks and spires. London was a city of nooks and crannies, of unexpected mazes and sudden eruptions of architecture where eighteenth century churches squatted unashamed beneath thirty foot high posters of Wayne Rooney. Even from the elevated view of his window, four floors above the street, the patterns were irregular and he would on a better night have enjoyed teasing them out, following the red and white lights of the late night traffic meandering through the maze, an illuminated game of hide and seek as the flow of taxis and automobiles, lorries and delivery vans stuttered through the tight turns or accelerated smoothly up the wider motorways. Tonight, he just stared, barely registering the details, only aware of an abstract pattern of animated light and enveloping darkness. He leaned his head against his arm, closed his eyes, sighed.

“Danyil. You’re brooding.”

He didn’t move. “Goddamn right I’m brooding. It was ****ing Barnsley.”

“Yes, but you won.”

He turned, looked across the room. “We won one to nothing against a team that will be relegated out of the Championship league at the end of the year. We were bloody awful.”

“But you won.”

Oranje strode across the room, refilled his glass. “Yeah, we won. But Barnsley outplayed us for the first ten minutes, and if Mikel hadn’t made that pass …”

“But he did. And Simon slid it home, and you’re through to the next round. You were unlucky—you had, what, twenty shots? Half of them on target? Any other night, it’s a four, five goal win.”

Oranje grimaced, shook his head as he moved down the hallway. “I’m going out.”

“Danyil, no. You have the announcement tomorrow. You need to rest, to forget today.”

“I’m just going for a walk.”

“You’re drunk and it’s one AM.”

“I’m not, and I don’t think there’s a curfew on.” He put on a coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck.

“At least take a hat.”

Danyil exhaled hard, between a grunt and a sigh, but he reached up and removed a dark fedora from the coatrack, pulling it down low over his face. He closed the door gently behind him, a silent communication that he wasn’t really angry, just needed some time alone.

He turned left from his building, heading down the small street that was quiet as always. Danyil walked quickly along the long row of parked cars towards the distant irregular blare of horns. He turned at the corner where the smaller street emptied into the yawning darkness of the park, listening to the gentle sound of the wind flowing through the leaves. Danyil’s hands were thrust deep into his pockets, balled into tight fists that he felt bouncing against his sides as he moved, propelled by the urgency of frustration. He was walking quickly, not quite muttering to himself but close.

The neon lights of the row of clubs and late night restaurants beckoned. He drew the coat more fully around him and pulled his hat down: the last thing he wanted was to be recognized, but he knew he also needed to walk along the active street, to hear the laughter of the patrons drinking their midnight espressos at the outside tables, to watch the short Spanish man with the basket full of roses move from table to table wordlessly offering them, an inquisitive arch of the eyes each time.

He walked on quickly, purposefully, cutting a wide circle around the couple loudly arguing, her voice shrill and insistent, his roughly slurred.

“You’re drunk.”

“Am not.”

“Yes you are. Take me home.”

“You’ve got legs, you can bloody walk.”

“I hate you.”

“I may be drunk, but you’re a bitch.”

He glanced back once. They were no further apart than when he passed: this was, then, a ritual, something well worn between them. He would never understand some couples.

He sidestepped an older man, scraggly grey beard, one rheumy eye approaching him with a hand out, mumbling incoherently. Danyil shook his head, looked away, moved on.

Finally, the river: a dark surface edged with uneven gray brushes of movement, the constant call of gulls wheeling above him. Down from him, a couple both with short blonde hair that seemed to glow in the darkness, arms around each other tossing shards of bread in the air, small white sparks arcing through the streetlights. He leaned on the railing with his head down, stretching his neck back and forth trying to relieve the tension he felt.

****ing Barnsley. Attack of the ****ing killer B’s. Draw with Birmingham, scrape by against Barnsley, four days until Basel, Bolton on the weekend, and Basel again.

He looked up, stared at the water, the sound of it lapping against the embankment. The sound calmed him—it always had, even as a child he would sit and watch the water go by, entranced by its surface, the ever flowing solidity, the way it so quickly healed when punctured by a boat or a scull or the sudden plummet of a bird. The water helped remind him that this, too, shall pass and that even the deepest wake was quickly overcome and forgotten.

And tomorrow. Wonder how the announcement will be received. Gourlay says it’s fine, that he trusts me to prioritize … but the press will likely not be so understanding. Especially if we don’t start playing better.

He covered his face with both hands, forefingers tracing the line along his nose, then slowly moving down across his lips and throat.

Timing can’t be helped. It’s a helluva opportunity in any case.

He stared for a while longer, watched from the corner of his eye as the couple embraced, kissed, clumsily grinding against each other. He looked away, back down the way he came and beyond, the bright lights of the thoroughfare fading into the starless sky. With a slight shrug, he headed home, retracing his steps, this time at a slower pace and even, occasionally, looking around into the faces of those he passed.

“You’re home.” The voice flat, non-committal.

Danyil returned the hat to its perch, unwound the scarf from his neck, shrugged out of his coat. His voice was gentle, conciliatory. “Yes, I am. You didn’t have to wait up.”

A pause. Then, the apology accepted, a hint of care in the response. “I know. But, I did.” Another pause. “It’s late, come to bed.”

[Makonnen]

Happy Valentine's Day!

Rodengo Saiano

Phone Call. February 14, 2010.

Serie C2/A

Legnano v Rodengo Saiano, Giovanni Mari, Legnano

Legnano 2 (Sergiu Sucio 19, Federico Zaccanti 51) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Francesco Quintavalla (8.6) Rodengo’s Best: Alessandro De Pascalis (6.8)

Attendance: 1741. Referee: Umberto Cucè.

“Leti?”

“Hello, Terry.” Notes of warmth had crept back into her greetings over the past weeks—he had called after each game and she rang him once a week. They had spent more and more time on each call, talking about nothing in particular: the game, her life, Italy, the old woman dressed in black who waited for him before each home game and made the sign of the cross over his head as he entered the stadium, the continued struggles of Ajax Cape Town.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Leti.”

“Thank you. I got the flowers on Friday morning. They’re lovely. You didn’t need to do that.”

“Yeah, well, couldn’t have Marta one up on you this year, could we?”

Leti laughed. For the past year, Marta de Koenig, also in the finance department at Ajax Cape Town, would at the slightest opportunity remind anyone within earshot of the large bouquets she had received the prior Valentine’s Day. “No worries of that this year.”

“No?”

“No, poor thing they broke up a few weeks ago.”

“What? The neverending love of her life and all that?”

“The same. Terry, I mean it—the flowers are gorgeous. I brought them home and they still look wonderful. Whole place reeks of them. I love it.”

“Good. You’re welcome.”

A pause that threatened to slide into awkwardness emerged—the flowers were lovely, yes, but their meaning remained undetermined. He had stayed away from roses, instead sending a more playful bouquet, bright and fragrant but not necessarily romantic. But Terry had done that to be safe, not because it reflected what he felt.

“How was the game?”

He sighed heavily, rubbed a hand back and forth through his spiky hair. “It was … fine. We lost. We lost 2-0. But we played well. We fought hard, we’re learning.”

“One of each then?”

“Pardon?”

“A win, a tie, a loss.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, one of each. And the only player who got carried off today was one of our loanees. That’s an improvement.”

“No debut goals, then?”

“No. Barreca had his debut, but couldn’t do much with it. Enough about that, though, Leti. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Terry. The work continues on. We have our first game in nearly a month on Wednesday against Platinum Stars. But it doesn’t look good.”

“No miracle on the horizon?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry. That has to be at least a bit my fault.”

“Maybe more than a bit.”

“Leti!”

She laughed. “You’re the one that said it.”

Leti stood in her kitchen, leaning against the wall, one shoe empty on the ground, her stockinged foot resting against her calf, a finger twining the phone cord around itself. She was smiling, and a small longing was building against the base of her spine.

“Leti, you OK?”

“I’m better than that. Terry, I do miss you, you know.”

“I do now.”

“Well, I do.”

“Enough to come see Italy with me?”

“Enough to think about it. When does your season end?”

“Um … May, I think.”

“We’re done by April. So, maybe.”

He felt a rush of expectation, and cradled the phone tightly between his ear and shoulder, spreading both hands hard against his kitchen counter. He leaned in, feeling his arms strain, feeling the pressure against his elbow, his shoulder, the lattice of muscles tightening down his back. It was all he could do to prevent himself from exploding with questions, offers, arrangements.

Instead, he changed topics. “I read about Clifford going to Switzerland.”

“Oh? Yes, FC Basel. He should do well.”

“Switzerland should be scared. Time to lock up their schoolgirls.”

“Terry!”

“Just saying. You heard the rumors, too.” Ngobeni had been caught twice with young women—in one case, too young, but it had been covered up successfully by the club.

“I should go, Teri. I need to cook dinner and take it over to my sister’s place.”

“Really? What’s up?”

Leti paused, unwound the phone cord and slipped her foot back into her shoe. She straightened up, and gazed into the middle distances.

“Nothing. Just some family drama.”

“OK, well, I’ll call you next week.”

“Good, we can talk longer then, promise.”

[Makonnen]

Houston Comets. I of II.

A History Lesson. February 15, 2010.

“Alright, settle down everyone.” Julian Johnson stood at the front of the lecture hall, gently rubbing his hands together and looking up at the many young and fewer old men gathered in small groups, some talking quietly, others laughing loudly, others sitting by themselves trying to hide their nervous energy. The room came to order as the nearly one hundred Houston Comets—players, staff, support personnel—settled down for their first official meeting of the preseason. Most of the players were returning to Houston for a second campaign, but a few new faces dotted the landscape—invitees in camp on trial, a couple off season signings, some local players called in to ensure enough healthy bodies each day.

“Take a seat, all of you. No, Murphy, not on the desks, in a chair. Didn’t your mother teach you that? OK. I’d like to welcome each of you to our preseason camp. Quiet Kirby, grownups are talking. Thank you. Like I said, welcome to camp. We’re going to put in a lot of work over the next few weeks, and we’ll have time to get to know each other real well. Real well. Too well for some of you. We’re going to play a lot of soccer, we’re going to run. I mean, you’re going to run. Boy are you going to run.” Groans, less than muted. “Yeah, moan all you want. You’re still going to run. But, lucky for you, all that starts tomorrow. Today we have a treat. You don’t have to listen to me or Coach ramble on about tactics, you don’t have to listen to Gibby talk about how miserable you are at lifting weights, or Coach Joe about how his dead grandmother knows more about man-marking than you do. Instead, we have a guest. I want to introduce you—and you better giver her your full attention or you will run today and tomorrow, weather be damned—this is Jessica Hardy, from the North American Football Association central office. Jessica?”

Jessica Hardy stood a shade over five foot but carried herself with such command and grace that people tended to remember her as taller. She kept her hair neatly tied back in a tight braid that reached to the small of her back, and dressed conservatively enough that nobody could accuse her of flaunting the athletic curves of her body. This was the result of much conscious consideration: in her private life Jessica was direct, comfortable in her skin, and more than willing to celebrate the physical glories of an active life. But she was also extremely dedicated, and approached her work within NAFA with a particular fervor, as something akin to a crusade. Her outfits were, then, just revealing enough to keep the attention of rooms drenched in testosterone, but not so much as to undermine her message. Not an easy balance, but it came with the territory.

She walked to the center of the front of the room, and looked up at the crowd: it was the same as always—a blur of team colors and logos, men in sweatsuits, shorts, windbreakers, hoodies; the young ones trim and athletic, many covered in tattoo ink and the older ones broad shouldered and thick legged, with paunches of various dimensions straining against the fabric of their uniforms. And as always, she could see the raw assessment in their eyes, their gaze travelling up and down her, the instant categorization that came easily to groups of men, especially men whose lives were spent working nearly exclusively in close company with other men. Yeah, I’d do her.

She smiled. “Thank you Julius. Good morning.” There was an indistinct murmur. “That won’t do. We’re going to try that again.” She cocked her head to one side, eyes bright. “Good morning!”

“Good morning,” came the more fully voiced reply, followed by a few “Ms. Hardy’s” and a less distinct “Jessica.”

“That’s better. Thank you. As Julius said, my name is Jessica Hardy. I’m here from NAFA, and for the next ninety minutes or so, we’re going to talk about some of your favorite topics: women, sex, and soccer.”

The response was predictable: a sonorous chorus of “Oooooh’s,” some laughter to half-muttered jokes in the back, the sound of a hand or two slapping. She raised her arm, and they quieted down. “Before that, however, we have a short video.” She nodded to the back of the room. The lights dimmed, and she clicked the wireless mouse in her pocket a few times.

A swirl of drums and horns, a beat lost somewhere in the fusion of Indian and Latin American rhythms, a quick crescendo that settled into a steady, unrelenting groove. NAFA’s logo pulsed on the screen, quickly replaced by the icons of the North American game for the previous season: Salvador Cabañas and Emanuel Villa, leading scorers in NASL; the Atlas players celebrating their victory at the top of the pyramid; rookie sensations Diego Bompan and Guillermo Salinas; Michael Beresford, the NADI MVP, Santos Laguna’s Carlos Ochoa scoring an impossibly curling shot from the far edge of the box. And, then, cheers and claps as Houston’s own Lance Miller was shown calmly slotting a shot beyond the diving grasp of a goalkeeper. More highlights of the previous season flowed by, then more cheers for goals by other Comets—Victor Ramirez and Jesse Sánchez connecting from distance, even a header from Gianmarco De Carlo off a lovely floating corner.

That was Jessica’s doing: the insistence that the video be customized for each club, ending with a riff of their best moments, allowing the players to enjoy their successes from the previous season. It was hard at times—finding good moments for winless Vista Hermosa had taken quite a lot of digging. But it was worth it.

The voiceover was deep, sonorous, lilting just enough to echo the underlying rhythm without becoming singsong. Soccer. Football. Fútbol. Whatever you call it, this is your game. You have given years of your life to it, and you keep working to reap its rewards. Your dream is the same as theirs—to play, to win. And you do it side by side with dozens of others, needing to work together as a team to succeed. And over the last ten years, we’ve seen a fundamental change in the composition of the game. Not only has it grown globally, but we have seen for the first time in history, the beginnings of true equality in the professional ranks.

The music dropped to just a bass line, cleaner than grime but clearly descended from the fuzzy bass born of the backstreets of London. And there on screen were shots of Jessica’s heroes: Prinz, Hamm, Akers-Stahl, Marta. Then, younger women: The Phoenix’s brilliant young defender, Arwen Undómiel; a stocky defender with a long black braid from Guatemala that few in the room recognized, SF FAC’s acrobatic teenage goalkeeper Halo Jones; others. Finally, footage they had all seen many times—it was practically a permanent fixture in SportsCenter’s opening montage: Birgit Prinz, this time rising between two male defenders to cleanly meet a ball with her head, a sharp snap of her neck sending it down and behind her, well out of the reach of the diving goalkeeper. Prinz turns, both arms in the air, her mouth an open scream, both eyes wide in a mixture of elation and wonder, a jolt of recognition: what have I just done? Her teammates run to her, grab her shoulders, hug her, spinning around towards the corner flag. This was Prinz’s first goal in Italy, the first goal scored by a woman against top-flight male competition.

[Makonnen]

Houston Comets. II of II

The lights came on again, still dim enough that the slides could be seen, but with enough light for Jessica to establish a closer rapport with the audience.

“A little history. Many of you recognize that last clip of Birgit Prinz. But some of you may not have heard much more about her story.” She clicked, and a photo of the tall German forward filled the screen. “Prinz was offered a tryout with AC Perugia in 2002. She declined, fearing that she would spend the year banished to their reserve squad. Remember, this was 2002. Perugia were firmly entrenched in Serie A, coming off an 8th place finish. I would assume most of you would leap at that kind of opportunity: a tryout with a top team in Italy?” Nods and murmurs of assent filled the room—this part of the presentation went easier at the lower levels of the pyramid, where players hungered for any overseas attention at all. Jessica clicked to the next slide, Prinz in the red and green stripes of the club she did join. Jessica continued, “As most of you know, Prinz did accept another offer, this one from Italian Serie B side Ternana, and she started for the Rossoverdi for the next two years, before moving to Rot-Weiβ Oberhausen in her native Germany. Prinz proved beyond a doubt that women could compete at the highest levels alongside men. But it wasn’t easy: she was taunted both by fans and other players.”

A click, and a close up of a fan, mouth curled in a scream, one hand high above his head holding the upper corner of a banner that reads Go Home German Bitch. “And even by occasional teammates.” Another click. “If you look carefully here, you’ll see that she took to wearing earplugs on the sidelines, preferring to block out the verbal attacks. The physical punishment wasn’t as easy to avoid.” Click. Prinz with blood dripping from three cleat sized gashes on her left leg. Click. Prinz being taken off the field on a stretcher. Click. A series of other players. “Birgit Prinz wasn’t alone—she was joined in highly competitive leagues by Hamm and Akers-Stahl in Ligue 2 in France, by Nigerian Perpetua Nkwocha in Sweden, by Kelly Smith in England, by Marta in Brazil, and by numerous others in lower leagues across the world.”

Hardy paused, building up the story, and clicked again: the FIFA logo filled the screen, above a stylized image of a blind justice holding a scale in one hand with a soccer ball at her feet. “And in 2008, FIFA passed the Equality Laws. I know you’ve heard of them, today you’ll learn what they require of you, your club, and your leagues. In addition to me, there are four other people going around training camps: by the end of the preseason, we will have spoken at every single NAFA club. That’s over 150 clubs, over 3,500 players. Similar things are happening in every FIFA affiliated league across the globe. We’re doing this because the number of women playing the game, and playing the game well, is increasing dramatically. In NAFA alone, there are a few dozen, and we would anticipate the first female players in the best leagues in the world—the Premier Division, Serie A, La Liga—within a few years. So you need to know some things.”

She was in her groove now. They were paying attention, and she shifted to a more interactive style, asking questions, drawing them out. She covered all the basics: the FIFA requirements for separate changing facilities, the zero tolerance policy regarding harassment on the pitch by players, coaches, or referees. And the material that always made some of them nervous: the dangers of sexual involvement with teammates, the realities of menstruation. She took questions, helping them through their awkwardness, tolerating and even gently encouraging the laughter. She was accessible, open, direct and above all else, professional.

And, when there were no more questions, the heavy close. “Remember. FIFA—and NAFA—are deadly serious about this. Violators are subject to immediate, lifetime expulsion from the league. Clubs with more than three violations are subject to immediate expulsion from the competitive structure. And, leagues with more than two club expulsions will be barred from FIFA sponsored competitions for a minimum of five years. Let me go through that again: if you as an individual misbehave, you will never play professionally again. If the Comets misbehave, they will be kicked out of the league and all of you will lose your jobs. And if other clubs misbehave, the Comets won’t be able to play in any cups, any competitions, anything, for three years.”

She slowly looked around the room, letting it sink in.

“I’ll be here after lunch. Coach McKinnon has been kind enough to vacate his office for the afternoon. If any of you—players, staff, whatever—have questions, please come by. All conversations today will be strictly off the record. I’ll be there from … let’s say … one-thirty on. Thank you for time, and for your attention. And I wish each and every one of you the best for the upcoming season.” She clicked again, nodded to the back of the room. The screen went dark, the lights came on full strength, and Johnson, this time flanked by the Comets’ head coach Levi McKinnon, was again standing center stage.

“OK, let’s take fifteen minutes, come back here, and we’ll go over the schedule for the day and the rest of the week.”

Jessica was packing up her laptop when she heard someone clear their throat gently behind her. Turning, she found the Comets’ coach standing, hand outstretched. She took it, careful to shake firmly. “Coach McKinnon.”

“Good to meet you. And it’s Levi, please. So, I said you could use my office?” He was smiling, which was a welcome sign—sometimes the coaches were far more resistant than the players to the particular changes.

“Well, your assistant had said it wouldn’t be a problem. I couldn’t find you earlier to confirm.”

He glanced in Johnson’s direction and waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sure he did. It’s not a problem at all—I’ll be working with them all afternoon anyway. I’ll just head down there and clear off a couple surfaces for you.” He nodded, turned, paused, then looked back at her. “Do you know where my office is?”

Jessica smiled, shook her head.

“Well, if you’re all packed up there? Good, just follow me.”

They made small talk as they headed down the hall. “So, you’re doing this at all the clubs?”

“Well, not me personally. I have about thirty-five clubs to hit over the next ten weeks or so. I was in California two weeks ago, Arizona last week. Working my way East.” He nodded.

“You play?”

“I did. Three years at UNC. But I tore up my knee pretty bad. Purely rec league now. You?”

Levi laughed. “Not really. Those who can’t do teach and all that. I was good enough for intramurals at Rice. Julian was a four year starter there—he’s the experienced one here.”

They reached the door of his office. Levi opened it, motioned to her. “Through here. Just put your stuff down over there, I’ll make some room at the table.”

She entered, moved to examine the pictures on his wall. “Do you know how lucky you are, Coach?”

He looked up from restacking piles. “Excuse me?”

“Do you know how lucky you are? To have this job? To be a … boy?” He was confused at the sudden shift in tone, at the hints of aggression and frustration in her voice. “I don’t follow.”

“You only have this job because you’re male. We’ll get female coaches at some point, even some female managers. But all of them will have to be stars, superstars even. It will be decades—decades—before women who played intramurals, no matter how much they know technically, no matter how brilliant they are, will be considered for your job.”

Levi raised his hands, a conciliatory gesture—surely she wasn’t blaming him for the situation? Jessica looked down. “I’m sorry. I just … these things need to be said.”

He nodded, still uncertain. “To me, specifically? Have I done something?”

“No, nothing like that. They need to be said in general. But they also do need to be said here: you have some girls in your academy system that are quite promising. The Comets need to be ready for them—for them to reach their potential, and for them to help you reach yours, you need to be ready.”

[Makonnen]

Chelsea. I of II.

Un Communiqué du Cameroun

February 15, 2010

For Immediate Release

The Fédération Camerounaise de Football is pleased to announce that former Dutch international and current Chelsea head coach Danyil Oranje has been appointed manager for our National Team. We at FECAFOOT are thrilled to bring a coach of Oranje’s skill into the program, and look forward to his leading Cameroon forward in our continued efforts to spearhead the growth and impact of African football.

Oranje succeeds Paul Le Guen in the position. We wish Monsieur Le Guen all the best in his future endeavors, and thank him for his efforts on behalf of FECAFOOT and the Cameroonian players. Current Cameroon Assistant Coach Paul Ottou and current Under21 Coach Samuel Ekwalla are expected to retain their positions, although Oranje will likely be looking to fill the current U20 and U19 vacancies, and FECAFOOT would certainly support the addition of other coaching positions should they be warranted.

Federation President Mohamed Iya has said that, “the most important thing is that this appointment is one for the future. We have a difficult group in front of us next Summer in South Africa, and while we expect the team to proudly represent the nation and, indeed, the continent, we also look forward to a long and productive relationship with Mr. Oranje.”