The Joker and the Thief

[mistahc]

Giving international management a go. FM14, with a young Irish superstar added.

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Prologue

The figure clad in black stood in the shadows patiently, his breath held to stay silent and undetected. A couple drunkenly staggered outside the study door and the laughter echoed as they bounced down the hall as the party-goers returned to the merriment. As they opened a door the sounds of excited chatter filled the air and swallowed them hungrily as they re-entered the main room. The thief was alone again with just the silence, so stepped out of the darkness freely and marveled at the valuable painting that was the focal point to the room. He ran his finger down the frame, and peered behind for any sign of a pressure plate. The arrogance of the rich owner overruled the need for security, and made this the easiest of targets. While the painting was not worthy of gallery protection, the thrill was in the task not the street re-sale value. It was unlikely to be sold on, just added to the personal collection.

Out of a bag he pulled out a reproduction and held it underneath to play spot the difference, and smiled as it was near identical. Within minutes they had exchanged places, with the original placed carefully into the tube and slipped into the back-pack. Seconds later the man was disappearing out of the window, slowly closing it behind him before shinning down the drainpipe. The man knew that the longer it took for the switch to be noticed, the wider the time-frame period of robbery could have taken place. This was crucial to the investigation stalling over the amount of opportunity to have performed the brazen and daring act. The thief’s feet hit gravel and with a deftness of a ballerina he disappeared into the night with his feet crunching the stones like a light snow.

[mistahc]

Chapter 1

January 20th 1997 – Lisbon

“Champanhe. Rapido!”

Mary MacCool looked up at the clapping of the head waiter’s hands, and jumped to attention. He passed her a bottle of Cristal and sent her out to the floor with a slap on her behind. The naïve teenager took it gracefully and swayed her way to the nearest tables and offered the drink to the men in suits. They motioned with their hands and held the glasses up, mesmerised by her beauty and flame red hair. The men greedily eyed up her curvaceous body, some even looking up to her emerald green eyes. As she moved from table to table she nervously looked at the floor as she was plied with attention and comments.

“More Champagne please pet.”

The young waitress topped up Alan Shearer’s glass and his wife smiled at her as she held the empty bottle over hers with just a few drops dripping out. The young girl’s face dropped.

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m after running out. The bottle is so heavy you see I thought it was still half full. I’ll be right back so I will.”

“That’s a beautiful accent you have, where are you from?”

“County Donegal.”

“And what brings you here? You can’t be much older than 18?”

Mary smiled at the kindness of the footballer’s wife, but didn’t want to bore her as to how she found herself waitressing at the Belem Culture Centre to supplement her European Travels.

“Just work. What is this all about? You seem to be the only English people here.”

“My husband is a footballer and is up for the World Footballer of the Year award.”

The Newcastle striker beamed with pride at the introduction, but it was obvious she didn’t recognise him.

“Very prestigious this, I’m up against some top, top names. Over there are the Brazilian’s Ronaldo and Romario, that table has the German’s Matthias Sammer and Jurgen Klinsmann, that’s George Weah and Nwankwo Knau, and there’s Paolo Maldini, Davor Suker and Gabriel Batistuta.”

Mary smiled politely but the name dropping was lost on the girl, and she caught the glares of the head waiter so made her excuses to get more Champagne. By the time she returned to complete her task, Ronaldo was up on stage collecting his award so the conversation could not continue.

***

October 11th 1997 – Donegal

“Mary! Over here!”

The young girl pushed her way through the crowds to where her friends had a seat waiting for her. The pub was full of Irish fans watching their side take on Romania needing a point to seal second place in the group, and a play-off place. After qualifying for the last two World Cups, there was a sense of expectation of further glory even with Jackie Charlton handing over the reins to Mick McCarthy.

“Move out of the way ya gob*****, can’t ya see a pregnant woman is trying to getting through.”

Coleen Boyle smacked the head of the lad in the Republic of Ireland jersey in front of her, and he dramatically clutched his head.

“What the feck was that for?”

“Move!”

The boy looked at her fierce expression and then at the heavily pregnant Mary, and thought of the waste it was that the beautiful lass had got herself up the duff on her European travels. The commentator raised the pitch of his voice so he spun round as Kennedy fired over the bar. Behind him Mary struggled to her seat.

“Jaysus, this baby can’t come out soon enough.”

“Are you going to tell us who the father is now?”

Mary’s eyes misted up as she recalled that night in January and she shook her head solemnly. That one weak moment had ruined her plans of European adventure, and instead had resulted in an unwanted pregnancy and the ignominy of a premature return with more than her tail between her legs. She had been tempted to invent a Portuguese lover, or a tryst with a handsome waiter, but instead decided to keep quiet about it.

“Well, we all know another Mary who became mysteriously preggers. I think the father is God.”

Mary smiled to herself, in his home country he was very much revered by the masses and was not far off being a deity. She winced as Hagi finished a mazy run by hitting the post, and her sudden interest in football was not lost on her friends.

“Liam, will ya move your fat head I can’t see.”

The young lad cursed as he moved to the side just as Cormac McCarthy filled the screen in his tights shorts and green shirt. The Irish striker was ruggedly handsome and Coleen commented that he could impregnate her any day to the amusement of the girls making them cackle noisily.

In the 53rd minute Hagi put the Romanian’s 1-0 up and qualification looked beyond them, and the mood was sombre. The team had changed recently as the new manager installed new blood with younger players, and they had not played their way into the fan’s hearts yet. The loss to Macedonia and home draw with Lithuania had not convinced the country that this new generation were a match for previous legends. His name sake in attack was showing signs of being a potential star though, and he was looking dangerous up front to give hope. Liam encouraged him on passionately.

“Get it in the net McCarthy you carthorse.”

Within a minute the young striker managed to turn in an 83rd minute equaliser and put the play-offs in reach again, and the pub celebrated joyfully.

“I told him to do that.”

Liam was beaming with pride until he noticed his glass was emptied in the celebrations over the backs of the people in front, so he quickly turned to get another drink and slipped on the floor.

“Jaysus, what the feck was that?”

He looked up and saw Mary holding her stomach and breathing heavily.

“Coleen, Mary’s either pissed herself or the snapper is on the way.”

The protective friend jumped up and nearly threw the crowd out of the way to get her safely outside. She quickly looked around then went back in and returned with a man by the scruff of the neck and pushed him into his taxi.

“Hospital, quickly.”

“Ah jaysus Coleen, not on the seats. Can I get a blanket on first?”

Mary’s breathing had increased and her face was redder, and she looked possessed as she screamed at him.

“Just ****ing drive!”

JP turned the radio up to try to drown out the screams, and the sounds of Finlay Quaye’s latest hit filled the cab and the driver sang along.

“Even after all. He’s deadly this lad. Finlay is a grand name too and sounds like an exotic twist on the name Finn what?”

He looked round but instantly wished he didn’t and the taxi swerved as he put his attention back on the road. Many a man in the town longed to see young Mary MacCool with her knickers off, but not like that. JP had not even been there when his own kids were born, so seeing a baby crown was a new experience and not one he would fondly remember. Still, he’d tell the lads down the pub all the same.

[tenthreeleader]

Very nice prose. Good to have you posting again!

[mistahc]

Chapter 2

June 11th 2002 - Donegal

“Liam, your fat head is always in the way.”

“Jaysus Mary, stop raging at me.”

He spun his head back to the screen as the pub told him Ireland had scored and he saw Cormac McCarthy running off with his hand in the air. Ireland had just equalised against Spain in the World Cup in the last 16. After losing to Belgium in the 1998 play-offs, this was the third bite of the cherry at the World Cup in Japan and Korea. The tiny nation had performed well in the tournament and qualified from their group in second place, and Roy Keane’s withdrawal had not seemed to have affected the team but brought unity instead. In total in the competition they had secured 2 wins, 7 draws, and 3 losses, and they should have added Spain to the scalps of Italy and Saudi Arabia as they missed a penalty already.

“Ah no, it’s going to be penno’s.”

“Not a worry, remember Italia 90 and sending home those Romanian’s, we’ll be grand.”

“Sure we’ve missed one already today, and think we are missing Keano.”

“Don’t say that traitors name.”

“Why not? He should be playing. He’s right, why aren’t the FAI taking it seriously? Why should the players be in second class while the officials sit in first? He wants to win it and says the FA are using it as a jolly up. He’s our best player for sure.”

“But he shouldn’t have gave out like that to the manager, it’s not McCarthy’s fault. He’s done it arseways.”

“They don’t get on sure but it had to be said, he is a bollox and I don’t rate him as a player or a manager either. Sure he’s not even proper Irish.”

“Neither’s half the team, Christ on a bike you are full of *****.”

The referee’s whistle confirmed penalties and despite many a prayer being spoken, Spain triumphed and the World Cup dream was on hold again with future qualification looking unlikely.

Mary left the pub despondent and walked to the nursery to pick up Finn from school, but on seeing her son run towards her the football seemed half a world away. She was glad that the petition to change the countries time-zones to match Japan’s wasn’t followed as she didn’t need to get a babysitter. He stroked his mop of red hair and kissed him on the forehead.

“Mammy, we learnt at school about history. Am I named after Finn MacCool who lived at the Giant’s causeway?”

“Named after him? Mr darling boy you are related to him. You’ll grow up to be big and strong like him, and rule the world.”

“Will I?”

“Yes, you are destined for big things.”

“Finn built the causeway to fight a Scottish giant, but he was so big he had to run away.”

“Yes, but when Benandonne followed him, Finn’ wife Oonagh was so clever she protected him by making him dress as a baby. The Scottish Giant thought that if the baby so big, sure how big would the father be? So off he ran back to Scotland and tore up the Causeway behind him. You see behind every strong man there is a supportive wife, so remember that when you are older.”

“Mammy, is Finn MacCool still alive?”

“He’s asleep waiting for when he’s needed to defend Ireland. Perhaps you will be the one to fight your country?”

The little boy looked up and grinned at his mum and flexed his muscles.

“I’m a Giant! Roar!”

With that he ran ahead and picked up stones and held them above his head triumphantly, his tiny frame bellying the strength shown.

[tenthreeleader]

Enjoying the read. Nice work so far. I've removed my reference from the earlier post because it no longer needs to be on your thread.

[mistahc]

Thanks TTL, bit different this one but experimental as always. Thanks for the encouragement.

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Chapter 3

January 5th 2013

Cormac McCarthy was drumming his fingers on the desk in front of him with nerves. Arguably the biggest name of the Golden Generation was back in the Green of the Republic of Ireland and facing a massive backlash over his recent shock appointment of the new manager of the Country. The press were going for the jugular, after the Irish FA had clearly stated they were going to bring in a big name and this was not what they had in mind.

“Cormac, you are replacing Giovanni Trapattoni at the helm of the national team. He is considered the most successful club coach in the history of Italy’s Serie A. He is one of the most celebrated managers in football history, and only one of four managers to have won 10 or more titles in four different countries. He’s won all three major European Club titles, and the only person to have won all official club competitions, and the world title. What have you won?”

Cormac cleared his throat and held the microphone too close and it reverberated around the round loudly, forcing winces and a few people to cover their ears. The message was clear though, and it caused an uproar and it was evident he was not the favourable choice.

“Nothing. But to be fair, I’ve only officially been a manager for 87 minutes.”

“What do you think you can bring to the role if you haven’t had any actual managerial experience?”

Cormac narrowed his eyes at Ciarán Hunt, the devious reporter of the Irish Football Gazette.

“Well I’ve worked with the best; I was Ireland’s captain and won 88 caps, scoring 20 goals. I’ve played at the highest level and scored at the World Cup, and I’ve played under some great club managers and was part of a hugely successful Liverpool side.”

His comments again were greeted with derision and incredulous laughter.

“You mean like Steve Staunton?”

The press were right; they had heard all this before. After Ireland’s failure to qualify for the 2006 World Cup Brian Kerr was fired, and the head of the committee John Delaney promised the Irish Public that a “Wold Class management team” would be appointed. Rumours flew of Sir’s Alex Ferguson, Terry Venables and Bobby Robson. So the appointment of the inexperienced Staunton came as a shock, even with Sir Bobby consultancy role. The results were not a shock, as Ireland crashed to a 5-2 defeat against Cyprus, scraped a late 2-1 against San Marino, drew with Cyprus at home and failed to qualify for the 2008 Euro’s.

“Yes, and like Steve I have arranged for an experienced backroom staff. Steve himself is joining me, along with Liam Brady as assistant manager, Ray Houghton, David Healy, and Roy Keane. Packie Bonner is already Goalkeeping coach, so it’s a real gathering of the Golden Generation in an attempt to bring back the spirit of the 1990’s. Who knows, we may even be able to beat England again.”

He was the only person smiling, and the gathered crowd audibly smacked their heads in frustration. Even the Irish FA spokesperson had slid low in his seat in embarrassment at the bold claims.

“So do you think you’ll get qualification to the 2014 World Cup then? Germany currently top of the group.”

“They do, but it’s in our hands. We are five points behind and although Sweden and Austria are tough sides, I’m confident that we can get to the play-off position. It’s a big ask to get maximum points, but play-offs are a real possibility in my book.”

He was starting to make sense, but he knew the papers the next day would be lampooning his appointment. The truth was the Irish public had been spoilt by Trapattoni’s appointment as previous managers were as forgettable for the footballing world as the countries results. Before the Italian was Staunton, Brian Kerr, Don Givens, Mick McCarthy, Jackie Charlton, Eoin Hand, Alan Kelly senior, Johnny Giles, Sean Thomas, Liam Tuohy and Mick Meagan. Meagan, Thomas, and Givens didn’t even win a game in charge so he hoped at least to top them. While rightly lauded, Jackie Charlton was actually second in win rates, being beaten by Kerr who took the real Golden Generation from his successful youth teams to the world stage. But Big Jack had the performances during the big tournaments on his CV so was rightly revered. The new manager knew if he mentioned he wanted to be as successful as Kerr, he would be mocked.

“The last major tournament ended in humiliation with losses to Croatia, Spain, and Italy in Euro 2012. If you do the miraculous and qualify, would you expect the same heavy losses?”

“We would always want to be competitive.”

“As a pundit on RTE you said that Trapattoni’s style of play was boring and defensive, will you be bringing attractive attacking football to the national team.”

“Yes, I want to give the Irish fans something to cheer about.”

Laughter erupted and thighs were slapped. The Irish team’s modicum of success was built on defensive play and stifling the talented opposition. Cormac stayed stony-faced. He had his first game ten weeks away in a home friendly against Belarus and Andorra, 92nd and 201st in the world rankings respectively. He had chosen a weaker nation on purpose, determined to start his reign with a win, and build morale. He was actually thankful the world’s press were not even present, despite their position of 31st in the World Rankings, the tiny footballing nation were not deemed news worthy. All he had to do was get the nation’s press behind him, but he was an easy target from those who could hide behind a keyboard.

“Your choice of bringing Roy Keane into the coaching staff is a risk. He once accused the FAI of Dublin bias, and Stephen Ireland retired from international football citing the same reasons. Will you try and coax the latter back to the international fold? Is Roy only back as you both hail from Cork? Will the new Ireland see a Cork bias?”

“I’ve added David Healy to the coaching staff and he’s a Belfast boy, and it’s because he knows how to find the back of the net. Where people come from is irrelevant. Of course Stephen is probably the most skilful player to come out of the country, so I’ll speak to him about returning. Roy returns to the Ireland set-up a calmer and more experienced man. Of course he is passionate, but he has managed in the Premier League and you can’t knock that.”

“Does the same apply to players? Will you be doing a Jackie and being in English born players? Will you be scraping the bottom of the barrel in the English Championship?”

“Let’s not knock the players in the Championship, it’s a very competitive league and there are some very good players there. We may be ranked 31st but that’s a false economy and Belgium are 32nd and have players like Hazard, Kompany, Courtois, De Bruyne, Fellanini, Benteke, Vertongen, Lukaku, Witsel, Mignolet, Mirallas and Dembele. I doubt that they would want any of our players, and we have to be realistic. If the likes of John Flanagan, Will Buckley, Luke Chambers, David McGoldrick, Adam Hammil, Liam Feeney, Marc Tierney, Luke Williams, Lukas Jutkiewicz, and Andy Lonergan want to embrace their Irish roots, who I am to stand in their way of a chance for international football? I’d pick a player from the Irish league if they were good enough.”

The journalist was impressed with the level of knowledge but looked for a story.

“So are you making excuses early, saying that we aren’t good enough to challenge similar teams?”

“Course not; I said earlier I fancied us to qualify. The opportunity is within our hands, and we know what we have to do. I can’t see Germany dropping enough points to catch them, but we can match the likes of Sweden and Austria.”

“Well I am sure the country is behind you.”

The journalist said it with a poisoned tongue, clearly planning on editing the answers carefully to sell papers.

“I am sure they will be, and I hope that includes the national press. I want to be judged on results, not on expectation. We have to accept we are not a footballing superpower, and we should aim to be competitive only. Qualifying for a major tournament is a massive achievement for us, and what we should be aiming for.”

The FAI press officer cleared his throat to quash the building tension, and called time on the proceedings.