Where's Williams? Life after Prestatyn

[EvilDave]

It had been around a year since I walked away from Prestatyn, leaving Simon Davies to take the reins of my beloved Seasiders after six long years. Things at Bastion Gardens had not always been easy, but the success was more than worth it - three league titles and four domestic cups, two coming in that glorious treble year of 2018/19.

Of course, I had disappeared into the sunset on the back of that final entry in the record books, abandoning football management for the sake of my own sanity, my wife Rachel and two beautiful little girls, Bethan and Rebecca. At times I had stopped perilously close to the precipice - locking myself in the stadium after one particularly galling defeat to Bangor - before slamming on the brakes, and after chatting with the chairman Chris Tipping, decided that the only safe option was to get out of the car.

As expected, it had been a good year. I was never too far away from the game, dabbling in punditry with BBC Cymru Wales and penning the occasional column for the national newspapers still interested in the Welsh Premier League, while also humouring the FA with the odd ambassadorial role - showing my face at presentation evenings, speaking in schools and the like. Without the day-to-day, Saturday-to-Saturday pressure of being in the dugout, life was a great deal more relaxed. Only jumping through the hoops to ensure Bethan got a school place could interfere with what seemed worryingly close to domestic bliss.

And yet, despite being in a position that most would envy - a successful career, a beautiful family and no financial worries - I couldn’t help but feel that there was something missing. I wasn’t addicted to football, and if I was I was still getting my fix in other ways, but there was something about being on the training ground, shouting from the sideline and beating old enemies TNS that I couldn’t help but long for.

The problem was an obvious one. Simon Davies’ team had missed out on the title, but Chris was never going to sack him after retaining both of the domestic cups. Besides, despite being the club’s most successful manager, I was hardly the easiest to look after - I could hardly expect the club to throw open the gates of Bastion Gardens at my whim. After all, I might crack at any time.

Was there an easy answer? No. I wasn’t sure I could manage another Welsh club, and looking around the Premier League it appeared that only Rhyl - our fiercest local rivals - and newcomers Llandudno - an unappealing proposition at best - were looking for a new man in the hotseat. Neither would involve moving the family, but neither filled me with hope.

In the English system, Newport County were floundering outside of the Football League and showed little potential for improvement, Cardiff and Swansea had established themselves in the Premier League and were very happy with their current arrangements, and my boyhood club Wrexham were riding the crest of a wave which had carried them from the Conference to League One since the start of my career. All the doors seemed firmly closed.

That, of course, was ignoring the facts. Rachel was working from home but taking on more hours with me around to entertain the girls, and Bethan was due to start school in September. Moving anywhere would be tricky, and in many ways just awkward given the fuss surrounding school places. Rachel had her friends in Prestatyn, family knew where we were, and things were very settled.

I was torn. In the red corner sat the peaceful, happy, normal life we were leading, allowing things to continue and simply enjoying the simplicity of it all - Rebecca following Bethan to school in a couple of years, Rachel seamlessly shifting from career woman to doting mother over the course of each day, and taking up a more permanent role with the FA and in broadcasting. In the blue corner was the nagging feeling that with every passing day, making a change and returning to the dugout seemed less and less likely. How could I move the family to Swansea, for example, with two kids settling in at school? A year’s sabbatical seemed acceptable, but to take three or four years out of the game - well, it was largely unheard of. It would be career suicide.

And yet, for all my internal wrestling, there was nothing I could do. Rachel was happy, the girls were happy, and for 99% of the time I too was undeniably contented. With no approaches, no obvious vacancies and no clear plan, the solitary doubting percentage point would simply have to wait.

--

Welcome one and all to another EvilDave adventure. As you've probably guessed, this picks up where my last story left off and will follow Owain Williams and family in the aftermath of his departure from Prestatyn. I'm still on FM14 so that might explain a couple of quirks, but otherwise sit back and enjoy the ride!

[tenthreeleader]

This makes me smile from ear to ear.

[EvilDave]

Thank you 10-3, that sort of comment means a lot and makes me want to get this thing going! I just hope your grin is justified...

--

Two weeks after my self-indulgent introspection, I got a most unusual text message from Martyn Kelly, my flying left winger at Prestatyn who was still doing a fine job under the new management. Of course, I was still in regular contact with a number of the boys from the treble-winning team - the likes of captain Josh Knight and goalkeeper Rhys Wilson regularly getting in touch and even sharing the odd pint or two during international breaks. Martyn, however, had always been one of the quieter lads, and not one to maintain contact.

“Hi Boss, how r things? Just seen league website, worth a look? Take care, MK.”

The diminutive Englishman had always kept his conversations short and sweet, and evidently his texting style reflected his demeanour. It took a quick double-take to make sure he had actually called me ‘boss’ - again, very like Martyn - and I chuckled at the anachronism, but it was the rest of the message I was more interested in. I didn’t know what he’d seen that I hadn’t, and so in a flash I fired up the Welsh Premier League’s official website. What I saw was a surprise to say the least.

Neal Ardley had left TNS. The man who on so many occasions had made my time at Prestatyn that much more difficult, the man who was public enemy number one around the town, the man who probably deserves more credit for my successes than I could ever acknowledge, had gone. Millwall, for whom he had made more than 100 appearances as a player, had decided that he was the man to take them back into the Championship, and he had decided that, after yet another Welsh title, it was time to head home to London. His job at the traitors was done, as far as he was concerned, and it was time to move to where the money was. Mercenary to the last, I thought somewhat cynically.

As I read through the article, a league-approved piece flowing with overly-gushing praise of the former Wimbledon defender, my phone buzzed twice more. One was the aforementioned Knight, my former captain delighted with the fact that Ardley had left town and heavily implying that I had somehow driven him out. The second, from one of my colleagues on BBC Cymru Wales, took a slightly different tone, and one that made me stop and think.

In one sense, he was absolutely right. TNS was, much to my chagrin, the top club job in the Welsh Premier League. They led the all-time titles list, remained the only full-time professional club in the division, and had resources far outstripping everyone in the competition. The incoming manager could buy every member of the Prestatyn team and have plenty of change left over, if they desired. For the league’s most successful manager in recent history, it was a perfect match. That, I realised, was Martyn’s implication. I had, after all, bought him to Bastion Gardens from Park Hall, and obviously he thought I would fit the bill in Oswestry quite nicely.

But surely not? Surely, after six years of chasing them down, cursing their name and trying my utmost to replace their name at the top of the table with Prestatyn’s, I couldn’t just walk in, switch sides and take command of the opposing army? It would be the ultimate betrayal, not just of Chris Tipping and my old team, but of my own values. I would be going for nothing more than my own ego, and there was every risk of creating my own ‘Damned United’ moment, such was the antagony between myself and that club.

And yet, despite it all, something inside me desperately wanted to send that email…

[tenthreeleader]

This makes me smile even more widely.

[edtheguy]

This is exciting. I will be following eagerly.

and

But surely not?

was exactly my thought... delicious...

[chesterfan2]

Oh the Joy.... The Rapture, is EvilDave leading us down the garden path ? or is he not ? can't wait for more.

[EvilDave]

Having slept on it, there was simply no way I could bring myself to apply for the TNS job. I couldn’t let a potential career re-launch take me to the other side of the tracks, and if anything a job in Oswestry would put even more pressure on me than I put on myself at Prestatyn. There I was laying track as I went, with success a bonus. At the home of my hooped nemesis, it was the bare minimum.

What the brief flirtation with madness did lead to, however, was a serious conversation with Rachel about my future, or lack thereof, in football management. As soon as I raised the issue, she glanced at her watch, and took my hands in hers with a smile that surprised and comforted me in equal measure.

“Darling, I’m surprised it’s taken this long. I’ve known you long enough to know you can’t just sit around doing odd bits of work here and there, and you’re very good at what you do. This year has been amazing, and I’m really grateful you gave it up at Prestatyn, I really am. But you need something, and we both know what that something is.”

“Do you think it’s too soon? What about Bethan? Do we want to move? Are we ready for that? I mean…”

I was shushed with a delicate finger to my lips, and my wife answered all of my questions in one beautifully liberating answer.

“Owain, I love you. The very fact you’re asking me these questions tells me you care, and you won’t do anything too reckless. This is the point in life when we either set up shop, or we try something new. If it doesn’t work - well, I think Prestatyn will always have us back.”

I don’t how quite how long Rachel had been thinking those thoughts, but as they soared from her lips she held the air of a woman with unshakeable trust in her husband - something I don’t think she had before I stood down. Although I hadn’t noticed, things had changed over the last year, and she evidently felt better equipped to tackle whatever came next. All I could do was kiss her.

“Oh, darling?”

“Yes dear?”

“Is there anywhere you wouldn’t be willing to go? I can’t just send an email and end up in Milan or Madrid you know? Even Ardley only got as far as Millwall.”

She laughed as she knelt beside Rebecca: “Why don’t you get yourself an agent? As long as the four of us stay together, I don’t care where we are as long as it isn’t a war zone. I’ve always thought learning another language would be good for the kids…”

Her hazel eyes seemed to twinkle with her last comment, before she gave full attention to our youngest daughter. An agent, I thought to myself as I reclined on the sofa. I hadn’t thought about an agent before. What I failed to notice, at least immediately, was that my wife had just given me carte blanche to apply for almost any management job in the world.

--

​Come on guys, you didn't really think I'd let Owain take over TNS did you?!

[neilhoskins77]

I never doubted you for a moment. But should you find any hate mail directed to you via Oswestry in what looks like my handwriting, then it's almost certainly not from me.....not all of it anyways......

[EvilDave]

Thanks Neil - I did wonder what that strange powdered substance was that arrived the other day...

--

I thought about getting an agent, I honestly did. However, after that thought, I decided against it for a number of reasons.

Firstly, on the few occasions I had to deal with them at Prestatyn, they did nothing but make things difficult. I was quite capable of doing my own negotiating, running contracts by a lawyer - I was still on good terms with the legal department at Bastion Gardens - and signing on the appropriate dotted line. I didn’t feel the need to employ a third party to go through the exact same process, tell me where to sign and then take their 10 per cent. Whilst I was no genius with numbers, I understood basic maths and I knew the vast majority of agents were more trouble than they were worth.

Secondly, the worldwide job hunt gave me something to do. For the past year, aside from attending the odd football match in one capacity or another, I had been given very little in the way of structure and routine. On many days there was nothing formal to wake me from my slumber, and while I loved Bethan and Rebecca dearly I couldn’t help but feel that some sort of structure would do me good. After all, the rest of the world seemed to think it was a good idea.

And so it began, with me contacting old friends in the game, emailing national football associations, and ultimately trawling through hundreds of club websites in a bid to find the one job that would finally put Prestatyn behind me and give me the next great project. The hunt began close to home - England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and the Republic, and then slowly spread to other parts of the globe. Rachel’s desire to have the girls learn a second language was something I had in mind, but at the same time I was conscious of having them start school with a significant disadvantage unless we stumbled upon a suitable international establishment. It would also make my first few months much harder if I was forced to work in a foreign tongue.

The options were surprisingly limited in the close season, and it was easy enough to rule out the English options. Hull City wanted someone to guide them back into the Premier League, and the pressure combined with the thought of moving to the East Riding did not exactly fill me with delight. The only other option in the Football League was with the far more appealing Oxford United, but while the location certainly had its merits, the team’s financial position was perilous to say the least. I had no interest in a fire-fight.

On the Emerald Isle I was not prepared to head outside the top flights - my exploits with Prestatyn I believed had earned me a chance among the Irish elites, and again the options were few and far between. Shelbourne were still recovering from their own financial implosion in 2007 and had yo-yoed between the top two divisions in the Republic, while north of the border Linfield had lost their boss to England and needed someone to continue the domination which had claimed six of the last seven titles. With such high demands, I was not prepared to subject my family to the same degree of stress.

That left Scotland, and two very interesting prospects indeed. Dundee were never likely to look outside their homeland in their bid to return to the top flight, but as a consequence Stranraer were a different proposition entirely. A club on the up, having had their League One-winning manager poached by The Dee, their position was also appealing on another level. A small club punching above their weight, more famous for its curlers than its footballers, and in a relatively picturesque spot on the banks of Loch Ryan. Away from the metropoles of Glasgow and Edinburgh, the prospect of coming under the media spotlight was minimal. I could get on with my work quietly and with little expectation, while Rachel and the girls could live in a beautiful part of the world untroubled by my profile.

The temptation was too much. My application, after some work compiling a CV, was fired off to Iain Dougan. All I had to do was wait.

[EvilDave]

The interview with Stranraer went well. Very well in fact - Mr Dougan seemed very keen on the idea of unveiling a treble-winning manager at Stair Park, and apparently my CV was of a significantly higher calibre than the other applicants. Most of the others in the running were, I was led to believe, managers of lower league Scottish clubs looking to jump on The Blues’ bandwagon and parachute themselves into the Championship, which my chairman-to-be did not see as a particularly honourable way of doing things. On the contrary, he told me, I had earned my chance.

From that point on there was the simple matter of budgets to be set. The transfer warchest would be small - most Scottish budgets are outside of Glasgow, and it would be the loan and free transfer markets that would form the overwhelming majority of my signings. This would not be a problem - after all, in six seasons in Denbighshire I spent not a single penny on transfer fees, and was well accustomed to digging around in other people’s discards for talents.

On the wage front, there would however be plenty of room to manoeuvre following the team’s promotion. Even after contract clauses were taken into account, there were thousands of pounds going spare, and I would have licence to bring in as many freebies as I could squeeze under the limit. Mr Dougan was determined not to see his precious Stranraer drop back into League One, and was not afraid to spend a little to consolidate.

Shaking hands after our meeting, Iain told me that it had been a pleasure to receive my application, and that, unless there were any problems, I should be in receipt of a proposed contract in the following days. His vision and mine aligned perfectly, and attempting to do battle with the likes of Dunfermline, Livingston and St Mirren would be a significant step up from Connah’s Quay, Haverfordwest and Rhyl. The match seemed a good one.

And yet, as I made the long drive back from Stranraer to Prestatyn, something didn’t seem quite right. As the hours passed, I came to realise that while I enjoyed the idea of being so thoroughly isolated, Rachel’s idea of undisturbed family life was somewhat different to mine. Whilst I would happily camp out on the banks of Loch Ryan, she and the girls needed more of a community, more opportunities, more to do. Stranraer might have been the perfect fit for me, but for my family it would have been a recipe for cabin fever.

And so, it was with a heavy but settled heart that I called Mr Dougan the following day to explain myself. I apologised for wasting his time, and while he was disappointed, he could see my point of view - apparently the issue had come up in past discussions with would-be managers, and it had been no coincidence that the most successful bosses in the club’s history had all been single men. Stranraer would welcome me back if I ever changed my mind, he said, and I should keep in touch. Iain was a well-connected man, or so he told me, and so he might be of use to me in the future.

The next few days were spent ponderously. Rachel, Bethan and Rebecca would benefit immensely from my decision, and my wife was very grateful having looked at some of the photographs I had taken of Stranraer. We would be far less likely to drive each other mad in a more metropolitan area, and the girls would have the chance to grow up and enjoy the things they wanted to enjoy - rather than being forced into the limited number of activities on offer in a far-flung corner of Scotland. On the home front, the decision was the right one.

It did still leave a huge question mark hanging over the future of my managerial career, however. My British options seemed exhausted unless I was willing to make a step down for my next club, and the possibilities even then didn’t particularly excite me. Despite all my apprehensions, my fears and my self-doubt, it looked like I was going to have to look overseas.

[Terk]

Good call, Stranraer's terrible.

[EvilDave]

Having never been I can't possibly comment, but it didn't seem to fit Owain's circumstances at all! Thanks for dropping in, glad to have you along.

--

As May turned into June, most of Europe found its attention turned to no fewer than 13 cities around the continent, as Euro 2020 kicked off. Wales would be represented, drawn in a tough group with France, Ukraine and surprise qualifiers Georgia, and ultimately a win over the Eurasian minnows would be enough to put them through to the knockout phase, where they fell gallantly to eventual winners Germany.

Yet while the post-tournament spotlight turned on the managers of early failures Portugal and England, as the competition kicked off there was movement elsewhere in UEFA territory that proved of greater interest to me. Few of those watching the multi-millionaires in the final rounds would have heard of Allen Bula, but after failing to pick up a competitive point in two qualifying campaigns and watching his Gibraltar side concede more than 100 goals in the process, the 55-year-old decided to call it a day and step out of football altogether.

This time, I did not even have to make the call. Michael Llamas, the head of the tiny country’s FA, called me the following day to ask whether or not I would be interested in interviewing for the position. Apparently he and his colleagues, aware that such an occurrence was a possibility, had been keeping a close eye on a number of managers in the Welsh and lower English leagues in addition to homegrown talent. Thanks to my Prestatyn success, I was on his radar.

The call was probably slightly longer than Mr Llamas expected, as I bombarded him with questions on everything from the regularity of games to the selection process and the responsibility for tracking down players of heritage. In hindsight, some of my queries could have remained until the interview, but my potential employer was not put off by my barrage.

“Mr Williams,” he concluded after yet another question, “please, do not feel like you have to know all the answers now. We know this is short notice, and we know you have many questions. Please, come and speak to us in person, it will be much easier.”

With Rachel’s somewhat baffled approval, we arranged for me to fly out to Gibraltar three days later to speak in more depth about the role, and whether or not I would be suited to it. That night I slept poorly, lying awake for hours at a time as I contemplated the next step in my managerial journey. Nothing was confirmed - indeed Mr Llamas had told me he was looking to interview me as one of six potential candidates - but the idea had already sunk deep. Owain Williams, international football manager - it had a certain ring to it, and one that I liked the sound of. Others may mock at the idea of managing a minnow such as Gibraltar, but already my mind was alive to the possibilities.

[EvilDave]

On the return flight to Manchester, I was in a dark place. The sight of rain over the Pennines did nothing to burst the clouds circling over my own head, and the only thing I wanted to do was get home to Rachel and the girls.

The interview, as you might have guessed, had not gone well. Perhaps I had been too forthcoming, made myself overly vulnerable. Mr Llamas and his two colleagues had not enjoyed the story of my struggles with stress, and repeatedly informed me of the high-pressure nature of international management. To make matters worse, I disagreed - to my mind, Gibraltar represented a fairly stress-free area of work - but to the three men who had given their lives to their nation’s football, I was being interviewed for the biggest job on earth.

I had also incurred their wrath when once again bringing up the issue of heritage. The last manager, Allen Bula, had been very keen to see the ‘diaspora’ included in the make-up of the squad, and had employed his limited scouting team to dig into the background of possible Gibraltarians. However, with the Rock now established as a footballing nation, Mr Llamas and his cronies were keen to see a reduced dependence on British players. I was being asked to make just as many bricks, but with the straw taken away.

The tour of the newly-built Europa Point went as well as could be expected, but by this point I could already feel the heat coming from the burning bridges in my wake. I expected little and, on leaving the tiny territory I did not expect an offer of employment. My dreams of international management looked to be dead in the water.

The drive from Manchester to Prestatyn, two hours along the M56 and A55 in the driving rain and fading light were the last thing I needed, and it took all my powers of concentration to avoid causing an accident. At last I arrived back to a house alive with the sound of crying children and a dishevelled Rachel looking every bit as fed up as I felt. As we collapsed into each other like dying gladiators, she kissed me on the cheek and held my hands tightly.

“A Michael Llamas called, he said lots of things but you didn’t get the job. They gave to a man named Parody. I love you.”

I said nothing - there was nothing to say. I was home, my wife was home, my girls were home. The idiotLlamas hadn’t even waited until I’d got back to Wales, and after all his nonsense about tracking the progress of managers in the UK, he’d given his precious job to a man who’d never managed outside Gibraltar and who had never led Lynx FC to silverware of any kind.

I’d long stopped caring about Gibraltar by that point. I needed rest, and I needed my family. That was enough.

[EvilDave]

Another week, another plane. Rachel had, in the week between, pointed out that whilst she was encouraged I had found a new sense of purpose, it wasn’t necessary for me to find a new post instantly. As a result, we had spent a couple of days away from the job hunt, enjoying some quality time with Bethan and Rebecca and simply being together. I was reminded once again of the need for balance, and appreciated the nudge.

Yet this flight was one full of promise. Not only had the club in question paid a significant sum of money to get me to them - despite my suggestion of a Skype interview - but I had been recommended to them by an unlikely mutual friend. Iain Dougan, it turned out, was a man with global connections, and the gentleman who had insisted on my travelling had been given my name in a chat with the main man at Stranraer. When he told me he might be able to help me in the future, I had not envisaged it being quite so soon.

So, where was I about to chance my arm next? Germany perhaps, or maybe the lower leagues of Belgium? Somewhere more friendly to a humble English-speaker like Denmark or one of the Spanish islands? Not quite.

My flight was long-haul, stopping off in Dubai on the way from Heathrow. The Emirates staff made sure I, along with the rest of the business class passengers, was well looked after, and as we soared high over the Indian Ocean I began to piece together my expectations of Adelaide.

Yes, Adelaide, capital of South Australia. I was on the way to meet Brett McGregor, a man who, from his phone manner at least, had managed to marry a proud Scottish heritage to the idyllic Aussie lifestyle he now lived. His accent was a curious mix of the two - although he had no problem mocking my Welsh twang - his manner was as bold as you might expect from a combination of the two cultures, and as a self-made man he was in need of someone to look after his newest labour of love - the Reds of Adelaide United.

Not only that, but he needed someone quickly. When McGregor had bought out old boss Greg Griffin, former Tranmere, Shrewsbury and Burton Albion man Shane Cansdell-Sheriff had been at the helm. He had been given the benefit of the doubt after his first season saw United slump to the foot of the Hyundai A-League, but a second successive wooden spoon - the club’s fifth in seven years - had earned him the boot. Assistant manager and national team legend Tim Cahill had been lined up only to leave for pastures new, and that left a gap that Mr McGregor wanted to fill. With me.

The very fact that his planned interview would be spread over three days seemed promising. One day to recover from my travels and take in the sights of Adelaide, the second a formal interview with the boss and his board, and the third spent watching the team train under Director of Football Michael Petrillo. The whole thing seem meticulously planned, and Mr McGregor did not seem a man to pull his punches or take longer than necessary. Rachel was similarly optimistic, and frankly thrilled by the idea of moving Down Under. All I had to do was perform at interview.

I dozed off as my seat reclined, slipping my eye-mask down over my face to achieve total darkness. In my dreams, the red shirts of Prestatyn were replaced with the red shirts of Adelaide United. I allowed the faintest of smiles to break out as I passed into sleep - this had to be the one.

[bucket]

Great read. Looking forward to more updates. Good luck with the interview!

[EvilDave]

Thanks bucket - all is revealed!

--

“Go on Owain, tell her now. Don’t mind me, just call her.”

Brett McGregor thrust his mobile phone into my hand with one paw and slapped me on the back with the other, a grin threatening to rupture his face. Returning the smile, I dialled Rachel’s number successfully at the second attempt - after initially forgetting the UK dialling code.

“Darling, it’s me...

“I know, I’m using the chairman’s phone...

“It’s great, it really is. I miss you guys, but I could certainly get used to it here. It’s another world, I tell you…

“I was getting there, if you’ll let me! The job’s mine if I want it. A year to start with, and an extension if all goes well. Darling, they’re offering me the job!”

Rachel’s squeal of delight told me everything I needed to know. There were a few more questions, understandably - where would we live, when did I start, how much was the deal worth - but we were both thrilled with Mr McGregor’s offer. A new job, a new country, almost triple the £800 Prestatyn paid me each week during my final contract - it was ideal.

“Owain,” said my new boss as I handed back his phone. “You’ve got something about you, Iain wasn’t wrong. I know this bunch aren’t the best in the country, but I don’t expect the earth. Work hard, and you’ll have a fan in me. There aren’t many things I can’t stand, but shirking is one of them. Give me your best, and you’ll be just fine in Adelaide, you big Welsh softie!”

There wasn’t a great deal I could say to that, so I bought a little time by extending my own hand to my new employer.

“I may be a Welsh softie, Brett, but if it’s hard work you want then you’ll get it with me - in both senses of the word. My old boss put up with a lot, and I can’t expect you to do the same, but if you want results I will work for them. I can’t promise success, but I promise I’ll work for it.”

“Good on you Owain, good on you. I think you’ll be alright here you know…”

The flight back to the UK seemed much quicker than my outbound journey, with a number of questions buzzing about my mind - where would we live, where would the girls go to school, what would Rachel do - but with the first two in the hands of the club and the latter in the hands of my good lady wife, I could do nothing but soak in what I had learned of Adelaide United. It was barely June, the A-League season kicked off in October, and I had a squad to build.

[neilhoskins77]

That's a very nice outcome for Owain. Looking forward to seeing how you get on in the A-League.

[tenthreeleader]

Might be the first Australian tale here since the days of Spavlachenko. Well done, sir. As always, count me as your fan.

[EvilDave]

Thank you gents, it's new ground for me and for Owain, so we'll see how he gets on...

--

By the start of July, most of my big questions about the move to Adelaide were answered. Bethan would slot straight into the middle of the academic year at West Lakes Shore R-7 School, meaning her education would start a few days shy of her fifth birthday - almost mirroring the British system. In terms of a home, we had managed to sell up in Prestatyn - although the solicitors were still processing the details - and had moved into club property out to the west of the city centre.

I had not previously come across the idea of a football team owning the manager’s home, but when Brett explained it to me it made perfect sense. It had not been his idea - the old boss Greg Griffin had overseen the deal - but United had picked up a large repossessed home in the middle of the 2008 financial crash, out in West Lakes and not far from Bethan’s school. Tastefully refurbished and with the licence for the occupier to make any changes they saw fit, if a manager was sacked the club simply allocated some of their compensation package to a temporary hotel room. If Rachel and I left of our own accord - well, that was our call to make.

As for my beautiful wife, Rachel was already receiving calls for interview after terminating her directorship in Wales. In a city of more than a million people, the demand for recruiters was high, and my wife had the skills to get the best. In my completely unbiased eyes, her application positively shone - it was no wonder she seemed to find the job market more forgiving than I had.

And so, sitting in the 12 degrees that class as winter in Adelaide, Rachel and I quickly relaxed into Australian life. Our neighbourhood seemed fairly affluent, and there seemed to be a prominent Italian community which showed itself mainly in a combination of male fashion awareness and numerous pizzerias. Perhaps Rachel’s dream of the girls growing up bilingual had not completely died.

July days were short, and with my players on their own holidays I was perfectly capable of watching the late-night European Championships and instructing my two-man scouting team to hit the road. A-League rules stipulate that teams cannot buy directly from one another - one of the many quirks of a salary-cap system apparently inspired by American sports - but there was nothing to stop us picking up talent on expiring contracts. I also put some calls in to my old Prestatyn contacts to see if there was any British talent prepared to make the move Down Under - if league placings were anything to go by, we would need all the help we could get.

Bethan and Rebecca both seemed to be adapting well to the move - although our eldest had endless questions about the differences between Wales and Australia - and with the interviews coming thick and fast Rachel was able to be a lot more selective about the offers she considered. Working from home was something she had valued, particularly with the arrival of the girls, and so it moved from an ideal situation to a condition of employment. It narrowed the field, but there was still plenty to work with.

As for me, the best way to integrate into Adelaide’s sporting life seemed to be to be to take a look at our rivals for audience share. Rugby had made few inroads into South Australia, the national cricket team were touring Sri Lanka at the time, so the only choice remaining was my first - the AFL, and a first chance to sample the game known only as Aussie Rules.

My new home city boasts two top sides - Port Adelaide and Adelaide Crows, and it was the former than won out on the basis of their next home game - both clubs play at the Adelaide Oval - coming first. In a game I understood very little of and which seemed to stop and start almost at random, the local Power beat Richmond 98-81 to move into the all-important top eight.

By the end of the game, I had begun to get a handle on the rules and the scoring system - I particularly enjoyed the blind over-the-head restarts - but on leaving the packed Oval I realised I had much to learn about the Australian way of life. It dawned on me that it may take more than a year - I only hoped Brett McGregor would give me the time.

[tenthreeleader]

My new home city boasts two top sides - Port Adelaide and Adelaide Crows, and it was the former than won out on the basis of their next home game - both clubs play at the Adelaide Oval - coming first. In a game I understood very little of and which seemed to stop and start almost at random, the local Power beat Richmond 98-81 to move into the all-important top eight.

Resistance to my all-conquering Hawthorn Hawks, however, is futile.

[EvilDave]

I bow to your superior AFL knowledge, 10-3 - I've seen the odd game on ESPN and marvelled at the madness of it, but that's about as far as I go!

--

After a month of trial, error and frustration at the anarchic A-League rules, I believed I had my team ready. The first piece of the jigsaw was to bring in an assistant who knew the country, the league and it’s players, and Jade North was that man. Capped more than 40 times by Australia and with a playing career spanning four domestic clubs as well as time in Japan and Norway, he had an eye for talent and a Aussie way with words that I was still very much learning. He wouldn’t be scared of putting a rocket up any underperformers, let’s say.

The second step was to get into the transfer market, or at least what passes for one in this most confusing of set-ups. Thankfully, we were already under the salary cap, and the departure of misfiring striker Tommy Amphlett - four goals in 60 games for 20% of team salary - gave us plenty of breathing room. To add to the existing line-up, I brought in players who had most recently earned their living in New Zealand, England, Italy and even Iceland in addition to some local talent, and my the end I was satisfied.

In goal, we were already well stocked. Paul Izzo was our undisputed number one, with teenage talent John McDonald providing solid backup. Benjamin Powell sat between them in age at 22, but below McDonald in the pecking order, and so found himself out the door.

At left-back, new signings Corey Brown and Will Alomes, both Australian, would take over from the released Adama Dabre. At 22, Alomes still had time to improve, but Brown was undoubtedly the most developed at 26. His versatility along the back line meant Alomes would get chances.

Youth product Alex Somerville would start in possession of the right-back spot, with pressure from teenager John Orlando and an incoming New Zealander, the 19-year-old James Flaws. He came for free from Auckland City, and looked full of potential.

We also went across the Tasman Sea for another teenager, James Chettleburgh, to partner the experienced Kristian Konstantinidis at the heart of defence. Backing up here were two men at opposite ends of their careers - 34-year-old Adam Leijer and Roland Barisic, 22. Our starters looked good, but both backups had their flaws.

Tactically, I had settled on something like a Christmas Tree, a 4-3-2-1, to make the most of our strength in midfield, and so we would be focusing our play through the middle. First choice would be Sudanese international Osama Malik entering his 11th season with club in the ball-winning role; 20-year-old Icelandic prodigy Halthor Thorbjornsson, offered to me by his agent after his release from FH and probably the club’s most talented player running box-to-box; and sitting playmaker Seamus Brown, a talented 19-year-old stolen from Newcastle Jets as his deal ran down. Support came in the form of Cormac Rossiter, a young Irishman lured over from Derby County, and another homegrown youth in Carl Clark.

In the two attacking midfield slots I had a wealth of options, the best being Australian Institute of Sport graduate George Costa, who made us his first professional club. Former Celtic man Tom Rogic was our marquee player for the duration of his contract, and would likely start alongside Costa. Also on the books we had newcomer Jack Adams - another Auckland City recruit but Australian - and Luca Pisanu, who returned to his homeland after five years in the reserve set-up at Serie A side Cagliari.

Finally, the strikers, and another area to watch. Bernie Ibini was the main man, equally at home in the lone striking role or dropping into the midfield, as was his back-up, our third Kiwi, James Jones. Third choice Bruce Djite still knew where the goal was, but at 33 lacked the pace to get there, so we hoped not to use him too much.

That left a few faces on the fringes that were moved on - local forwards Bill Kerritevlis and Alex Stuart along with the aforementioned Powell and Dabre, Portuguese winger Fabio Ferreira and Kenyan wide man Awer Mabil. If the Christmas Tree didn’t work out, we were short of wingers, but with expectations so low we would be OK. I hoped.

I had a team - all I needed now was some fixtures to show them off in.

[chesterfan2]

Resistance to my all-conquering Hawthorn Hawks, however, is futile.

I bow to your superior AFL knowledge, 10-3 - I've seen the odd game on ESPN and marvelled at the madness of it, but that's about as far as I go!

--

Face it Dave, 10-3 does, in fact, know nothing about Aussie Rules. Geelong Cats are the best team, as we all know. The Kennet Curse proved it. You are right though it's the best spectator sport that isn't footy and I know 10-3 will agree with me on that one.

Cracking good story as ever, long may it continue.

[EvilDave]

I have no idea what you guys are on about, but it sounds fun! Thanks for your kind words cf2.

--

As much as I enjoyed the idea of taking my new Reds on a tour across Oceania to tune up their fitness, the several weeks on the road involved would have nothing for my and Rachel’s continued adjustment to Australian life. Instead, I asked Jade to get the phonebook out, and he didn’t disappoint - by the end of two days of serious communication, we arranged no fewer than 12 friendlies against other teams from around the Adelaide area. With the exception of the first game against our own youth team, in every one we would the marked men, the A-League side to be gunned down, and we could do it all without leaving our city.

That first game was something of a wake-up call, as our youngsters put up a valiant fight against the senior squad. Our passing was slow and laboured with creativity at a minimum, and it was only a 30-yard screamer from George Costa 15 minutes from time that saw us avoid embarrassment. Immediately after the game Jade and I retreated to the my office for some tactical rethinking - we simply weren’t good enough.

For the rest of the games, we changed things up - encouraging the likes of Costa, Rogic and Thorbjornsson to speed things up and build our attacks around quick passing interchanges in the middle of the park. Our next opponents, Port Adelaide, were blown away 6-0, and a 4-0 victory over South Adelaide followed three days later. We were on a roll, and the new system seemed to suit the players - the new system, and the low level of opposition.

But our momentum was halted swiftly in the wake of the South Adelaide game when the medical report came back on Corey Brown. Our new first-choice left-back had been switched out at half-time after taking a knock to the ankle, but the scans brought worse news than we could have imagined - a nasty fracture, and the reality of up to four months watching from the sideline. It meant an early opportunity for Will Alomes, but our starter was devastated.

“Boss, what happens now?”

“How do you mean Corey?”

“Well I’ve only just arrived and now I’m crocked - I assume you’ll be bringing someone else in now for the 23?”

At once I understood my man’s concerns - A-League rules only allow 23 senior players to be registered, and anybody not included in the squad has their contract bought out by the club. Brown, having suffered an awful injury, thought he was for the chop.

“Corey, listen here. It’s August, and we don’t play a league game until October - that gives you the best part of the three months to recover before we kick a ball. Will can step in for those first few games, and if he takes a bash we’ve got John Orlando in the youths, he can do a job. I won’t be signing anyone else in your spot, that’s a promise.”

“Thanks Boss, that means a lot. You’ll be keeping me on then?”

“Yes, Corey - do I need to spell it out to you? I’ll be keeping your contract, but I can’t guarantee you stepping back into the line-up. If Will or John earn the spot, it’s on you to grab it back off them, understand?”

“Yes Boss, completely. You don’t need to tell me to work at it!”

The conversation went about as well as I could have hoped - although I had some doubts about my full-back’s cognitive abilities - and we continued our little tour of South Australia without our star defender. It was interesting to note that Brown didn’t think of himself in those terms however - a little humility goes a long way in my book.

[EvilDave]

If Corey’s injury had a negative effect on the team, they tried very hard not to show it. With the players enjoying plenty of rotation as they got used to the new Christmas Tree formation, the next two matches saw two hat-tricks as first Bernie Ibini and then Jack Adams got among the goals in 7-0 and 5-0 demolitions of the Adelaide Comets and Cobras respectively.

The goals then settled down a little as we lined up no fewer than six additional friendlies against teams from the locality, but nevertheless we managed to look increasingly comfortable. Only Adelaide Raiders stopped us taking all the spoils by battling back to a 2-2, and with 18 goals scored and just two conceded across the remaining five matches, we were looking good tom take our pre-season form into the A-League campaign.

“So then Boss, how well can we actually do this year?”

That was the opening question from Brett McGregor at the last of our pre-season meetings, after which the plan was to return to a monthly format. He’d been very helpful in allowing Rachel and I to settle into Australian living, and had already told me that all he wanted was improvement - as long as Adelaide United weren’t on the foot of the table at the end of the season, my contract would probably be extended. Still, it wasn’t an easy question to answer, particularly from the chairman.

“Well Brett, assuming the players keep going, there’s no reason why we can’t make the top six and the Finals Series. I think we’ve had the strongest transfer window of any team, but this lot had low heads before I got here. There’s a lot of baggage that needs dumping before we can get going, it won’t come easy.”

“I know that Owain, I’m not going to come down hard on you if we end up 7th. Shane was a decent bloke, but I can’t help but notice he hasn’t popped up anywhere else yet. You, on the other hand, you’re a winner. Get this city proud of the Reds again and you’ll make me a happy man Owain.”

Two weeks later, I sat on a plane with Rachel, Bethan and Rebecca as we flew two hours east across the country. One of the A-League’s difficulties has always been the geographically spread of teams, and out in Adelaide we were the best part of 500 miles from our nearest rivals in Melbourne. For the season opener however, the fixture computer had pulled out the toughest of ties - an away day at last year’s table-toppers - or ‘premier’ in Aussie parlance - Sydney FC.

Sydney had been beaten in at the penultimate stage of the six-team play-off series that leads up to the Grand Final, and had been forced to watch on as ‘champions’ Brisbane Roar lifted the championship, but there was no doubt over who had been the most consistent side in the land. While my Reds had made the top six just twice in the last seven seasons - and finished dead last in the last three - Sydney had dropped out just once.

The team were under no illusions - this was not going to be an easy ride. For me, having my wife and children watching on from the hospitality suite would be immensely helpful, but even then I knew I was going to have my work cut out against Sasa Ognenovski’s men. We were clear underdogs, on the road against last year’s stand-outs. It was a baptism of fire, and as we arrived at the Allianz Stadium I had plenty of thinking to do.

[tenthreeleader]

Geelong Cats are the best team, as we all know. The Kennet Curse proved it.

Right up until the double Premiership broke it ...

"We are the mighty fighting Hawks!"

That said, you are quite right about the appeal of the sport. Almost as good as footy. Almost....and now back to Dave!

[EvilDave]

I think my favourite parts of AFL are the over-the-head restarts, and the fact you effectively get a point for trying if your radar's a bit off. Needless to say I'm fairly uneducated about the whole thing!

--

Eventually, however, the time for thinking was over, and shaking Ognenovski’s hand on the sideline I briefly reflected that this would be the test. An extended pre-season, friendly matches almost too numerous to count, and a number of acquisitions that, in theory at least, bolstered an ailing squad. The standard was much higher here than at Prestatyn, but it would only be when up against the likes of Sydney that I would see how far we’d already come.

Eight minutes into the first half, we were in dreamland. A speculative shot from Ibini was deflected out for a corner, and marquee player Tom Rogic placed a perfect ball on the head of Jason Chettleburgh six yards from goal. Our young Kiwi defender made no mistake, and the few visiting fans erupted at the first competitive goal of my reign. Away from home, we led last year’s premiers.

They were premiers for a reason. Within three minutes, with Chettleburgh barely having had the time to catch his breath, Sydney were level. If ours was a goal of beautiful efficiency, there’s was a response of glorious teamwork. After winning possession in midfield, a patient move of around 20 saw the ball work its way out wide, and a low skidding cross was tucked past Izzo by Slaven Simic to give the thus-far silent home fans something to cheer about. Nobody was at fault on our part - we had just been outplayed.

Still, we were able to hang on in against Sydney until the break, and in the raw statistics we had the upper hand in shots on goal. Our central three of Malik, Rossiter and Thorbjornsson were certainly putting the work in, and the message at the interval was a simple one - keep going, take your chances, don’t give them too much time. Both Jade and I believed we would get another chance, and if we took it, there were points to be won.

But chances were few and far between, and as things began to settle into something of an attritional midfield fight, I felt the need to change things up. Off came captain Malik, who was beginning to struggle with the pace, and Jamie Jones slotted into his positions. Up front I handed a chance to veteran Djite in a straight swap for the largely ineffective Ibini.

Then, with 20 minutes remaining, it happened. A long cross-field clearance was headed into the path of Rossiter by Konstantinidis, and our Irishman fed Rogic 30 yards out to the right of centre. Looking up, he slipped a pass infield to Djite, and with swing of his right boot our 33-year-old substitute sent a dipping shot over the head of Rhyan Renaud and into the top corner. The sparsely-populated stadium - 12,000 fans in a 45,000-seater - fell silent, and I flew from my seat in celebration. Jade simply sat next to my spot on the bench, jaw on the floor in disbelief.

The rest of the match was something of a blur, a blur punctuated by the frustrated shouts of Ognenovski from the neighbouring dugout and groans of dismay from the Sydney fans who decided to see things through to the end. Izzo made a couple of fairly routine saves to keep us ahead, but a combination of robust defending and a distinct lack of creative spark meant it was relatively easy for to hold on for three massive points.

“Well played mate, you did us good and proper,” were the words accompanying from my opposite number Sasa, who looked devastated at his side’s defeat. My words of consolation fell on deaf ears, and before long I was back in the dressing room to meet my victorious men.

A huge roar went up as I did so, and I was immediately sprayed with the contents of a dozen water bottles. Goalscoring hero Djite was the chief instigator, but the sheer joy at having laid down a marker was obvious in every player. On the plane home, while the lads stayed up into the night with their card games and consoles, Rachel and I attempted to get some much-needed sleep as the girls nodded off. I dozed with a smile on my face.

[EvilDave]

If we had thought our journey to Sydney was an inconvenience, I dread to think what Wellington Phoenix must think every time they play away from home. The New Zealand-based club are the team nobody else really wants to play due to their location, but remained in the A-League thanks primarily due to the stubbornness of the two FAs involved to promote the game in New Zealand.

Unfortunately, their long history in the Australian league system means that they are fairly used to travelling thousands of miles each weekend, and so they stepped off the plane ready to play ball. Far too ready for my Reds, who managed to switch off defensively inside the first minute and allow Kieran Brook to open the scoring. When the visitors doubled their advantage after just 10 minutes, I began to fear the worst.

Still, after a few choice words aimed at specific individuals, we began to work our way back into the game, and just after half hour we pulled a goal back. This time it was no individual brilliance or set-piece wizardry, just good old-fashioned movement. Beginning on the right wing, we slipped the ball gradually infield with a number of quick passes, and the final ball found Thorbjornsson unattended on the penalty spot. He picked his spot, and the lead was cut.

Before the interval, we were level, Ibini heading us to a tie at the interval, and we very much had the momentum. However, all our good work was the undone when, 10 minutes into the second half, some slack marking at a free-kick allowed Tyler Boyd to ghost in and nod past Izzo at the back post. After all our efforts getting back on level terms, we had thrown it all away.

What happened next was something that Brett had told me of when I signed up for the job - that when faced with a problem, the recent Adelaide modus operandi has been to kick their way out of it. In the space of 20 minutes we saw no fewer than six players enter the referee’s book, and all of a sudden we faced the very real prospect of being reduced to 10 men.

That forced me into a couple of changes and, as we pressed forward for a third equaliser, we began to push the Phoenix back. In turn, they countered hard and fast, and only a flying save from Izzo kept the deficit to one. We were playing a very risky game, but if we wanted even a single point we had very little choice.

Step forward Halthor Thorbjornsson, and yet another moment of magic from a member of my team. Into the 89th minute, our Icelandic wunderkind collected a pass out on the right flank and, with few options presenting themselves, simply smacked a 30-yarder across the keeper and into the net. Hindmarsh Stadium went ballistic, Jade and I went ballistic, and Wellington slumped.

Our box-to-box man wasn’t done however, and a minute after the restart, Thorbjornsson earned the dubious honour of being the first player to get sent off during my tenure, his second booking picked up for clipping the heels of a turning Kiwi. His was the last action of a pulsating 90 minutes, and I got home that evening wondering if I would ever be able to draw breath in this country.

[bomba35]

Hi Dave. I really enjoy this story - and the one before in Prestatyn. Just like to say one thing; you have a player named Halpor Porbjornsson. Since he's from Iceland, I think his name is Halþor Þorbjornsson, which in modern English translates into Halthor Thorbjornsson.

Looking forward for the rest of your story.

[edtheguy]

I think I like this Thorbjornsson fellow.

I'm also really enjoying the Australian experience so far, great stuff!

[EvilDave]

bomba35 - Thank you for dropping in and reading, and thank you for correcting Halthor's name for me, that's very helpful to me. He'll be popping up a lot, so it's good to have it right!

ed - Thank you for the kind words - Halthor is probably Owain's best player, so you'll be seeing plenty of him!

Thankfully, our next game was also at home - against Melbourne Heart, a club which had returned to its roots after a fan-led initiative to shun Manchester City’s money and branding - and so Rachel and I had at least a couple of evenings at home together after training to sit down and process everything had been going on. She had already come to the conclusion that travelling the length and breadth of Australia every other week would not be great for the girls, but there were plenty of other things to figure out as well.

The main piece of news was that two companies had got back to her with firm job offers, and both were happy for her to work from home. One, a nationwide recruitment firm with its head office in Melbourne, paid more than its rival, but would insist on Rachel making at least three personal visits each week to potential clients. The second, a local Adelaide company, put forward a more modest salary, but gave her the freedom to work around the girls and her own schedule.

It did not take too long for us to conclude that the latter option would be the best one for our family. Thanks to the generosity of Mr McGregor and his board, we were not wanting for cash, and even the lower wage was enough to live on. Our accommodation was covered by the club, and so Bethan and Rebecca could realistically demand the bulk of our attention and outgoings. Things were comfortable, and in a new country and culture it would take work for them to remain that way.

As for Bethan, her teachers at West Lakes R-7 had been impressed by the speed of her integration into the class, but at the same time suggested that her reading ability was perhaps six months or so behind the rest of her cohort. Rachel and I suspected that this might be because the rest of the class had already had six months of education, but it nevertheless provided a useful reminder that we couldn’t afford to put career ahead of family.

Finally, there was the community we were now a part of. As I’ve mentioned before, there was a healthy number of Italians in the West Lakes area, and a young couple of second-generation immigrants, Francesco and Maria, were our next-door neighbours and had made Rachel feel very welcome while I had been taking training. While I was pleased with their friendliness and my wife’s enthusiasm for meeting new people, it also meant another ball to juggle - Rachel had decided to enrol on a beginner’s Italian course at the nearby college, and so would be adding another string to her packed bow.

As I prepared myself mentally for the coming weekend and the visit of the men from Melbourne, I became increasingly convicted that Adelaide had been the right move. I was still in regular contact with Gary Powell and some of the other Prestatyn stalwarts - Simon Davies’ men were neck and neck with TNS at the top of the Welsh Premier League and still fighting in both cup competitions - but at no point had I truly longed to be back. That in itself surprised me - I had never taken myself for a globetrotter - but the club had done everything in its power to see us at home.

It was my job now, as much to repay their warm welcome as anything else, to pump a bit of pride back into Adelaide. In the last three A-League campaigns, United had registered 23, 20 and 23 points. As I ran through the team selection once more in my head, I made a silent vow to make sure we hit at least 30 this time round. This time someone else would take home the wooden spoon.

[EvilDave]

Melbourne Victory are historically Adelaide’s fiercest A-League rivals. Melbourne Heart, however, are no less welcome at the Hindmarsh than any other team in the country. Being so far from anyone else down in South Australia, I struggled to comprehend the idea of having a ‘local’ rival 500 miles away, but eventually came to the conclusion that the hatred stemmed instead from the two Grand Finals my Reds lost to the Victory in 2007 and 2009. Every day’s a school day.

And yet, despite the apparent absence of antagony between the two sides, our second home game in a row was a nasty affair. We finished with four men in the book, Heart with three, and three men were forced to leave the field early with injuries. Tom Rogic found enough time in the opening 22 minutes to score the opener before being ruled out of a few day’s training by a late challenge, and George Costa lasted an hour before being carried to the changing room on a stretcher - he would be out for a month at least. With our two key attacking midfielders out, things didn’t look great for the future.

However, they looked absolutely fine on the field. Rogic’s goal after a quarter of an hour was followed just four minutes later by a bullet from range courtesy of Ibini, and our striker kept up his good early-season form by sealing the three points 10 minutes after the break. Costa’s injury broke our rhythm and allowed the visitors a consolation late on, but we had already done the damage and had another three points firmly in the bag.

Thankfully, we managed to make it through our next game - another trip to Sydney to take on Western Sydney Wanderers - without our midfield picking up any more injuries, and Rogic was deemed fit enough to start by the medical team. With Thorbjornsson having served his suspension at home, we were at something like full strength - only Costa and Brown missing from my first-choice eleven - and hoping to maintain our unbeaten start.

What followed was an uninspiring game which had my assistant Jade North struggling to stay awake on the sideline. I chuckled at his open show of boredom - I had endured much worse on occasion in Wales - and decided that the only way to inject any excitement into the game was to make a triple change with half an hour to go. It was a bold move, especially given our recent luck with injuries and bookings, but something needed to change.

And change it did - 10 minutes later, substitute Djite was hauled down at the top of penalty area, and up stepped fellow replacement Jamie Jones to bend a beauty of a dead ball into the back of the net for the lead. Three wins from four was unthinkable for the team in seemingly permanent possession of the wooden spoon, but we had just 20 minutes to make it a reality.

Alas, the Wanderers weren’t particularly keen on letting us crash the top table, and we only managed around half of the time we needed. Into the final 10 minutes, left-back Will Alomes got caught out in possession high up the pitch, a lead ball into the space found a willing runner, and the ball across was driven past Izzo before our goalkeeper could move. It would be our hosts’ only shot on target all match, but it was enough to deny us the win.

This time on the flight home, there was no Rachel for company and no little girls to try and coax to slumber. Instead, I was able to think over the frustration I was feeling - on the one hand, we had been 20 minutes away from what would not have been an undeserved win away from home. On the other, my Reds were already exceeding expectations four games into the season. We had a solid base on which to build.

Then again, the next wrecking ball to crash into town had the potential to change it all. In six days, we would welcome the champions, Brisbane Roar, to Adelaide.

[EvilDave]

The visit of the champions would be the first home game of November, and mark the fifth game of the A-League season. Remarkably, at four games we already had the longest undefeated record in Australia - all the other teams had contrived to beat each other at least once - but the Roar would surely put our abilities to the test.

Or so we thought. In the end the Final Series winners were distinctly second best, even finishing up with 10 men thanks to the ill-discipline of the frustrated Duane McKay. The dismissal, however, proved academic - first half goals from Ibini and Rogic were more than enough to see us coast through the second period in second gear, and for the first time under my management I genuinely believed we might be able to achieve something this season rather than next. The top six and play-off drama seemed destined for Adelaide.

It was a point I was keen not to labour with the local journalists, who all of a sudden seemed interested in the Reds and their new upstart Welsh boss. The Advertiser’s sports reporter in particular seemed keen to find out about everything from my time in Prestatyn to how the kids were settling in in Australia, and the piece which was published on the Monday after our game was surprisingly flattering. Remembering the treatment I often got from the Rhyl Journal, I wondered whether or not they were simply setting me up for a fall.

And yet that in itself highlighted one of the major differences between life in Denbighshire and South Australia. In my past life, the community was close enough that even the manager of a semi-professional outfit like Prestatyn was known to the bulk of the population in times of success. Football in the Welsh Premier League was always going to struggle for column inches, but if the team was winning, people knew who I was.

In Adelaide however, especially out in our secluded suburb, Rachel and I lived in relative anonymity. We were far removed from the stars of the two AFL sides, and were not in the same league as the nation’s cricketing heroes. The support my Reds did have was undoubtedly committed - the Australian has to be given the vast distances involved - but on a personal level, there was nowhere near as much interest as there was back home. Here, we could just blend in.

What that also meant, was that when our unbeaten run finally came to an end at the hands of Newcastle Jets, our 3-1 reverse barely registered in the local mood. At Prestatyn, a defeat to TNS, Rhyl or Bangor meant enough to be noticeable in the local atmosphere. Here, the end of a promising run and a possible reversion to form was noted with little to no comment, and it was simply assumed that United would carry on disappointing.

I wasn’t sure whether it had more to do with the hierarchy of sport in the country, or simply a recent past littered with miserable failure. Either way, while I enjoyed the anonymity for the time being, it was my job to make Adelaide United a big deal. Six games in, we had finally lost, and I was calm. We were building a club for a city, and for the moment, I was happy with that. There would be more defeats to come, but assuming there were more victories, I had a feeling my sanity might just hold out.

[EvilDave]

The one challenge my sanity did face was the sheer amount of travelling I was now doing. Back in Wales, even the longest of journeys was little more than three hours by bus. Here in Australia, with three away games on the bounce, we were racking up the air miles. Our fruitless trip to Newcastle signalled to start of the run, and then we would head cross-country to Perth and back to face the Mariners of Central Coast. The A-League, it appeared, did little for the environment.

Thankfully we had a week between each game so there was the chance to return to base in Adelaide and train, but at times during the stint I felt more like the coach of an ice hockey team - games across the country every couple of days, with little chance to drill tactics or do anything of meaning with the players. I had to hope that the work Jade, I, and the rest of the team had done in pre-season was simply better than the corresponding work going on elsewhere.

And so it was to Perth that we had the opportunity to bounce back from my first ever defeat as boss of the Reds, and when Ibini fired us in front inside the opening five minutes we were set for a good day. Izzo came to the rescue with a flying save late on the first half to keep our noses in front, and in the second period we had the ascendancy for the vast majority of the time.

Eventually, although not without one or two scary moments at the back, we doubled our advantage. This time it was Carl Clark who decided to show off his prowess with the dead ball, and with 20 minutes to go we were home and hosed. There was, of course, still time for another injury to a midfield player - Josh Jones the man unable to last the 90 minutes this time - but to come back from defeat with a convincing away win was a big feather in my cap. If we were going to fade, it would not be spectacular.

The win against the Glory set us up nicely to take on the Mariners, who the only side ahead of us in the standings after a good run of their own. Perhaps, I thought as we lined up before the kick-off, this would be match that would act as the true benchmark of our progress. Two minutes later, Ibini’s instinctive finish suggested we were doing alright.

Yet two minutes later Ratao had the hosts on level terms, and a pulsating opening period showed little between the sides. The first half ebbed, flowed and ebbed again with both goalkeepers forced into action, and then Chettleburgh wound up in the book for a foul 30 yards from goal. Our wall jumped, blocked the shot and fired a long punt downfield, where the wide awake Rogic collected, beat a man and drilled home to give us the lead at the break.

What happened in the second half was one of the most remarkable chapters of my managerial career. With the score at 2-1 and the Mariners on the attack, Chettleburgh picked up a second yellow to give the hosts the numerical advantage, and a huge chance to claw their way back into the match with half an hour still to play.

Incredibly, things didn’t go to plan for our hosts. Ten minutes after our Kiwi’s indiscretion, a sloppy piece of defending allowed Jack Adams to stab home between two defenders for 3-1. With five minutes to go, poor work in our own back line saw Jonny Shaw beat Izzo from the penalty spot for 3-2, and the home crowd roared their team on. They were gunning for us, and they had the wind in their sails.

But they had reckoned without teenage right-back Alex Somerville’s finest Ronaldinho impression. After a rare display of patience down our right, the full-back suddenly found himself unmarked and infield with the ball coming to him 30 yards from goal. With his head up as if to pass, he instead hit a first-time shot curling into the top corner of the net that caught everyone in the ground completely unawares. Even he struggled to believe what he’d done.

Remarkably, there was still time for Djite to make it 5-2 in stoppage time, and we left the stadium in shock and jubilation at the havoc we had wreaked. Now it was Adelaide at the top of the pile, and we were determined to stay there.

[EvilDave]

“Darling, 2007 was a long time ago. Can’t our guys just let it lie?”

“Come on honey, you’re a football man. How well do you remember Wrexham’s moments of glory?”

“As if they were yesterday.”

“Of course, and you weren’t even there! Now imagine getting thrashed in a final and having your manager sacked.”

“I know, I know. I can see why the Victory lot want to rub it in, but for our gang to keep bringing it up - it just seems a bit odd.”

All the talk ahead of our next match was about that day in 2007 - the Grand Final which saw Melbourne walk away with a 6-0 win after a red card for the Adelaide captain Ross Aloisi. That saw then-manager John Kosmina sacked by the Reds, and the rest is history. The fact that the Victory took the 2009 Grand Final did little to dampen the animosity.

Going into our first encounter of the season, we undoubtedly had the upper hand in terms of form. Whereas we were the surprise package at the top of the A-League, our visitors we mired in the middle of the pack and scrapping for a place in the post-season. We were each other’s final match of the round, so a third of the way through the season it was probably about the time to start making judgements.

Our fans were out in force at the Hindmarsh, but it took a matter of minutes of them to be silenced. The visitors’ first attack saw the played rolled square across our box to Victory stalwart Kosta Barbarouses, and after a quick drop of the shoulder to buy him some space, he shot low past Izzo’s dive to put us behind after just four minutes. From the technical area I urged my players forward, challenging them for a response. And I got one.

Three minutes later Jack Adams put us on level terms with a daisy-cutter from 20 yards, and once more the stadium came to life. Just after the quarter hour we won a corner out on the right, and the same man curled an outswinger into the crowded area. A Melbourne head was first to the cross, but Osama Malik pounced on the dropping ball to lash a vicious volley into the net. Our rivals, stung by the speed of the turnaround, wound up with three in the referee’s book by the break, and the songs of the Reds in the stand grew louder and louder.

They grew louder still less than a minute into the second period, with the Victory bench still settling down in the dugout. We robbed them from the kick-off and worked the ball out left, where Alomes beat his man for pace. He whipped a quick ball into the near post, where Bernie Ibini continued his great form with a flashing header past the helpless goalkeeper for 3-1.

As Melbourne committed men forward in a desperate attempt to get something from the game, we found ourselves with plenty of opportunities to pick them off on the counter. One particular break saw Ibini hare through the middle only to be denied by the foot of the left upright, and a similar play moments later ended in a fine save from the beleaguered shot stopper. Another goal seemed inevitable, and substitute Bruce Djite sounded the Victory’s death knell with a simple tap-in from the six-yard line following Thorbjornsson’s cut-back. The away end emptied quickly.

But there was still time to rub salt into the Melbourne wounds, and we were not about to pass up that opportunity. Like vultures circling a carcass we watched our tired opponents until they made the unforced error, before swooping in to claim the prize. Just as he started things seven minutes from the first whistle, seven minutes from the final whistle Jack Adams iced a spectacular cake with a stooping header, and we had well and truly thrashed the Victory.

If I had not been fully accepted by the United faithful before now, this was surely the turning point. As the players loitered on the field to soak up the applause of the adoring Hindmarsh, I heard my own name sung amongst those belonging to the heroes on the field. The Advertiser’s report the following morning would be positively glowing in its coverage of the team and me personally, and Brett McGregor came into the dressing room personally to congratulate the boys on the win.

Just as importantly, it kept us top of the pile. After nine of the 27 regular league fixtures we had 20 points, top spot, and a four-point lead over the Central Coast Mariners, with the Victory all the way down in 7th place and struggling for the Finals Series. There was a long way still to go, plenty of football to be played a whole host of clichés to wheel out, but at that precise moment I could do no wrong. Owain Williams, a proud Welshman, was an honorary Adelaidean.

[tenthreeleader]

A hero on two continents. Well done, Dave!

[EvilDave]

I don't know about that just yet 10-3, but Owain is certainly enjoying life Down Under. Thanks for your continued support!

--

After all the furore of the Melbourne game, there was a case of ‘after the lord mayor’s show’ about our trip to New Zealand to take on the Phoenix. Our hosts were doing well and looking like cementing a place in top six, but whether it was the lack of travelling support or a hint of complacency from the players, there was a little something that didn’t sit quite right throughout the build-up to the match.

Nevertheless, irrespective of whatever was going on in their heads, the lads did the business out on the pitch. A bad-tempered game saw both teams rack up five yellows, with a sixth for our hosts meaning red for Chris Kilkolly. His dismissal gave Thorbjornsson the chance to give us the lead from the penalty spot, and 10 minutes later, in the dying embers of the match, Ibini grabbed a second to make sure of the three points. It was a performance of a team in good form - little spectacular, but assuringly efficient.

Between my trip to Wellington and our next game - mercifully a home tie - Rachel and I, with Rebecca in tow, reached a significant parental milestone. With the academic year drawing to a close, Bethan had been cast as one of the angels in her first ever nativity performance, and we sat dotingly in the crowd at West Lakes R-7 as she and a group of around 20 other five and six-year olds mumbled through the Christmas story. Our daughter’s part was by no means a starring role - although she did have lines of her own - but she still stole our hearts afresh and seemed to enjoy every minute of it. In a sign of the times, we were also able to pre-order a digital copy of the performance to be delivered the following day - somebody had a busy evening of editing ahead of them.

Bethan’s stage debut also gave Rachel and I a valuable reminder that Christmas was well and truly upon us. Me and my Reds had one more game before the big day itself, and we were thoroughly underprepared for the practicalities of a summer Christmas. Our Italian neighbours had filled us in on the way things work in Australia, but although we had been in town for almost six months, we were by no means fully settled. Missing family through the festive period would be a big challenge, and not just for the girls.

Before I could really worry about that, we had the small matter of Sydney FC at the Hindmarsh to deal with. Last season’s premiers had already sacked one manager and were on the verge of dismissing a second after a dismal campaign thus far, and as a result were determined not to lose to my Reds for a second time. They parked the plane they flew in on right in front of their goal, frustrating us without ever looking like scoring, and left town with a point in their pocket on the back of a goalless draw. It was a frustrating afternoon, but with Central Coast also dropping points, we kept our four-point cushion intact over Christmas. The big day came in a week, and we were back in action on the 27th, so I took the opportunity to give the boys the week off. We’d meet to travel on Boxing Day, and I expected them in high spirits.

[EvilDave]

Christmas in a new home is a very strange experience at the best of times. Things don’t quite work out as they used to, particular decorations don’t fit in the same neat spaces as before, and if you’ve travelled any sort of distance, the friends and family members who used to arrive in such chaotic yet precise appointments don’t fit together in the same timeless way.

That jarring sensation was multiplied several times for Rachel and me as we settled down for our first Australian Christmas. As I’ve mentioned before, the very fact that the weather was the very opposite of what we would have expected in Prestatyn was the first major curveball, and indeed one of the main factors for what felt for some time like a general lack of festive spirit. How can you feel like Christmas when there’s no hint of snow and the sun is blazing outside?

And yet, despite several lengthy phonecalls to family who wouldn’t stop telling us how things weren’t the same without us, and having to explain to Bethan and Rebecca why they wouldn’t be seeing certain people this year, we just about muddled through. Our Christmas tree looked out of place in my eyes but was perfect for the girls, and we even managed to fit in with the Australian tradition of Christmas bush, its cream flowers adorning pretty much every doorway in our home.

It was also an opportunity for us to get to know Francesco and Maria a little better too, as they very kindly invited Rachel and I round for dinner on Christmas Eve. With the girls in bed and their monitors extending to next door, the food was excellent and the wine flowed as we caught up like old friends. As the evening drew on we inevitably separated into male and female pairings, and Francesco and I turned, true to form, to football. He’d been to watch Unitedon a couple of occasions, but Roma were his first love - his father had named him after the legendary Totti and so he had little choice in the matter.

The following morning, after saying our goodbyes and with the promise of free tickets to the Hindmarsh ringing in Francesco’s ears, we awoke to the typical family Christmas scene - wrapping paper flying, children shrieking with delight, and parents happy simply to watch their little ones play. After Rachel’s rather gluttonous lunch, I took the chance to catch a brief nap before playtime continued. With the sun refusing to set, the day was long and the girls stayed up late, but we were happy to let them play - the sooner their bodies adjusted to the seasons in reverse, the more like home things would feel.

Finally, Rachel and I collapsed into bed, exhausted and yet satisfied after another year of change and upheaval. After Bethan’s birth, this had been the biggest change we had gone through as a couple, and six months in things seemed to be working out. There would be challenges, of course there would. For now, however, we were still enjoying the ride.

[EvilDave]

Two days later we stepped out onto the turf at the AAMI Park in Melbourne, and it was if we had never had a break at all. The lads were in fine spirits, we were top of the table, and Melbourne Heart were going to have to put up a good fight to stop us escaping with all the points. There was a confidence in the dressing room that was healthy and helpful, and a real belief we were about to go and win.

Indeed, win we did, and we did so on the back of another goal from Bernie Ibini, who was making my team selection up front very simple indeed. This time is came when he got on the end of Rogic’s slide-rule ball just 10 minutes into the game, and we were well on our way. Ten minutes into the second half, Costa headed in a cross from Adams, and the points were all ours - the only dampener coming when Rogic was ruled out for two months with a torn groin muscle. No-one needed that.

We rounded out the year back home on New Year’s Eve against Brisbane, and if our last game had been routine then this was far from it. We raced out the blocks and after 15 minutes led 2-0 thanks to Costa and Ibini yet again, and on recent form could have been forgiven for thinking we were in the clear. However, a clumsy challenge let the Roar back into things from the penalty spot five minutes later, meaning we needed Thorbjornsson’s half-volley three minutes after that to restore the two-goal cushion. We led 3-1 at the half, and again looked very comfortable.

That was until Julius Davies collected the ball on the Brisbane left just after the hour mark, and launched a cross into our penalty area. Whether it was pressure from the visiting forwards, the sun in the sky or some other factor that caused the error I’m yet to discover, but whatever the reason Paul Izzo misjudged the ball and turned in horror to see it drop into the corner behind him. From nowhere, Brisbane were back in the game.

Thankfully, they would never get closer than a single goal, although it wasn’t for lack of trying. Their pressure meant our attacks in the second period were rare, but on one we grabbed the goal that sealed thing. Costa it was who collected a pass, spun and shot in a single motion, and Costa it was who collected the rebound off the woodwork and tapped home. Four minutes later we conceded a sloppy third, but at 4-3 there would be no more scoring, and our fans left home both entertained by the thriller and pleased with the result. That was enough for me.

It also meant that, having played 13 of the 27 games, we were as close as we would ever be to the middle of the A-League season. And at the halfway point, the table made for very good reading indeed. Our most recent win had taken us to my vowed 30 points, which put us four clear of Central Coast. A full five points further back were Wellington, with last year’s champions, the newly-vanquished Roar, joining the Wanderers of Western Sydney and our old rivals the Victory on 19 points and a +3 goal difference rounding out the top six. Three points further back were the only team to beat us so far, the Newcastle Jets, with Melbourne Heart a point behind. Sydney took up 9th spot with just 11 points from their 13 games, and Perth Glory brought up the rear with a dismal six.

For three years running, that spot had been ours. This time, we were top of the pile and looking very good indeed. Our goal difference of 17 was a full 11 better than the Mariners behind us, and we had registered just a single defeat. If we could keep going at our current rate, the 27-game points record of 58 - set by Newcastle in 2013/14 - was within our grasp.

Of course, thinking about breaking records was pointless before we had actually won anything, and there was still plenty to play for. However, for Adelaide to even be part of that conversation was a victory in itself.

[EvilDave]

To begin the new year flying high was a pleasant sensation given the unexpected nature of our rise, and the fixture computer also threw up a pleasant quirk to keep a smile on Rachel’s face. Whereas in the opening round we had spent three weeks on the road, the second batch saw no fewer than four successive home matches, meaning that there was no need for my Reds to leave Adelaide in the entire month of January. More time at home was always a bonus as far as I could tell.

The first of the stretch saw us welcome Western Sydney Wanderers to town, and again we claimed three points in a match we absolutely dominated. By the time the full time whistle was blown we had racked up a massive 23 shots to the six of our opponents, yet only scraped home by two goals to one. I say scraped - Les Milligan’s deflected effort 20 minutes from time was the only on-target shot from our opponents, and by then we were already comfortable thanks to strikes from Corey Brown and Jack Adams.

There was a nice piece in the paper the following morning which focused on Brown, and even featured a few words of praise for me from the player himself. Corey was obviously very grateful to me and Jade for keeping faith with him during his injury, and he dedicated his first goal for the club to the medical team at United. It was a nice touch from a good player, and I made a mental note to thank him in person after training.

Next up were the Jets, the only team to have got one over us so far this season. If anything, that fact made us all the more determined to return the favour to our visitors from Newcastle, and it took all of 90 seconds for us to get off the mark. Ibini’s goal put us on the front foot from the word go, and the second goal midway through the period killed the game off as a contest. It was something very special too - Rossiter surveyed the scene from 35 yards, decided that there was no worthwhile pass on, and thumped an angled drive which left the goalkeeper with no chance and was still rising as it hit the back of the net. If it wasn’t the A-League goal of the season, it would be a travesty.

Four days after that most successful of Fridays - which was rounded off with a third goal courtesy of George Costa - I was greeted with deathly silence as I walked into the club offices. No smiling receptionist or over-eager board members, nothing. Thinking it a little strange, I climbed the two flights of stairs and unlocked my own office as per usual.

As soon as I stepped in the door and switched on the light, a loud blast of what I can only assume to be an airhorn made me jump a foot into the air. The raucous laughter that followed explained everything for me - the lads had decided, with the help of the caretakers, to let themselves into my office and surprise me on my birthday. The grin on the face of Corey Brown suggested he may well have been the ringleader.

The rest of the day was spent in a very light-hearted training session - which saw me get involved, rather cumbersomely, in the six-a-side games at the end - and then a spectacular meal with Rachel at one of the handful of Greek restaurants out in West Lakes. I was aching from my physical exertions, much to my wife’s amusement, but with Francesco and Maria looking after the girls we had some quality time on our own for the first time in what seemed like forever.

The rest of the week paled in comparison, but my smile remained throughout. The only blemish came at the end when, buoyed by the arrival of new manager Lucas Neill, rock-bottom Perth Glory managed to escape from the Hindmarsh with a goalless draw. I had never particularly enjoyed watching Neill as a player, but his dogged determination seemed to be rubbing off on his team. It was frustrating, but with our closest rivals dropping points elsewhere, it made little difference in the grand scheme of things.

[EvilDave]

“Owain, I didn’t imagine I’d be asking you this question at the start of the season, and I don’t want to be the over-expectant boss you hear so much about, but I’ve got to ask it - are we going to win this thing?”

Brett McGregor was in my office, and he was beaming. My players - the football club he owned - had just performed a demolition job at the Hindmarsh Stadium. It wasn’t just a win, it was a performance for the ages, a fast-flowing, elegant and precise destruction of a Central Coast Mariners team who, in theory at least, were our closest challengers for the top spot. The 3-0 win said plenty on paper alone, but the style had been quite something.

“The numbers look good, there’s no denying that…”

“Ten points Owain. The numbers look bloody brilliant!”

“Well, yes, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves - if we pay out on ourselves now and then something happens, we’re the laughing stock of the league.”

“What could possibly happen? Central Coast need to pick up a point every game, they’re more than three matches behind us. We aren’t going to drop that badly, are we?”

“We shouldn’t no, but…”

“But what?”

“But you can never be sure. We’ve had a lot of midfield injuries, for example, but we’ve been pretty lucky elsewhere. If Ibini goes down hard, I don’t know if Djite can pick things up for us.”

“OK, so Bernie’s a worry. But Bruce has been doing this for years, he’ll find a way. You must admit Owain, this looks very promising.”

“Of course it does Brett, I’m not blind to it. Us managers though, we find it hard to get too excited. We’re always looking over our shoulders you know, it isn’t the most secure job in the world.”

“Look mate, if you win us the league, as long as you don’t do anything stupid I’m going to be fending off calls for you all winter. Don’t you start worrying about the sack Owain - just remember what I said when I hired you. If you put the shift in, I’ll stay loyal. It’s how we work here in Adelaide.”

“It’s how you work Brett, not everybody. Thank you though, I appreciate it.”

“I’d best be off then boy, you’ve got a league to win.”

[EvilDave]

Lawrence Thomas was not a popular man in Melbourne. Which, all things considered, was unfortunate, given that he was the starting goalkeeper for the Victory.

Yet just five minutes into our return rivalry clash, he was being booed by his own fans after inadvertently turning the ball into his own net to give us the early lead our quick interplay had deserved. We arrived as the A-League leaders which added some unneeded heat to the match, but Thomas’ goal and early passing aside, we showed little of the form that had taken us to the top of the table.

In the end, we had to settle for a point as Ali Quinn bailed out his team-mate with a second half equaliser, and with the Mariners winning elsewhere our lead was cut to eight points. As if to counter the bad news, I was informed by Mr McGregor that the 12-game unbeaten run was the longest in the history of the club, and I was to be congratulated for achieving it. I’d certainly take that.

Back at home, we welcomed Wellington to town, and at the outset the Phoenix were looking like the team most likely to chase down Central Coastfor second place. After all the plaudits our unbeaten run had gained in the Advertiser, I was almost certain that the Kiwis would put us to the sword and make a mockery of our lofty position.

Thankfully it was not so, but the goalless draw did not exactly thrill those present at the Hindmarsh. It was the first time we had been held scoreless by a team not looking simply to stifle, for which Wellington deserved plenty of credit, but I was far more concerned by the form which had suddenly seen us draw three of our last four. Maybe Brett’s title proclamations were indeed premature.

As if a faltering club was not enough to worry about, things were not perfect on the home front either. Rachel’s new employer, for whom she was performing excellently by any measure, was in trouble. A couple of their major clients had pulled out for one reason or another, and in such a fast-moving world, that meant that they were looking to make cuts.

As the new girl, and the new girl who was never in the office at that, that put Rachel in a great deal of danger. My wife hadn’t taken it well which, if she had communicated that at all, probably hadn’t done her any favours, and was now worried about the damage a six-month failure would do to her CV. I knew she would have no problems finding further employment, but she didn’t see it the same way.

“I know I haven’t done anything wrong, but it hardly looks great does it? I join the company and six months later I’m cut loose.”

“I know what you mean darling, but think of all the offers you had before. Now you’ve got some local experience as well.”

“I’m not sure it quite works like that Owain, and you know it.”

“Well I’m sure it isn’t the end of the world. Besides, they haven’t actually said anything to you yet, have they? It could all work out in the next week.”

“I suppose…”

“And if it doesn’t, don’t stress about it. We don’t need the money, you could consult in the meantime, and if you don’t fancy that I’m sure Brett could find you a role at the club.”

“At the club you say? Now there’s an idea!”

Suddenly, I realised I might have landed my boss in a spot of bother.

[EvilDave]

Ashamed as I am to admit it, Rachel’s job woes were far from my mind as we welcomed Melbourne Heart to the Hindmarsh. We had been given a surprise shot in the arm earlier in the day when, despite the protestations of the league table, Newcastle Jets had turned over the Mariners 3-0 on the road. A win against the younger of the two Melbourne sides would put us 12 points clear, and within touching distance of the A-League crown.

The visitors seemed to be determined not to let us seal things against them however, and set up in a defensive shell which proved very tricky for the likes of Costa and Ibini to penetrate. Most of our shots, accurate as they were, came from range, and lacked the placement needed to beat the Melbourne keeper from such a distance.

Yet we continued to knock, and the goal finally came. It came in typical Adelaide style - a patient passing move ending in Ibini tucking away a through-ball from midfield - and it gave our number nine his 49th for the club, a new outright record and a place in the Reds’ history books. Rossiter’s last-ditch clumsiness meant that we finished the game with 10 men, but the Heart didn’t get close to us even with the extra man.

So we travelled to Sydney knowing that a win would qualify us for the post-season Finals Series, and whether it was the sense of occasion or the simple determination of the home team I know not, but the win we needed simply would not come. Josh MacDonald fired past Izzo inside the first two minutes, and our match was summed up in the dying seconds when Jason Chettleburgh found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, a Sydney shot cannoning off the bar, hitting our defender and rolling over the line.

Still, the good news came. Central Coast had stumbled again - meaning the Phoenix were now our nearest rivals at 11 points back - and we had mathematically booked our place in the play-off series. Less pleasingly, I also took a call from Brett McGregor after the defeat.

“Owain, it’s about Rachel. You asked me to see if there was anything for her at the club.”

“Yes boss, she’s in a spot of bother at work at the moment and she’s worried they’ll send her packing.”

“Be that as it may Owain, there’s nothing I can do at the moment. She’s a recruiter, and unless you want your wife picking your replacement we’re pretty set for now. There’ll be a review at the end of the season of all the staff - so if she needs something temporary we might think about it - but there’s nothing at the moment.”

“Don’t worry about boss, I understand. Thank you for trying.”

The news did little to improve Rachel’s mood.

[EvilDave]

In the week that followed, things did begin to clear up. Rachel’s firm managed to replace one of the two clients that had walked away, and seemed to be on a sounder footing. Still, with the situation apparently so volatile, she made the decision to at least look into the possibility of starting her own consultancy. Anything to keep her safe from the ups and downs of Adelaide’s employment market seemed to make sense.

Meanwhile, I took my newly-qualified Reds to Western Sydney for a clash with the Wanderers, and did it without three of my midfield stars. Thorbjornsson, Malik and Clark had all racked up the requisite bookings to earn a one-game ban at the same time, and so it was an unusual line-up which took to the field. The players were competent, of course, but replacing an entire line was something of a worry for me and Jade.

The performance we got from the makeshift eleven on an autumnal March afternoon was excellent. Jack Adams was a regular in the side thanks primarily to Rogic’s injury woes, and it was he who opened the scoring with a tremendous free-kick from 25 yards out. Shortly after the break a corner was headed back out to the same man, and his second attempt at a cross skipped all the way through for Konstantinidis to tap home his first of the season for 2-0.

Kevin Bratt pulled one back with 10 minutes to play for the home side, but we were in complete control, and deep into stoppage time Adams capped a fine individual display by releasing Ibini through the middle, and our star striker made no mistake to seal the win and move us 12 points clear of the Mariners, who won in Wellington to reclaim second place.

The following day, the A-League Player of the Year shortlist was released, and our dominance was shown in those present. Of the 10 players nominated, no fewer than half were my Reds, with Rogic and Ibini the bookies’ favourites to claim the award. Adams, Costa and Chettleburgh also got the nod, and with the league not allowing managers to vote for their own players I decided not to get involved - someone else could decide which of my men to crown. Alex Somerville was also up for the Young Player award, and with Izzo in contention for the goalkeeper’s gong, we had a good chance of a clean sweep.

Between the Sydney visit and our next match - a home meeting with the Brisbane Roar, Rachel took the first steps to becoming self-employed. She would try and last a full year with her current employer - she remained cautious about hanging around for such a short time - but in the meantime began to research Australian business law and figure out how to best establish herself in the Adelaide area.

To say I was proud of my wife was an understatement. She was an excellent recruiter - her CV proved it - and I had long been of the opinion that going freelance was the way to go. She wanted to work even though we had no financial need, and with Bethan and Rebecca to look after she would be able to plan her schedule around them. Rachel herself was a little more tentative, but I had every confidence in her to make it happen.

It was a confidence I had in my players to lift the title too, but against the Roar we were undone by a rare individual error. Ibini’s early goal had put us on the right track, but the away team was strong and it took all of Izzo’s prowess to palm away a Jamal Hill penalty five minutes from the break. However, having done his Goalkeeper of the Year chances no harm in the first harm, in the second he undid his good work, rushing out to meet a ball he had no chance of getting, and allowing Hill to tap into an unguarded net. The draw did little damage, but our coronation was delayed for another week.

[EvilDave]

“How many more times are we going to hit the sodding post today Jade?”

“I don’t know boss, it doesn’t seem to be our day.”

“I can’t figure it out. Twice already, and the bar for that matter. They’ve had what, two shots?”

“Two boss.”

“And they’re ahead. They’re bottom of the league, for God’s sake!”

Perth Glory may have been bottom of the A-League, but they led us 1-0. To my astonishment, it soon became 2-0 as Chris Harold scored his second goal with his second and Perth’s third shot of the match. Ten minutes later Will Allomes got himself sent off for a stupid second yellow, and Ibini’s injury time consolation did nothing to brighten my mood. Lucas Neill had thwarted me again, and I was beginning to dislike the man.

Had we taken even a point at Perth, we would have been confirmed as uncatchable, the 2020/21 premiers and the team to beat next season. As it was, we had to fly home and wait. Both Wellington and Central Coast played on Sunday, and so I arranged for the team to meet in one of the Hindmarsh suites and watch the afternoon’s action. If both failed to win, we won by default.

Both of our chasing rivals were at home, and so the odds of them both failing were slim given their. Yet at half-time in both matches, we were league winners. Wellington were shell-shocked, shipping three goals to a rampant Melbourne Heart inside the opening 25 minutes to all but rule them out of the equation. Central Coast, on the other hand, were tied at 1-1 with Western Sydney, needing a win to have any say in the title picture.

If you ask any football manager, they would much rather win a title by virtue of their own performance than by the failure of others, but when Kevin Bratt headed the away side in front with just three minutes left on the clock, I could not help but begin to celebrate with my players. My Reds had dominated the A-League from day one, and although Newcastle’s points record seemed unlikely, to pull out a 12-point gap signified our superiority.

Australian football’s greatest Cinderella story was confirmed five minutes later by the final whistle in Gosford, and Adelaide United, the last-placed team for the past three seasons, were regular season champions, league premiers. It meant home advantage in the Finals Series, it meant a first title for 15 years, and it meant we would finally be taken seriously as a club. Personally, it meant a huge boost to my reputation and significant boost to my bank balance. For Brett McGregor, who joined us in that jubilant Hindmarsh suite, it meant vindication.

For the city of Adelaide, the jury remained out as to whether one-off success would breed a passion for the game similar to that enjoyed by the AFL and national cricket team, but now was not a time for strategising and planning for the future. Now was a time to bask in the glory of a dominant title win, and to focus on the immediate future - three dead rubbers in the league, and then the chance of a double triumph in the Finals Series.

[neilhoskins77]

Congratulations Dave. Fantastic work to go from bottom to top in a season, and as always, an excellent read.

[EvilDave]

Thanks Neil, glad you're still enjoying this. Australia has been very kind to Owain so far!

--

For the first time all season, I was in need of a distraction. We had a game up in Newcastle for which we would be fielding effectively a reserve side as we had no fewer than nine players called away for their various age group internationals, and we had nothing left to play for. The Jets at least had hopes of scraping into the all-important sixth place, but for my second string, the result mattered little.

My hunt for distraction in the days leading up to the match were somewhat futile - Rachel was busy with trying to establish her yet-to-be-launched recruitment empire, while Bethan was enjoying the joys of homework for the first time in her second years at West Lakes R-7. Rebecca was still a year away from starting, and her fourth birthday party had very kindly been taken care of by her nursery teachers. Even Francesco was unavailable, being called away to work in Perth for a fortnight.

So I had little choice but to figure out how to motivate my men for a dead rubber, and ultimately can’t have done too bad a job. Our reserves put up a good fight to claim a point from a mostly full-strength Jets side in dull goalless draw, but all involved knew they would likely lose their spots for the following week. We may have had nothing riding on it, but a home tie against the Victory was never meaningless.

So the first team returned in time for the grudge match, and again we got the better of our friends from Melbourne. As in our previous encounter, goalkeeper Lawrence Thomas made himself the laughing stock of Adelaide by diverting the ball into the own net in the opening stages, and the visitors - a possible opponent in the Finals Series - lacked the fight to draw level. The 1-0 scoreline was a little disappointing, but to get one over your fiercest rivals is never a bad feeling.

That took us to the final day of the regular season, a day which saw us formally crowned on the pitch over at Central Coast. For a decent chunk of the early season, the Mariners had kept the pace, but a mid-season drop-off had cost them a realistic shot of becoming league premiers and claiming home advantage in the play-offs to follow. Seeing them greet my Reds with a guard of honour was quite the sight.

By finishing top of the pile, we also ensured that we would avoid much of the mess of the Finals Series. Almost every position from second to sixth was still to be decided heading into the final round of fixtures, but we were confident of our place. For our hosts, defeat could mean a slip to third and an extra game to be played.

We wrapped up the season in the same way we started it - with a win on the road. George Costa took over the goalscoring duties for this one, netting twice in 15 first-half minutes, and the 2-0 half-time scoreline remained until the final whistle. Fortunately for the Mariners, their defeat meant little as Wellington Phoenix failed to pick up maximum points, meaning they too earned a bye into the semi-finals of the Finals Series.

The series would be made up of six teams, with two elimination finals taking place between the teams from third to sixth. The Phoenix would host Melbourne Heart, while fourth-place Brisbane Roar would take on the Victory, who snuck into fifth. The lowest-ranked winners would then visit us in the semis, with the remaining victor heading to the Mariners. The Grand Final would then take place at the home of the highest remaining seed. If all went to plan, that would be us.

There were six days between the last day of the league and first game of the finals, and the second of those days was awards night. As premiers, Adelaide United were expected to feature heavily, and in the end the owner ended up footing a rather large drinks bill. Mr McGregor was of course there with us and taking full part in the festivities, much to the chagrin of the Melbourne Victory representatives.

In the end Rogic took home Player of the Year, Ibini’s 16 goals were enough for the Golden Boot, and the pair were joined by Costa, Thorbjornsson and Somerville in the Team of Year. Paul Izzo was unfortunate to miss out on the goalkeeping gong, but the night concluded with the league chairman handing me the Manager of the Year statuette to widespread applause. Not bad for someone fresh in from Wales.

There were a few sore heads the following morning, but for the most part we were back in business. The Finals Series awaited, and we needed to be ready.

[EvilDave]

“Owain my love?”

“Yes darling?”

“Can I ask you a question? A real question.”

That Rachel was having big thoughts worried me, and all the more so that they seemed to be directed at me. For the last few days I had been in full-on football mode, with nothing else distracting me from the upcoming Finals Series. We had a full week between the elimination rounds and our semi-final, but the results of the former had meant an even greater focus was required.

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve been thinking about these game you’ve got coming up. You won the league, right?”

“Yes, comfortably.”

“So you’re the champions?”

“They call them premiers here, but yes.”

“But there’s still these play-offs to deal with?”

“Yes.”

“So what happens if you lose?”

It was a simple question, but I understood immediately where she was going. Would I, after guiding Adelaide to the top of the A-League with remarkable ease, allow myself to come crumbling down if we fired blanks in the Finals Series? Would the fragility of my Prestatyn days come back once more?

“I don’t know darling, I really don’t. Brett has told me there’s no pressure, but that Chris did the same last time. I feel a lot better than I did then, but we’re winning. I wish I could give you a better answer.”

“Even though it’s Melbourne?”

Melbourne Victory, finishing the regular season in fifth place, had upset the apple cart in their elimination play-off with a 1-0 over the Brisbane Roar, seeded one spot above them. That, coupled with Wellington Phoenix’s win over Melbourne Heart, meant we would take on our fiercest rivals with a place in the final at stake. Losing, given the history between the teams, didn’t bear thinking about.

“That won’t make things easy if we lose, no doubt about it. Listen, you’ll be there in the box, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world Owain.”

“Then if things go wrong, make your way down to the lounge and I’ll meet you there straight after the whistle. If you’re there, I’m far more likely to keep things in perspective.”

At that, Rachel rested her head on my chest and draped her arms softly around me.

“You might not know it, Owain Williams, but you’re an old romantic at heart. Trust me, I’ll be there.”

[EvilDave]

Rachel was true to her word, and she was joined by both Bethan and Rebecca in Brett’s executive box. I couldn’t have been happier to see little Rebecca waving to her daddy at a packed-out Hindmarsh - if there was one thing that needed reinforcement, it was that football could not be the be-all and end-all. Family, however hard it seemed, had to come first.

For the Australian FA, the set-up could not have been more perfect. The previous day, Central Coast had blitzed Wellington 3-0 to book their place in the Grand Final, and now it was over to us to do our part. If we succeeded, the two top teams in the league would go head-to-head for the big prize. If we lost, the narrative of the underdog, the fierce rival and the play-off curse would keep on running.

As ever against the Victory, tensions were high. Neither team wanted to go home and end their season at the semi-final stage, and there was barely a spare seat in the Hindmarsh as Ibini and Rogic kicked off. Every touch of the ball was whistled and jeered by someone in the stands, and the atmosphere defined tense. On the sidelines, I tried my best to act calm. Inside, the butterflies were threatening to break out.

Half an hour in we remained goalless, and Thorbjornsson put in a crunching tackle just outside the centre circle. As Melbourne’s fans clamoured for the whistle, our young Icelander was allowed to play on, collect the ball and drive on before unleashing a stinging drive from a full 30 yards towards the Victory goal.

To a collective intake of breath, the ball whistled wide. It would be the closest either side came in a tight first half, and we had to do it all over again in the second. The message was far from complex - keep going, keep pressing, keep passing. The chance will appear, the moment will come. Take it.

Ten minutes into the second half, the deadlock was broken. As soon as the ball hit the net, I turned to Rachel in her box. Her face looked worried, but her hands said ‘OK,’ and against my own logic I had to believe her. Michael Eskander wheeled away towards the Melbourne corner of the ground, lapping up the adulation coming his way. A few yards infield, Paul Izzo pounded the ground in frustration at his inability to stop the shot. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t anybody’s fault, but with just over half an hour to play, we were behind.

And behind we stayed, knocking repeatedly on the Victory door but being unable to break it down. With less than a minute of the game left, with the away fans whistling for the referee to end the game, we came forward one last time. Rogic to Costa 25 yards out, and he shaped to shoot. A Melbourne leg got there first, and the effort spun away. The chance was gone.

But Alex Somerville had not given up. With a burst of pace unthinkable for a man with 90 minutes of football in his legs, our teenage full-back reached the ball before it crossed the by-line. With no defender nearby, he clipped a ball into the box and prayed. The same man who had blocked Costa’s shot appeared to be in prime position to clear his lines, but he had reckoned without the determination of Bernie Ibini. Our Golden Boot winner flung himself across his man, straining every one of his neck muscles to guide a header into the bottom corner. 1-1. Rachel was right.

In the jubilation of our last-minute leveller, extra time seemed to fly by. After equalising at the death, we didn’t want to throw things away once again. Having conceded so late, Melbourne were determined not to undo their hard work. Thirty minutes came and went, and the biggest game of our season would be decided from the penalty spot.

Osama Malik won the toss and chose to kick first, meaning we would be taking the kicks in front of the travelling supporters. That did little to phase Halthor Thorbjornsson, who stepped up first and with youthful confidence drove his penalty high into the top corner of the net. It was unstoppable.

Melbourne’s first man was Mark Wells, who carried the air of a man walking to his own execution. With scoreboard pressure against him, he telegraphed a kick to Izzo’s left, allowing our goalkeeper to fling himself low and parry away the penalty. Advantage Adelaide, and the Hindmarsh erupted.

Ibini came next, and repeated Thorbjornsson’s trick to make it 2-0, only for Paul Bond to cut the arrears with a confident low effort. Seamus Brown and Jack Adams made it four from four for my Reds, while Eskander and Adama Traore matched us to keep the Victory in it.

Our entire season suddenly hung on the shoulders of young George Costa, the young man stolen from the AIS in pre-season. A Team of the Year starter, one of the finest attacking players in the league, but just 21 years old. Would he have the bottle to send Melbourne Victory packing?

Yes. Yes he did. Cool as you like, George waited for the goalkeeper to commit before rolling the ball into the opposite corner to wild celebrations from the fans and players alike. I raced onto the pitch to join in the mass of bodies surrounding our goalscorer, while the Melbourne players slumped to the ground in defeat. We had been seconds away from agony, and had turned it round in the most dramatic of fashions. The double remained on, the dream was alive, and Rachel did not need to whisk me away at the final whistle. It was a fine day indeed.

[EvilDave]

The week before the Grand Final was, as you might expect, mad. Every news outlet in Australia with an interest in sport - which, let’s face it, is all of them - wanted a piece of Adelaide United and their new Welsh manager, to know what the secret was and how such a pitiful team had wound up on the brink of a double. There are only so many times you can give the same answer to the same question, but eventually they relented.

Away from the training ground and the media spotlight, Rachel was, as ever, a source of great calm. She’d rightly gathered from the press that, although there was certainly more of a spotlight on the Grand Final - it was, after all, the season’s showpiece game - we had already won the more important of the two trophies on offer. This would be a welcome cherry on top of an already iced cake.

My wife was also in holiday planning mode, and with good reason. For the last two years, the upheaval of my resignation from Prestatyn and subsequent job hunt meant that our wedding anniversary on May 30th went largely unmarked, something which she thankfully understood. However, she was determined not to make it three in a row, and so the long winter break provided an ideal opportunity for her to book some time together. I still hadn’t been told whether it would be in Australia or back in Europe, but it suspected it would be a long way away from the Hindmarsh Stadium if she could do anything about it.

On the training pitch, the boys were towing the line between going flat out to try and earn a spot in the Grand Final, and not wanting to over-commit and risk injury. In truth I had already decided the vast majority of my team to face the Mariners, but the zip and energy was noted nonetheless. Everybody wanted to play in the big games, and they didn’t come much bigger than this.

The day before the big game, I huddled the squad together after training to announce the eleven starters and five substitutes who would take to the field. There would be disappointed faces, but also plenty of realists - I was not about to drop Bernie Ibini or Paul Izzo, for example - and the reaction I got - a round of applause from all involved - suggested I had not needed to worry as much as I had.

Izzo would start in goal, as he had in every other match this season. Ahead of him, from right to left, would be Somerville, Chettleburgh, Konstantinidis and Allomes. Malik, Thorbjornsson and Clark would be the starting trio in the midfield, just behind Rogic and Costa. Golden Boot Ibini would, of course, lead the line.

The following day, with the national anthem belted out and both teams in their positions, the referee blew his whistle on the biggest game in Adelaide United’s history. The Reds had never won the Grand Final despite three previous attempts, and not in many a year had a team been crowned both league premiers and play-off champions. We stood on the edge of history - all we had to do now was take the final step.

[Mr_Demus]

Really great read so far